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"Well, that might depend on who 'her' is." We had reached the cross-roads and he was turning south.

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

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

"Oh--I--just don't feel as if I could, that's all."

"Oh! that-a-way."

"You were so anxious to get the General's letter?" I asked.

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