Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/A Bold Deserter
A BOLD DESERTER
The war was n't much of a bother to Hillsborough, for the town was remote from the field of operations. Occasionally news would come that made the women cry out and the old men weep, but the intervals were long between these episodes, and to all appearances affairs moved forward as serenely as ever.
This was during the first year or two of the struggle. Then came the Impressment Law, which created bad feelings and caused a good deal of grumbling. Following this came the Conscript Act, which made matters much worse, especially when strange men were sent to enforce it. This disturbed the serenity of Hillsborough very seriously.
Nevertheless, Hillsborough could have put up with the Conscript Act but for one event that stirred the little community from centre to circumference. The conscript officers had not been in the town a week before they pounced upon little Billy Cochran, the sole support of his widowed mother, who was known throughout that region as Aunt Sally. Little Billy himself was a puzzle to the more thoughtful people. He was so simple and innocent-minded, so ready to do for others what he would n't do for himself, that some said he was a half-wit, while others contended that he would have sense enough if his heart was n't so big.
But everybody liked little Billy—for his mother's sake, if not for his own, for Aunt Sally was, indeed, a good Samaritan. She seemed to know by instinct where trouble and sickness and suffering were to be found, and there, too, she was to be found. High or low, rich or poor, she passed none by. And, though she was as simple and as innocent-minded as little Billy, these qualities seemed to fit her better than they did her awkward and bashful boy.
Aunt Sally and little Billy were both as industrious as the day was long, yet they made but a precarious living on their little patch of ground,—a bale or two of cotton, that did n't bring a good price, and a little bit of garden truck, which, with a few chickens and eggs, they brought to town occasionally in a rickety one-horse wagon. Aunt Sally would take no pay for nursing the sick, no matter how much of her time was taken up, but she supplemented the meagre income they got from the one-horse farm by making quilts, and counterpanes, and bedspreads, and by taking in weaving, being very expert at the loom.
As may be supposed, Aunt Sally and little Billy did n't wear fine clothes nor put on any airs. Living in middle Georgia (the most democratic region, socially, in the world), they had no need for either the one or the other. They made a bare living, and were tolerably satisfied with that.
One day, shortly after the conscript officer had established his headquarters in Hillsborough, Aunt Sally and little Billy drove into town with a few dozen eggs and three or four chickens to sell. The conscript officer, sitting on the veranda of the tavern, noticed that little Billy was a well-grown lad, and kept his eye on him, as the rickety, one-horse wagon came through the public square.
There were two or three loungers sitting on the veranda, including Major Goolsby. One of them tapped the major on the shoulder and pointed to little Billy with his forefinger and to the conscript officer with his thumb. The major nodded gravely once or twice, and presently hitched his chair closer to the conscript officer.
"You ain't a-bagging much game in these parts, I reckon," said the major, addressing the officer, with half-closed eyes.
"Business is not very good," replied the other, with a chuckle, "but we manage to pick up a few stragglers now and then. Yonder 's a chap now"—pointing to little Billy—"that looks like he would be an ornament to the rear-guard in an engagement." The officer was a big, rough-looking man, and seemed to find his present duties very agreeable.
"Do you mean little Billy Cochran?" inquired the major.
"I don't know his name," said the officer. "I mean that chap riding in the chariot with the fat woman."
"That boy," remarked the major with an emphasis that caused the conscript officer to regard him with surprise, "is the sole support of his mother. He 's all she 's got to make her crop."
"May be so," the officer said, "but the law makes no provision for cases of that kind."
"You said, 'May be so,'" suggested the major. "Do you mean to doubt my word?" His voice was soft as the notes of a flute.
"Why, certainly not!" exclaimed the officer, flushing a little.
The major made no further remark, but sat bolt upright in his chair. The rickety wagon drove to the tavern door, and little Billy got out, a basket of eggs in one hand and the chickens in the other. He went into the tavern, and while he was gone, Aunt Sally passed the time of day with the major and the rest of her acquaintances on the veranda.
Evidently little Billy had no difficulty in disposing of his eggs and chickens, for he soon came out smiling. The officer arose as little Billy appeared in the door, and so did Major Goolsby. The loungers nudged one another in a gleeful way. As little Billy came out, the conscript officer drew a formidable-looking memorandum-book from his pocket and tapped the young man on the shoulder. Little Billy looked around in surprise, the blood mounted to his face, and he laughed sheepishly.
"What is your name?" the officer asked, poising his pencil.
"William Henry Harrison Cochran," replied little Billy.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty, April gone."
"Report at my office, under the Temperance Hall, next Wednesday morning, the day after to-morrow. The army needs your services."
"Do you want me to go to the war?" asked little Billy, a quaver in his voice.
"Yes," the officer replied. "You fall under the conscript law."
"What 'll mammy do?"
"Really, I don't know. The Confederacy needs you worse than your mammy does just now."
Little Billy hung his head and walked to the rickety wagon.
"Mind," said the officer, "Wednesday morning at ten o'clock. I don't want to send after you."
"Why, what in the round world is the matter, honey?" Aunt Sally inquired, seeing the downcast look of her son.
Little Billy simply shook his head. He could not have uttered a word then had his life depended on it.
"Git up, Beck!" exclaimed Aunt Sally, slapping her old mule with the rope reins.
Major Goolsby watched the mother and son for a few moments as they drove back across the public square. His lip quivered as he remembered how, years before, Aunt Sally had nursed his dead wife. He turned to the conscript officer and straightened himself up.
"Mister"—his voice was soft, sweet, and insinuating—"Mister, how many of your kind are loafing around in the South, picking up the mainstay of widows?"
"As many as are necessary, sir," replied the officer.
"'As many as are necessary, sir,'" said the major, turning to his acquaintances and mimicking the tones of the officer. "Boys, that 's what they call statistics—the exact figures. Well, sir, if there 's one for every town in the Confederacy, there 's more than a regiment of 'em. Don't you reckon I 'm about right in my figures?"
"I could n't say," replied the officer, in an indifferent way. He saw that Major Goolsby was angry, but he did n't know what the major's anger meant. "I could n't say. If all of them have enlisted as many men as I have, the army will be a great deal larger in the course of the next three months."
"Don't you think you could do a great deal more damage to the Yankees, if you had the will, than that boy you 've just served notice on?" asked the major, with a little more asperity than he had yet shown. "Why don't you get a basket and catch tomtits, and send 'em on to the front? The woods are full of 'em."
"Now, if you 'll tell me how all this concerns you," said the officer, bristling up, "I 'll be much obliged to you."
The major took one step forward and, with a movement quick as lightning, slapped the officer in the face with his open hand. "That 's for little Billy!" he exclaimed.
The officer sprang back and placed his hand under his coat as if to draw a pistol. The major whipped out a big morocco pocketbook, fumbled about in it a moment, and then threw five twenty-dollar gold pieces at the feet of the officer.
"I 'll send that to your family," he said, "if you 'll pull your pistol out where I can see it."
But the officer by this time had taken a sober second thought, and he turned away from the major and went to his office across the public square. The older citizens of Hillsborough applauded his coolness and discretion, and one of them told him confidentially that if he had drawn his pistol when Major Goolsby begged him to he would have been a dead man before he could have pulled the hammer back.
II
Of course, everybody sympathized with Aunt Sally, and their sympathy added to her grief, for she was a tender-hearted woman. Moreover, when she found herself the object of so much condolence, she naturally concluded that her trouble was a great deal worse than she had any idea of, and she sat in her humble home and wept, and, like Rachel, refused to be comforted.
But the situation was not nearly so bad as Aunt Sally thought it was, or as Major Goolsby expected it would be. The major himself sent her a little negro girl to keep her company, and the neighbors for miles around contended with one another in their efforts to make her comfortable. Not a day passed, except Sundays, that Miss Mary, the major's daughter, did n't drive out to Aunt Sally's little place and spend an hour or two with her. Miss Mary was eighteen, as pretty as a peach, and as full of fun as an egg is of meat. She was a brunette with blue eyes, and although they were laughing eyes, they could look very sad and tender when occasion called for it.
She made herself very useful to Aunt Sally. She read to her the letters that little Billy sent back from the camp of instruction at Loudersville, and answered them at Aunt Sally's dictation. In this way she came to feel that she knew little Billy better than any one else except his mother. She was surprised to find that, although little Billy had had few advantages in the way of schooling, he could write a beautiful letter. She took the fact home to her innocent bosom and wondered how it could be that this country lad had the knack of putting himself into his letters along with so many other things that were interesting. She was touched, too, by the love for his mother that shone through every line he wrote. Over and over again, he called her his dear mammy and tried to comfort her; and sometimes he spoke of Miss Mary, and he was so deft in expressing his gratitude to her that the young lady blushed and trembled lest some one else was writing little Billy's letters, as she was writing his mother's.
And then, somehow, she never knew how, his face came back to her memory and planted itself in her mind and remained there. Little Billy was no longer the green, awkward, and ungainly country boy, peddling the scanty fruits of his poverty about the village, but a hero, who had no thought for anybody or anything except his dear old mammy.
As the cold weather came on, little Billy wrote that he would feel a great deal more comfortable in the mind if he knew where he could get a thick suit of clothes and a heavy pair of shoes. But he begged his dear mammy not to worry about that, for he had no doubt the clothes and shoes would be forthcoming when he needed them most. Miss Mary skipped this part of the letter when she was reading it aloud to Aunt Sally, but it wasn't long before the clothes were made, with the aid and under the direction of little Billy's mother; and the shoes were bought, costing Major Goolsby a pretty round sum in Confederate currency. Moreover, Miss Mary baked a fruit cake with her own hands, and this was to be put in the box with the clothes and shoes.
The next thing was to find out if anybody from Hillsborough or from the country side was going to the camp of instruction, where little Billy's headquarters were. But right in the midst of expectation and preparation Aunt Sally fell ill. She had never reconciled herself to her separation from little Billy. Until the conscript law tore him away from her side she had never been parted from him a day since the Lord sent him to her arms.
The strain was too much for the motherly heart to bear. Aunt Sally gradually pined away, though she tried hard to be cheerful, and, at last, just before little Billy's Christmas box was to be sent, she took to her bed and lay there as helpless as a child. The doctor came and prescribed, but little Billy was the only medicine that would do Aunt Sally any good. So she kept to her bed, growing weaker and weaker, in spite of everything that the doctor and the neighbors could do.
And at last, when an opportunity came to forward the box, Miss Mary wrote a note and pinned it where it could be seen the first thing. She began it with "Dear Little Billy," but this seemed too familiar, and she began it with "Mr. Cochran." She told him that his dear mammy was very ill, and if he wanted to see her he would do well to come home at once. It was a very pretty letter, brief, simple, and sympathetic.
This duty done, Miss Mary turned her attention to nursing Aunt Sally, and, except at night, was never absent from her bedside more than an hour at a time.
III
When little Billy arrived at the camp of instruction, the first person on whom his eye fell was Private Chadwick. Simultaneously the eye of Private Chadwick fell on little Billy. Mr. Chadwick was something of a humorist in his way, and a rough one, as the raw conscripts found out to their cost. A heartless jest rose to his lips, but something in little Billy's face—an expression of loneliness, perhaps—stayed it. In another moment Private Chadwick's hand fell on little Billy's shoulder, and it was a friendly hand.
"Where from?" he asked.
"Close about Hillsborough," little Billy answered.
"I reckon you know the Tripps and the Littles?"
"Mighty well," said little Billy.
What name?"
"Cochran."
"How old?"
"Twenty, last April gone."
"You don't look like you 're fitten to do much soldierin'," suggested Private Chadwick.
"Oh, I 'm tough," said little Billy, laughing, though he had a big lump in his throat.
"Come with me, buddy," remarked the old soldier, smiling. "If I 'm ever to keep a tavern, I reckon I might as well begin with you as a boarder."
And so, for the time at least, little Billy was installed in Private Chadwick's tent, much to the surprise of those who knew the peculiarities of the man. The camp was in charge of Captain Mosely, who was recovering from a wound, and he had selected his old comrade. Private Chadwick, as his drill- master,—a curious selection it seemed to be to those who did n't know the man, but the truth was that Private Chadwick knew as much about tactics as any West Pointer, and had the knack, too, of imparting what he knew, even if he had to use his belt-strap to emphasize his remarks.
The upshot of the matter was that little Billy went to Private Chadwick's tent and remained there. He and the private became inseparable companions when neither was on duty, and in these hours of leisure little Billy learned as much about tactics as he did from the actual practice of drilling. He seemed to take to the business naturally, and far outstripped even the men who had been drilling twice a day for three months. Naturally, therefore, Private Chadwick was very proud of his pupil, and frequently called Captain Mosely's attention to little Billy's proficiency.
Over and often during the pleasant days of November, Private Chadwick could be seen sitting in front of their tent engaged in earnest conversation, little Billy leaning his face on his hands, and Private Chadwick making fantastic figures in the sand with the point of his bayonet. On such occasions little Billy would be talking about his dear old mammy, and about Miss Mary, and, although Private Chadwick was something of a joker, in his way, he never could see anything to laugh at in little Billy's devotion to his mother, or in his innocent regard for Miss Mary Goolsby. Somehow it carried the private back to his own boyhood days, and he listened to the lad with a sympathy that was as quick and as delicate as a woman's.
About the middle of December, little Billy's box came. He carried it to Private Chadwick' s tent in great glee, and opened it at once.
He had said to himself as he went along that he was sure there was something nice in the box, and he hoped to find Mr. Chadwick either in the tent or close by; but the drill-master was engaged just then in making a refractory conscript mark time in the guard tent by jabbing a bayonet at his toes.
So, for the moment, little Billy had his precious box all to himself. He opened it and found the letter that Miss Mary had pinned to the clothes. It ran thus:—
Mr. Cochran, Aunt Sally is very ill now and has been ill for some time. We are afraid that you are the only person in the world that can cure her. She is calling your name and talking about you all the time. It would do her so much good to see you that I hope you can make it convenient to come home very soon, if only for a day. We should all be so glad to see you.
Your true friend,
Mary Goolsby.
Holding this letter in his hand, little Billy sank down on a camp-stool and sat there. He forgot all about the box. He sat as still as a statue, and he was sitting thus when Private Chadwick came into the tent a half-hour later. Little Billy neither turned his head nor moved when the drill-master came in, snorting with rage and consigning all awkward recruits to places too warm to be mentioned in polite conversation. But he pulled himself up when he saw little Billy sitting on the camp-stool staring at vacancy.
"Hello!" he cried. What kind of a picnic is this? If my nose ain't gone and forgot her manners, I smell cake." He paused and looked at little Billy. Seeing that the lad was troubled about something, he lowered his voice. "What 's the matter, old man? If it 's trouble, it 'll do you more good to talk about it than to think about it."
For answer, little Billy held out the letter. Private Chadwick took it and began to read it. Then he held it close to his eyes.
"Now, this is right down funny," he said, "and it 's just like a gal. She 's gone and scratched out the best part." Little Billy neither moved nor spoke, but turned inquiring eyes on his patron and friend. "She began it 'Dear Little Billy,'" Private Chadwick continued, "and then she went and scratched it out."
It was a very fortunate stroke indeed. The color slowly came back into little Billy's face and stayed there. After Private Chadwick had read the letter, little Billy took it and gave it a careful inspection. His face was so full of color at what he saw that a stranger would have said he was blushing.
"What 's to be done about it?" Private Chadwick asked.
"I must go home and see mammy," replied little Billy.
Private Chadwick shook his head, and continued to shake it, as if by that means he would blot out the idea.
"Can't I get a furlough?" little Billy asked, with tears in his voice.
If any other conscript had asked him this question, Private Chadwick would have used violent language, but the innocence and ignorance of little Billy were dear to him.
"Now, who ever heard of the like of that?" he said in a kindly tone. "There ain't but one way for a conscript to leave this camp, and that is to desert."
"I 'll do it!" exclaimed little Billy.
"You know what that means, I reckon," said Private Chadwick dryly.
"It means that I 'll see my dear mammy once more," replied little Billy. "And after that, I don't care what happens."
Private Chadwick looked at little Billy long and hard, smiling under his mustache, and then went out. He walked to the centre of the encampment, where the flag-pole stood. This inoffensive affair he struck hard with his fist, exclaiming under his breath, "Lord, Lord! What makes some people have such big gizzards?"
The next day little Billy was missing.
IV
Captain Mosely had the camp searched, but without result, and in a little while everybody knew that the lad was a deserter. During the morning Private Chadwick had a long talk with Captain Mosely, and the result of it was that no immediate arrangements were made to send a guard after little Billy.
Meanwhile, Aunt Sally was growing weaker and weaker. Sometimes, in her troubled dreams, she imagined that little Billy had come, and at such moments she would cry out a glad welcome, and laugh as heartily as ever. But, for the most part, she knew that he was still absent, and that all her dreams were futile and fleeting.
Nevertheless, one bright morning in the latter part of December, little Billy walked into his mother's humble home, weary and footsore. Aunt Sally heard his footstep on the door-sill, and, weak as she was, sat up in bed and held out her arms to him. Her dreams had come true, but they had come true too late. When little Billy removed the support of his arms, in order to look at his dear mammy's face, she was dead. The joy of meeting her son again was too much for the faithful and tender heart.
All that could be done by kind hearts and willing hands was done by Miss Mary and the neighbors. Little Billy shed no tears. The shock had benumbed all his faculties. He went about in a dazed condition. But when, the day after the funeral, he went to tell Miss Mary good-by, the ineffable pity that shone in her face touched the source of his grief, and he fell to weeping as he had never wept before. He would have kissed her hand, but she drew it away, and, as he straightened himself, tiptoed and kissed him on the forehead. With that she, too, fell to weeping, and thus they parted. But for many a long day little Billy felt the pressure of soft and rosy lips on his forehead.
He sold the old mule that had served his dear mammy so faithfully, and this gave him sufficient money to pay his way back to camp on the railroad, with some dollars to spare. As good fortune would have it, the first man he saw when the train stopped at the station nearest the camp was Private Chadwick. Little Billy spoke to his friend with as much cheerfulness as he could command.
"I 'm mighty glad to see you, old man," said Chadwick. "I knowed in reason that you was certain to come back,—and, sure enough, here you are. You 've had trouble, too. Well, trouble has got a long arm and a hard hand, and I ain't never saw the livin' human bein' that could git away from it when it begins to feel around for 'em."
"Yes," replied little Billy simply; "I 'll never have any more trouble like that I 've had."
"It 's mighty hard at first, always," remarked Private Chadwick, with a sigh, "but it 's mighty seasonin'. The man that ain't the better for it in the long run ain't much of a man. That 's the way I put it down."
"Am I a deserter, sure enough?" asked little Billy, suddenly remembering his position.
"Well, it 's a mixed case," answered the private. "You 've gone and broke the rules and articles of war,—I reckon that 's what they call 'em. You took Dutch leave. The Cap said if you did n't come back in ten days he 'd send a file of men after you, and then your cake would 'a' been all dough. But now you 've come back of your own free will, and the case is mixed. You are bound to be arrested. All that 's been fixed, and that 's the reason I 've been comin' to the train every day sence you 've been gone. I wanted to arrest you myself."
"Then I 'm a prisoner," suggested little Billy.
"That 's about the size and shape of it," replied Private Chadwick.
His tone was so emphatic that little Billy looked at him. But there was a kindly light in the private's eyes and a pleasant smile lurking under his mustache: so that the young fellow thought he might safely go back to his grief again.
When they arrived at camp, Private Chadwick, with a great show of fierce formality, led little Billy to the guard tent, and there placed him in charge of a newly-made corporal, who knew so little of his duties that he went inside the tent, placed his gun on the ground, and had a long familiar chat with the prisoner.
After the camp had gone to bed, Private Chadwick relieved the guard, and carried little Billy to his own tent, where Captain Mosely was waiting.
This rough old soldier gave little Billy a lecture that was the more severe because it was delivered in a kindly tone. At the end he informed little Billy that the next day a squad of picked men from the conscript camp was to go to the front in charge of Private Chadwick, the enemy having shown a purpose to make a winter campaign.
"Would you like to go?" the captain asked.
Little Billy seized the captain's arm. "Don't fool me," he cried. "If I am fit to go, let me go. That 's what I am longing for."
The captain felt about in the dark for little Billy's hand, and grasped it. "You shall go," he said, and walked from the dark tent into the starlight outside.
The nights are long to those who sleep with sorrow, but, after all, the days come quickly, as little Billy soon found out. The next morning he found himself whirling away to Virginia, where some cruel business was on foot. The days went fast enough then, and the railway train, with its load of soldiers, puffed and snorted as if it wanted to go faster, too; but it went fast enough,—just fast enough to be switched off to the right of Richmond and plunge its load of conscripts and raw recruits unprepared into a furious battle that had just reached the high tide of destruction. Private Chadwick was swept along with the rest, and he tried hard to keep his eye on little Billy, but found it impossible, since they were soon mixed with men who were wounded and with men who were running away. Some of the latter turned again when they saw the reinforcements rushing forward pellmell.
Little Billy was far in front of the others. He heard the crackle of musketry and the thunder of the cannon, and ran toward the smoke and confusion. A shell dropped in front of him and spun around, spitting fire, but he ran on, and never even heard the explosion that shattered the trees around, and played havoc with the reinforcements that were following. He jumped over men that were lying on the ground, whether dead or wounded, he never knew. Some one, apparently in command, yelled at him with a savage curse, but he paid no attention to it. Directly in front of him he saw a battery of three guns. Two were in action, but one had no one to manage it. On each side of this battery, and a little to the rear, the line of battle stretched away.
Seeing little Billy running forward, followed by the recruits from the train, the line of battle began to cheer, and at the same time to advance. He had practiced with an old six-pounder at the conscript camp, and he now ran, as if by instinct, to the gun that had been silenced. The Confederates charged, but had to fall back again, and then they began to retire, slowly at first, and then with some haste. Little Billy paid no attention to this movement at all. He continued to serve his gun and fire it as rapidly as he could. Shot and shell from the Federal batteries plowed up the ground around him, but never touched him. Presently a tall man with a long brown beard rode out of the smoke and ordered little Billy to retreat, pointing, as he did so, to the bristling line of Federals charging up the hill.
"Take hold of my stirrup," said the tall man. He spurred his horse into a rapid trot, and little Billy trotted by his side, mightily helped by holding on to the stirrup. In this way they were soon out of it, and in a little while had caught up with the main body, which had planted itself a couple of miles farther back, while the brigade in which little Billy had fought was holding the enemy at bay.
Little Billy's face was black with powder, but his eyes shone like stars. He knew now that never again would danger or the fear of death cause him to flinch.
"What regiment do you belong to?" asked the tall man as they went along.
"None," replied little Billy simply. Then he told how he was just from a conscript camp in Georgia. When they arrived at the Confederate position the tall man called to an officer:—
"This is my rear guard," said he. "See that he is cared for." Then to little Billy, "When this affair blows over, brush up and call on General Jeb Stuart. He needs a courier, and you are the man."
As there was no sign of a fight the next day, little Billy went to General Stuart's 
LITTLE BILLY TROTTED BY HIS SIDE
This was the beginning. Little Billy became a courier, then an aid, and when the war closed he was in command of a regiment. His recklessness as a fighter had given a sort of romantic color to his name, so that the newspaper correspondents found nothing more popular than an anecdote about Colonel Cochran.
His fame had preceded him to Hillsborough, and he had a queer feeling when the older citizens, men who had once awed him by their pride and their fine presence, took off their hats as they greeted him. The most demonstrative among these was Major Goolsby.
"You are to come right to my house, Colonel. You belong to us, you know." This was Major Goolsby's greeting, as he clung to Colonel Cochran's hand. "It will be a great surprise to Mary. She 'll never know you in the round world. Why, you 've grown to be a six-footer."
So there was nothing for Colonel Cochran to do but to go to the Goolsby place, a fine house built on a hill beyond the old church. The major wanted to give his daughter a surprise, and so he carried Colonel Cochran into the parlor, and then told Miss Mary that one of her friends had called to see her.
The young lady went skipping into the parlor, and then paused with a frightened air, as she saw a six-foot man in faded uniform rise to meet her.
"Miss Mary," said Colonel Cochran, holding out his hand.
"Are you"—She paused, grew white and then red, and suddenly turned and ran out of the room, nearly upsetting the major, who was standing near the door.
"Why, what on earth 's the matter?" he cried. "Well, if this don't beat— Did she know you, Colonel?"
"I 'm afraid she did," replied the colonel grimly.
The major tiptoed to his daughter's room, opened the door softly, and found her on her knees by her bed, crying. Thereupon he tiptoed back again, and said to Colonel Cochran, "It 's all right. She 's crying."
The colonel smiled dryly. "If I make the women cry, what will the children do when they see me!"
The major laid his hand affectionately on Cochran's arm. "Don't you fret," he said. "Just wait."
And so wonderful are the ways of women, that when Miss Mary came out again, she greeted the colonel cordially, and was as gay as a lark. And nothing would do but he must fight his battles over again, which he did with great spirit when he saw her fine eyes kindling with enthusiasm, and her lips trembling from sheer sympathy.
Strange to say, nobody knew what it all meant but the old cook, who stood in the doorway leading from the dining-room to the kitchen and watched her young mistress. She went back in the kitchen and said to her husband:—
"Ef you want ter see how folks does when dey er in love, go ter de door dar an' look at dat ar chile er our'n."
The old man looked in, watched Miss Mary a moment, and then looked hard at Colonel Cochran.
"I dunno so much 'bout de gal," he said, when he went back, "but dat ar man got mo' in his eye dan what his tongue want ter tell."
And it was so; and, being so, the whole story is told.