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No, I barely remembered the rider had generously moved aside to let me go by. In pure sourness at the poverty of my dress and the perfection of his, I had avoided looking at him higher than his hundred-dollar boots. My feet were in uncolored cowhide, except the toes.

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

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

"What do you see?" His frown scared me to my finger-tips.

"I'm most afraid," he said, abstractedly, as he read my detail, which Gholson brought in. "Here,"--he handed it to me--"and here, here's the despatch too."

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