A few rods farther inland, rose the tall,
grass-covered, circular embankment,
surrounding the crumbling, gray walls, the outer
shells of the old barracks.
At the entrance to the enclosure, Tom
suddenly stepped ahead, barring the way. "No
passing within this fort without the
counter-sign," he declared. "Martial law, this afternoon."
It was Bell who discovered it. "'It's a
habit to be happy,'" she suggested, and Tom
drew back for her to enter. But one by one,
he exacted the password from each.
Inside, within the shade of those old, gray
walls, a camp-fire had been built and
camp-kettle swung, hammocks had been hung under
the trees and when cushions were scattered
here and there the one-time fort bore anything
but a martial air.
But something of the spirit of the past must
have been in the air that afternoon, or perhaps,
the spirit of the coming changes; for this
picnic--though by no means lacking in charm--was
not as gay and filled with light-hearted
chaff as usual. There was more talking in
quiet groups, or really serious searching for
some trace of those long-ago days of storm and stress.
With the coming of evening, the fire was
lighted and the cloth laid within range of its
flickering shadows.
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