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In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion, his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

"Yes,"--she put away gaiety--"your orders are plain; and they're as cruel as they are plain!"

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

"Why, the other one--the son. Lieutenant, is she that monster's wife?"

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