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"Smith, Ned Ferry is not only a Romanist, he's a romanticist. We--you and me--are religionists. Our brightness and happiness air the brightness and happiness of faith; our cleanness is the cleanness of religious scruples. Worst of it with Ned is he's satisfied with the difference, I'm afraid! That's what makes him so pleasant to fellows who don't care a sou marquee about religion."

On entering Hazlehurst I observed all about the railway-station a surprising amount of quartermaster's stores. A large part were cases of boots and shoes. Laden with such goods, a train of shabby box-cars stood facing south, its beggarly wood-burner engine sniffing and weeping, while the cork-legged conductor helped all hands wood up. Though homely, the picture was a stirring one. Up through the blue summer morning came the sun, bringing to mind the words of the dying Mirabeau, "If that is not God, at least it's his first cousin."

"Thank you, I couldn't let you take so much trouble--or risk."

"No," I rejoined, "the first step would be the last."

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"Smith," said the Colonel, and then smoked and smiled again till my brow beaded,--"tired?"

"Slightly."

"Too warm?"

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

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