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Midway of this space I met Scott Gholson, clerk to the Adjutant-general. It was Gholson who had first spoken of me for this detail. He was an East Louisianian, of Tangipahoa; aged maybe twenty-six, but in effect older, having from birth eaten only ill-cooked food, and looking it; profoundly unconscious of any shortcoming in his education, which he had got from a small church-pecked college of the pelican sort that feed it raw from their own bosoms. One of his smallest deficiencies was that he had never seen as much art as there is in one handsome dinner-plate. Now, here he was, riding forth to learn for himself, privately, he said, why I did not appear. Yet he halted without turning, and seemed to wish he had not found me.

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

The General looked at me between puffs of his cigar. "I hear you've ridden over fifty miles to-day."

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

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.

"Neither was Lieutenant Ferry," she dryly responded, "yet I have it from him."

"How, then, did she know?"

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