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Our camp was in the heart of Copiah County, Mississippi, a mile or so west of Gallatin and about six miles east of that once robber-haunted road, the Natchez Trace. Austin's brigade, we were, a detached body of mixed Louisiana and Mississippi cavalry, getting our breath again after two weeks' hard fighting of Grant. Grierson's raid had lately gone the entire length of the State, and we had had a hard, vain chase after him, also.

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"Smith," said the Major, "your part is done, and well done. You needn't report to me again to-night; the General wishes to see you a moment. Captain, will you go with this young man to General Austin's tent?"

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

"Oh!--don't you wish you knew! Why, to myself, for instance. Come! duty calls."

"--With General Austin," I continued, "--and with Lieutenant Ferry?"

"But if she--oh, yes!--Yes, to be sure; she could easily have got here yesterday afternoon."

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