CHAPTER XXVII.
DECENT BURIAL To-morrow?
'Tis not ours to know That we again shall see the flowers.
To-morrow is the gods'-- but, oh! To day is ours.
-- C.E.

Merrill, Jr.
Claiborne called Oscar through the soft dusk of the April evening.

The phalanx of stars marched augustly across the heavens.

Claiborne lifted his face gratefully to the cool night breeze, for he was worn with the stress and anxiety of the day, and there remained much to do.

The bungalow had been speedily transformed into a hospital.