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"The horse may have to save you," drawled the Arkansan.

"Oh I was forgetting that; yes, do!"

That piece of a word was scored out and "dangers" written in its place. The missive ended all too soon, with the statement that I was requested to call, on my way out of camp, at the side gallery of the house-- Sessions's--and let the writer and her sister and her cousin and her father and her aunt see me in my new uniform and bid me good-bye.

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

The trio laughed, the young woman most musically.

"Yes." She stooped low under the interlacing boughs and plunged with me into the double darkness.

I attempted an evasion. "Oh--a blanket on the ground--face covered up in it from the mosquitos--is really--"

"Coralie! Coralie Rothvelt!"--my cry was an honest one--"you tempt me beyond human endurance."

I said with genuine warmth that if he would give me that man's name--etc.

Her face spoke passionate thanks. "That's all I can ask!" she said, whispered "When you go--keep the plain road,"--and vanished.

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