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Irving stood for a few moments and listened; his exultant heart was responsive to that shouted song. Fellows who could sing like that, he thought, must have trodden disappointment under heel. An hour later, when Irving sat in his room, the boys who had been entertained at the Barclays’ came tramping up the stairs.
It is a portrait of John Barclay, done when he was forty years old and painted by a Russian during the summer when the Barclays were called home from Europe before their journey was half completed, to straighten out an obstreperous congressman, one Tom Wharton by name, who was threatening to put wheat and flour on the free list in a tariff bill, unless but that is immaterial, except that Wharton was on Barclay's mind more or less while the painter was at work, and the portrait reflects what Barclay thought of a number of things.
The religious services were short and simple; the Unitarian clergyman from Syracuse made a few remarks, the children from the orphan asylum, in which he was deeply interested, sang an appropriate hymn, and around the grave stood representatives of the Biddles, the Dixwells, the Sedgwicks, the Barclays, and Stantons, and three generations of his immediate family.
The first impulse of the young Barclays, when the fire ceased, was to turn round and to embrace each other with delight on finding that they had each escaped without a scratch and then to shake hands heartily with their cousins, whose fortune had been equally good.
In Sycamore Ridge every one knows Watts McHurdie, and every one takes pride in the fact that far and wide the Ridge is known as Watts McHurdie's town, and this too in spite of the fact that from Sycamore Ridge Bob Hendricks gained his national reputation as a reformer and the further fact that when the Barclays went to New York or Chicago or to California for the winter in their private car, they always registered from Sycamore Ridge at the great hotels.
The Culpeppers had remained with the Barclays for dinner, and the hour was late for the Ridge after nine o'clock, and as the departing guests went down the long curved walk of Barclay pride to the Barclay gate, they saw a late April moon rising over the trees by the mill. They clanged the tall iron gate behind them, and stood a moment watching the moon.
The Barclay private car had brought a dozen girls down from the state university for the Christmas holidays, and then had made a recruiting trip as far east as Cleveland and had brought back a score more of girls in their teens and early twenties for an invitation from the Barclays, if not of much social consequence, had a power behind it that every father recognized.
By nine o'clock the shops were all closed; and the Barclays returned to their wagon, with their purchases in their hands. "It's awfully cold, Ralph!" Percy said, as they rolled themselves in their blankets, and covered themselves over with straw. "It is, Percy; but it will be a deal colder, in the river." Percy gave a shudder at the thought.
"I am Ralph Barclay, and this is my brother Percy," Ralph said, respectfully. "Impossible!" the three generals exclaimed, simultaneously; while there was a general exclamation of surprise, from the officers round for the courageous deed of the Barclays, in making their way through the enemy's lines, had been a general topic of conversation, and all Paris was familiar with their names.
The Barclays live now a short distance out of London; and the pony chaise in which Captain Barclay drives his wife and Milly can be seen, any day, on the Richmond road.
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