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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.

"Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?"

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

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

"It was you who said it! and anyhow, it was you who had the strength to do it!"

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