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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

Major Harper's black boy brought me the Yankee's horse with my bridle and saddle on him; an elegant animal as fresh as a dawn breeze. Also he produced a parcel, my new uniform, and a wee note whose breath smelt of lavender as it said,--

"Wait a moment," she murmured, and watched the promenading pair turn back. Then she asked if I had read my mother's letter. I said I had. And then, very pensively, with head bent and eyes once more down, she inquired if I liked to get letters. Which led, quite accidentally, to my asking leave to write to her.

I could not speak, I shook my head, and for evidence in rebuttal I showed in my eyes two fountains of standing tears.

"Yes, I know. But you don't know even how your mother is acquainted with her."

"Don't swallow him," said Ferry, smilingly, "this isn't your private war."

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