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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"Indeed he does! I don't like to say it, and I don't say he drinks 'too much', as they call it; but, Smith, he drinks with men who do! Oh, I admire him; only I do wish--"

"Ain't you Major Harper's quartermaster-sergeant?" he asked.

"No," he replied, "I came the wrong way."

He admitted that by the true religionist's standard it was not honest, but reminded me that Ned Ferry--in his blindness--was only a poor romanticist. The despatch was addressed to Lieutenant Edgard Ferry-Durand.

"Good-evening," replied the nearer man. "How far is it to camp--Austin's?"

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