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

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.

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Guess I'm the first Yankee y' ever caught, ain't I?" His smile was superior, but congratulatory.

Our intercourse became more amiable and the fellow dragged in his advice that I spend the rest of the night at the house of Mr. Oliver. His acquaintance with that gentleman seemed to grow while we talked, and broke into bloom like a magician's rosebush. He described him as a kind old bird who made hospitality to strangers his meat and drink. A conjecture darted into my mind. "Why, yes! that is his married son, is he not, yonder in the cabin; the one with the fair hair?"

"True; but neither are the enemy, and they're early risers, you know."

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