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"Would I not tell my dream, as nice young men in the Bible always did?"

"Do you want to see him?" I gathered my horse.

I prompted Camille to ask if he had ever encountered Ned Ferry, and he laughed.

My whole nature was upheaved. You may smile, but my plight was awful. In the sultry night I grew cold. My bridle-hand, still lying under her palm, turned and folded its big stupid fingers over hers. Then our hands slid apart and we rode back. "I wish I were good enough to know the stars," she said, gazing up. "Tell me some of them."

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

I did; it had been only some five weeks earlier; Grant had driven us through Port Gibson, General Bowen had retired across the north fork of Bayou Pierre, and we had been cut off and forced to come down here.

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