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"Deserters, I don't doubt!" was my comment to the ladies. Tongue revenge is poor, but it is something.

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The ladies smiled; I glowered. "Take those horses by their heads and turn them to me!"

"Such as which?" asked the Yankee, with a twinkle. "There were two kinds."

She replied that she did not mean that. Nevertheless, I insisted, would she? She only bent lower still. I asked the third time; and with nothing but the parting of her hair for me to look at, she nodded, and one of her braids fell over in front, and I took the pink-ribboned live end of it timorously between thumb and finger and felt as if I had hold of an electric battery.

Breathe, O! breathe to me, as these love-languid skies To yon twilight star breathe, Return, return!

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