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"Well,--yes,--he--he is,--with some."

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

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

I waved a pleasant refusal and rode toward the house.

"Not at all, sir. I'm sorry to seem so; it's not the tip-top of courtesy,--"

"Yes, for one thing, I've got to tell him that old Lucius Oliver can't be hung too high or too soon. For months he has been--"

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