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"Poor boy!" said the aunt. "It's the first line you've had for months. Your sweet mother wrote, but her letters were all intercepted, and the last time she was warned that next time she'd be dealt with according to military usage! I'm glad we could give you this one at once. We can't give you the uniform, for we--why, girls, what--why, what nonsense!"

Old Dismukes rose. "Good-night. Shall I send this boy that Yankee's horse?"

I averted my face and answered with a nod.

"Good-morning, Smith, who is your prisoner?"

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