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"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

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."

"Ain't you Major Harper's quartermaster-sergeant?" he asked.

Yet great is precept. Precept is a well. Up from its far depths by slow, humble, constant process you may draw, in a slender silver thread, and store for sudden use, the pure waters of character.

"She ain't awa-ay."

"Halt! Turn as I turn, and keep your eye on this."

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