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"Um-hm!" I thought; "Charlotte Oliver, eh?" I responded tartly that I had that very morning met four ladies the poetry of whose actual, visible loveliness had abundantly illustrated to me the needlessness and impertinence of fiction! By the way, did he not think feminine beauty was always in its ripest perfection at eighteen?

Westward likewise we soon were bickering. The morning sun shone high; the thin, hot dust blew out over the blackened ground of some forest "burn" or through the worm fence of some field where a gang of slave men and women might be ploughing or hoeing between the green rows of young cotton or corn. The level stretches were many, the slopes gradual, and to those sweet city-bird ladies everything was new and delightful; a log cabin!--with clay chimney on the outside!--a well and its well-sweep!--another cabin with its gourd-vines! They knew that blessed alchemy which turns all things into the poetry of the moment. Sweet they would have been anywhere to any eye or mind; but I was a homeless trooper lad, and sweeter to the soldier boy than water on the battlefield are short hours with ladies who love him for his banner and his rags.

"We're going to get married, mamma, mamma;

Lit with foolish hope to hear thy fondling sighs, Like yon twilight dove's, breathe, Return, return!

"I was so anxious about you," she replied, with feeling, and then broke into a quizzical laugh.

"Yes," I said, and handed her, as I dismounted, the General's gift, the pass.

"True; but neither are the enemy, and they're early risers, you know."

"Did the doctor say 'fallen'?" I shrewdly asked.

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