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"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

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Once more we were in the by-road which had brought us westward parallel with the highway. The prisoner drove. Aunt Martha sat beside him, slim, dark, black-eyed, stately, her silver-gray hair rolled high à la Pompadour. With a magnanimity rare in those bitter days she incited him to talk, first of New Orleans, where he had spent a month in camp on one of the public squares, and then of his far northern home, and of loved ones there, mother, wife and child. The nieces, too, gave a generous attention. Only I, riding beside the hind wheels, held solemnly aloof.

The General looked at me between puffs of his cigar. "I hear you've ridden over fifty miles to-day."

"Well, Smith, on his suggestion approved by Major Harper, I have detailed another clerk to the Major."

"You were so anxious to get the General's letter?" I asked.

"Yes," I responded, "and without even waiting for Diana."

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