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The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

"Yes, a beautiful story is a thing Ned Ferry loves with a positive passion."

Just then entered an ordnance-sergeant, so smart in his rags that the Major's affability seemed hardly a condescension. He asked me to supper with his mess--"of staff attatchays," he said, winking one eye and hitching his mouth; at which the Major laughed with kind disapprobation, and the jocose sergeant explained as we went that that was only one of Scott Gholson's mispronunciations the boys were trying to tease him out of.

But, after all, fortune was merciful, and I was gone; the Major had summoned me--his brother had come. I went circuitously and alone. As I started, some fellow writhing on the grass cried, "Charlie Tol--oh, this is better than a tcharade!" and a flash of divination enlightened me. While I went I burned with shame, rage and nervous exhaustion; the name Scott Gholson had gasped in my ear was the name of her in the curtained wagon, and I cursed the day in which I had heard of Charlotte Oliver.

"Mine is Smith," I said, and we galloped.

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"I think you know Lieutenant Durand?" asked the General, with a quizzical eye.

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

"Yes." She stooped low under the interlacing boughs and plunged with me into the double darkness.

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