A Little Union Scout

by Joel Chandler Harris

  XIII

  We rode along without adventure of any kind, though I momentarilyexpected to hear the tramp of Forrest's outriders behind us. They nevercame, and about ten o'clock--my stomach was my clock in this instance,for I had had no breakfast--we suddenly turned off from the main roadand plunged into the shadows of the finest wood I had ever seen. Therewere giant chestnuts, giant poplars, giant oaks, and giant pines. Theywere so large that human beings seemed small and insignificant besidethem, and I realized that we were in the primeval forest.

  The thought, however, did not satisfy my hunger, and I wondered whenand where a halt was to be called and rations parcelled out. It is avexatious feeling for the young to feel the pangs of hunger, and I wasnot used to a long fast. My feelings were relieved by Whistling Jim,who informed me that he had placed a very substantial ration in myholsters; and I am free to say that, after Colonel Ryder, the negro wasthe most thoughtful and considerate person I have ever seen. He had aneasy explanation for it, and spoke of it very lightly, remarking thatall he had to do was to think of himself first "an' de white folksnex'."

  In turning into the wood, we were following the lead of the little ladyin the top-buggy, and I think that Colonel Ryder had no idea whithershe was leading him. Yet he yielded himself and his men to her guidancewith a confidence that few soldiers would have displayed. We had comevery rapidly until we turned out of the main road, and then we wentalong more leisurely. This gave me time to overcome my naturalstupidity, for I finally realized that our rapid movements on the mainroad were intended to place us beyond the reach of Forrest's advanceguard.

  The by-way that we were now following appeared to be little used, yetit was a wide road and a good one, and probably served as the means ofcommunication between isolated farms, or it may have led to some lonelygrist-mill which had been built for the convenience of that thinlypopulated region. Though it was but little used, it was plain to theeye, and I thought with a smile that if Captain Bill Forrest's companyshould happen to have any leisure a dozen or more of them would be sureto see where it led, in which event----

  The smile faded away as soon it came, for I thought of the little ladyin the top-buggy who was driving ahead with so much confidence. Shewould be safe in any event, but what would she think of me if herbrother should be captured or killed? I shrunk from facing such acontingency; I shrunk without knowing why. Being a young fellow, andfeeling my importance as I have never felt it since, I imagined shewould hold me responsible. I had interfered with her plans in more waysthan one, and I felt that she owed me a grudge that would grow toenormous proportions should any harm come to her brother.

  I was suddenly recalled to the affairs of the moment by hearing thescreams of a woman, followed by a rifle-shot. I saw Jane Ryder urgingher horse forward, and, without waiting to see what Colonel Ryderproposed to do, I put spurs to my horse, followed by Whistling Jim. Thescream of the woman had sent a cold chill all through me, and I was inno humor for waiting to see what the others would do. I thought I heardshouts behind me, but I paid no attention to them. I turned my horse tothe left and headed him in the direction from which the sounds hadcome.

  Keeping a sharp eye ahead, I soon came in sight of a cabin sittinglonely and forlorn in the middle of a small clearing. I saw more thanthis, for three men were engaged in a desperate effort to batter downthe door. My horse bore me past the little lady in a flash, althoughshe was using the whip. With a cry of "Halt and surrender!" I rode atthe men pistol in hand. They whipped around the house without turningtheir heads, and ran off into the thick undergrowth, where it wouldhave been both useless and dangerous to pursue them.

  They left one of their number on the ground, the victim of therifle-shot we had heard. He begged lustily for both mercy and water. Ifhe had been compelled to choose between the two I think he would havetaken water. I gave him my canteen, which he emptied at a gulp andcalled for more. There was a strange silence in the house--a silence indecided contrast to the screams I had heard, and I wondered if thewretches had shot the woman. I started to knock on the door with thebutt of my pistol, but Jane Ryder was before me.

  "Only children do such foolish things," she exclaimed, and I thoughtshe had scorn in her voice. "Sally! Sally Rodgers! Open the door if youare alive! Don't you know me? Your friends are here."

  "Pardon me!" I said, pushing past Jane Ryder as the door opened. For amoment I could see nothing whatever, not even the woman who had openedthe door, but when my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom that pervadedthe house--all the windows were closed--I saw the big Irishman whom Ihad met at the tavern a few nights before. He was sitting very quietlyin the chimney-corner, but I observed that he had me covered with hisrifle. I stared at him without a word, and he was equally as silent,but something in the situation--or in his face, for he had as pleasinga countenance as I have ever seen--caused me to laugh.

  He had me covered.]

  "'Tis a long mile from a joke," he declared. "Ye see before ye PrivateO'Halloran av the sharpshooters. Wan av us is a prisoner, an' I'mthinkin' it's not meself."

  "It is not given to every man," I replied, "to be taken prisoner whilehe is still a prisoner. You will have to speak to Colonel Ryder."

  The woman had come from behind the door to greet Jane Ryder, and nowshe was giving her all the details of her troubles, her voice pitchedin a very high key. Meanwhile, half a dozen children in various stagesof undress swarmed from under the bed and stood staring at us. "Thesound of the woman's screams," said I, turning to Jane Ryder, "causedme to forget that I am a prisoner. I hope your brother doesn't thinkthat I made that an excuse for running away."

  "And why shouldn't a prisoner escape--if he can?" she asked, after amoment's hesitation. "You'll never have a better opportunity to rejoinyour command. You are not under parole, and you are under noobligations to my brother. You have only to mount your horse, beckon toyour negro, and follow the path you will find at the back of the house.It leads by a grist-mill. A part of your command has already passed onthe road beyond the mill, but if you will go now you will fall in withthe rear-guard."

  "Beggin' pardon," said O'Halloran, taking off his hat to the lady, "thelad has engagements wit' me. He's me twenty-ninth, all told, an'there's luck in odd numbers. If it's all the same to you, mum, he'llstay here."

  "But it's not all the same to me, Mr. O'Halloran," she said, turning tothe Irishman. "I prefer that he should go."

  His eyes grew bigger as he stared at the lady. "Oh----" he exclaimed,and then paused with his mouth open. "Niver did I hope to see megallant Captain in this rig. It doesn't become ye at all. The trimmin'smake ye a fut shorter, an' be me soul! ye was short enough to beginwit'." His amazement made her laugh, but she made no reply.

  "Are you going?" she inquired, turning to me. I hesitated. Undoubtedlyhere was an opportunity, but something or other--some feeling orsentiment--call it what you will--held me back.

  "Not now," I said, finally. "Some other time, perhaps, but not now." Idid not realize at the time why I held back--why I refused to be free.

  She turned away from me with a petulant shrug of the shoulders, as muchas to say that she was no longer under obligations to me for preventingher capture by the party that had raided the tavern. The big Irishman,who had evidently recognized the little lady as a person of someimportance, went so far as to try to persuade me to make my escape, or,rather, to take advantage of the escape I had already made.

  "If ye're stayin' thinkin' he's a woman, don't do ut. Don't stop for tosay good-by, but straddle yure horse an' be off wit' ye."

  But the little lady had a mind of her own, as I was shortly todiscover. After she had talked with the woman for a few minutes, sheturned to me.

  "Will you ride with me a few miles?" she inquired. "Your negro can leadyour horse."

  I agreed with such promptness and eagerness that a faint tinge of colorcame into her face. But, in the bustle of getting away, I paid littleattention to her appearance until we were on the move again, and then Iobserved that she
was very pale. I thought it was cold, and said so.

  "The wind is certainly chilly," she replied, and then, moved byembarrassment, or stirred by the motherly instinct that constitutesmore than half the charm of womanhood, she leaned over and tucked thelap-robe about my knees, and then fell back in her place, laughinggleefully, as a child might have laughed. Indeed, for a woman grown,this little lady had more of the cunning tricks of childhood thananyone I had ever seen--the cute little ways that endear children tothose who love them. At the time, this fact did not add to myhappiness, for, what with her womanliness and her childishness, shepresented a problem that puzzled and dazzled me, for my mind waswofully lacking in the nimbleness necessary to follow the swift changesof her moods.

  She had turned the buggy into the woods, and was driving along with noroad to guide her. I had not the remotest idea whither she was carryingme, but by way of saying something I protested against the way she waspushing her horse. "You will need him after to-day," I explained.

  "I have reason to be in a hurry," she said. "Horses are cheap enoughwith us. They are furnished by the Government."

  "Still, he is a fairly good horse," I remarked, "and he deserves someconsideration on his own account."

  "Do you think so?" she cried. "I am sure you are very kind--to horses.If I am driving him too hard you have yourself to thank. You have upsetall my plans, and I am not very happy. Don't you think a woman deservesas much consideration as a horse?"

  "They are to be treated according to their deserts," I answered,gravely. "They know what duty is. Private O'Halloran says that you areno woman, and I say that you are no man. Where does consideration fallin your case?"

  "I ask for no more consideration than you would accord to a humanbeing. Mr. O'Halloran has never seen me in my proper dress before, andhe knows only how I appear at night when I am working for the cause ofthe Union. But who are you that you should judge of the deserts of menand women? You are nothing but a boy, and you'll not be different whenyou are a man. Instead of marching with your comrades, here you areriding in a buggy with a woman--and for what? In the name of heaven,tell me for what?"

  She seemed to be overcome by quite a little flurry of passion, and hermanner irritated me. "You know why as well as I do," I replied, soberlyenough. "You heard the orders my General gave me in the first place,and, in the second place, you know that I am a prisoner. It is odd thatyou can play a game and forget the score. I imagined when I startedthat my duty would be the greatest pleasure of my life."

  "Do you know where you are going now?" she inquired, very seriously.

  "It is a matter of indifference to me," I answered. "Wherever I go, Iam in the hands of Providence."

  "If you could believe that," she remarked, "it would do you a world ofgood."

  I laughed at her serious manner. "Believe it!" I exclaimed. "Why, it istoo plain for mere belief. I do not believe it--I know it."

  She was silent for a long time, and when she did speak her words,showed that the matter was still on her mind. "It seems to me verypeculiar," she said, "that one so young should have such solemnthoughts."

  "Why do you call them solemn thoughts?" I asked. "Can anything be morecheerful than to know that you are altogether in the hands of a higherPower--to know that you will be taken care of; or, if you perish, toknow that it will be in the very nick of time?"

  "You are too serious to be romantic," she said. "I should like to seeyou making love."

  "I can gratify your humor with a right good will--only the lady I wouldmake love to despises me."

  "I'll never believe it," she declared, and it was evident that shemeant what she said.

  "That is because you have only a vague idea of the cruelty of womanwhen she has a man at her mercy--and knows it."

  "I should like to see some woman at your mercy," she said. "No doubtyou would give free play to the strap and the rawhide and otherimplements of the slave-driver."

  Her words made me wince, and I must have shown the wound, for when Ilooked at her her countenance wore an expression of regret andrepentance. "You must forgive me," she declared. "If we were to bethrown together you would have to forgive me fifty times a day."

  "Well, I thank heaven," I exclaimed, with some feeling, "that I wasnever at the mercy of more than one woman, and that fact was mitigatedsomewhat. She was arrayed in the garb of a man, and I was so sorry forher that I forgot she had me at her mercy."

  "You should have told her," the little lady declared. "Perhaps if shehad known her conduct would have been vastly different. You never knowwhat a woman will do until she has been put to the test."

  "She did a good deal," I said, sullenly. "She called me a coward, arebel, and a traitor."

  "Then she must have been in despair," replied the little lady in themost matter-of-fact way. "When you are a little older you will discoverthat despair has an anger all its own. But I hope you will never feelit," she sighed. "Anyone can I see that you know very little aboutwomen."

  "I hope my ignorance does me no harm," I suggested.

  "Not the slightest," she answered. "It is a help to you. It is the sortthat goes with youth, and I had rather have your youth than all theexperience in the world."

  The answer I made I shall always regard as an inspiration. "You canhave my youth," I said, "if you will take all that goes with it." Forone or two little moments she either doubted her ears or failed tocatch my meaning. But when she could no longer doubt--when she wasobliged to understand me--she hid her face in her hands to conceal theresult of her emotions. I seized her hands and compelled her to look atme. She was blushing like a school-girl. "Is my youth, with all itsappurtenances, worth your acceptance?" I asked. She made no reply, andI think she would have maintained silence the rest of the way but formy persistent chattering.

  To me her embarrassment was very beautiful--thrilling, indeed--and insome mysterious way her youth came back to her, and she seemed to be nomore than sixteen. "My youth is not too youthful for you," I insisted."I have grown very much older lately, and you have become a girl againin the last five minutes." She was still silent, and I took advantageof it to draw her hands under the lap-robe. "There is no reason whyyour fingers should freeze," I said.

  "They are not likely to--now," she declared, and, though it may havebeen pure imagination, I thought she leaned a little nearer, and thebare idea of such graciousness on her part seemed to change my wholenature. All the folly of youth went out of me, and love came in andtook its place and filled my whole being. What I had been belonged tothe remote past; I knew that I should never be the same again.

  "I offered you my youth," I said, "and now I offer you my manhood, suchas it is. You must answer yea or nay."

  She gave me a quick, inquiring glance, and her face told me all that Idesired to know. "Neither yea nor nay," she replied. "We are both veryfoolish, but, of the two, I am the more foolish. We are trying to looktoo far ahead; we are prying into the future, and the future is awaybeyond us. Everything you say and everything I have in my mind isabsurd, no matter how agreeable it may be. Do you care enough for me todesert your comrades and fling your principles to the four winds? Do Icare enough for you to leave my people and give my sympathies to yourside?" She was smiling as she spoke, but I knew that she was veryserious, and I made no reply. "I am going to tell you the simpletruth," she went on. "I do care enough for you to leave everything foryour sake, for there can be no real love where there is not awillingness to sacrifice all---- Oh, I don't know why women arecompelled to make all the sacrifices."

  "She not only does that," I replied, "but she is compelled to bear theburden of them alone. Ordinarily, man is a hindrance rather than ahelp, but I am here to help you."

  "Then help me in the right way," she implored.

  "I will," I replied; "but here is an argument that is worth all therest," and with that I drew her to me and pressed my lips to hers. Shemade no resistance whatever, but somehow the argument did not appeal toher reason.

  "I could kiss you twice ten t
housand times," she declared, "but factswould remain the same. I have heard that your people have great notionsof honor, and I hope it is true in your case."

  Well, it was only too true, and I knew it, but, manlike, I must takesome reprisal from the truth. "Your mother told me," I said, "that youhave a great knack of hurting those you love."

  She leaned against me with a sigh. "If I thought that the truth couldreally hurt you," she declared, "I should never be happy again in thisworld, but it is something else that hurts, and it is hurting me agreat deal worse than it is hurting you."

  I suppose I am not the only man in the world that has been caught inthe desert that sometimes stretches its barren wastes between love andduty. I knew that if I but held out my hand to this little woman shewould give up all, and, assuredly, had she held out her hand to me Ishould have flung duty to the winds. But she was of a different mould.The only comfort I had at the moment was in feeling that the sacrificewas mutual.

  I longed for her brother to ride up behind us, so that I might still bea prisoner, but she had provided against that. I realized at last thatI had never been regarded as a prisoner. I should have been grateful,but I was not--at least, not at the moment. If, as has been said, a mancuts a ridiculous figure when he is sulking, my appearance must havebeen truly laughable. But the little lady was very sweet and patient.Her eyes were so full of tears, as she afterward confessed, that shecould hardly see to guide her horse.

  When I came to take note of my surroundings I could not refrain fromuttering an exclamation of surprise. We had issued from the forest,when or how I knew not, and were now ascending a very steep hill.Looking back, I saw a mill behind me, and noticed that Whistling Jimwas engaged in conversation with the miller. He was evidentlynegotiating for meal or flour; but it all came to me as in a dream.

  "Did you see the mill as we came by?" I asked.

  "Certainly," the little lady replied. "Didn't you hear me speak to themiller?"

  "I don't know how I am to forgive you for seeing and hearing things. Ididn't know we had come out of the wood."

  She laughed merrily and laid her face against my arm, but when shelifted it she was crying. "Oh, don't make it too hard for me," shepleaded. "I am not myself to-day. Duty has been poisoned for me, and Ishall be wretched until this war is over. Surely it can't last long."

  "Not longer than a century," I replied, bitterly.

  "Look yonder!" she exclaimed.

  We had now reached the top of the hill, and when I looked in thedirection in which she pointed, I saw a sight that thrilled me.

  XIV

  From the crest of the hill a vast panorama, bare but beautiful,stretched out before us. The hill was not a mountain--indeed, from thedirection of our approach, it seemed to be rather an insignificanthill; but on the farther side the land fell away from it quiteunexpectedly, so that what seemed to be a hill from one side developedthe importance almost of a mountain on the other side. The road droppedinto a valley that ran away from the hill and spread out for miles andmiles until it faded against the horizon and was lost in the distance.The season was winter, and the view was a sombre one, but its extentgave it a distinction all its own. Far to the left a double worm-fenceran, and we knew that a road lay between, for along its lazy length atroop of cavalry trailed along.

  I knew it instantly for the rear-guard of my command, and the sight ofit thrilled me. I suppose something of a glow must have come into myface, for the little woman at my side stirred impatiently. "That isyour command," she said, "and you are glad to see them." She was silenta moment, and then, as if she had suddenly lost all control of herself,cried out, "Oh, what shall I do now?"

  "You knew what my duty was," I said, with a sustaining arm about her,"and you brought me here."

  "But if I had it to do over again I couldn't--I couldn't!" she wailed.

  "If you had it to do over again you shouldn't," I answered; and then Iseized her and held her tight in my arms. Nor did I release her untilWhistling Jim, coming up and realizing the situation, celebrated it bywhistling a jig. "If you'll say the word," I declared, "I'll go withyou."

  "I can't! I can't!" she cried. "Do you say it, and I'll go with you."

  But neither of us said it; something beyond ourselves held us back. Iam not sure, after all, that it was a sense of duty; but, whatever itwas, it was effectual.

  "I am afraid something dreadful will happen to you," she declared. "Ihave dreamed and dreamed about it. You have made a coward of me. I'mnot afraid for myself, but for you."

  "One year after the war is over," I said, "I shall be at the old tavernin Murfreesborough. One year to a day. Will you meet me there?"

  "I'll be there," she replied, "or send a messenger to tell you that Iam dead."

  And so we parted. I mounted my horse, and she turned her buggy around.I watched her until she passed out of sight, and I knew that one of herlittle hands must be cold, for she waved it constantly until a turn inthe road hid her from view. On the road toward which she was going Icould see a group of men and horses, and I knew that her brotherawaited her. With a heavy heart, I turned my horse's head, and wentgalloping after my comrades, followed by Whistling Jim.

  I had but one thought, and that was to report to General Forrest aspromptly as possible and receive the reprimand that I knew I deserved.At that time it was the general opinion, even among those of hiscommand who were not thrown into daily contact with him, that thistruly great man was of a grim and saturnine disposition. But it was anopinion that did him great injustice. There were times when he fairlybubbled over with boyish humor, and though these moments were rare, hewas unfailingly cordial to those that had met his expectations or whohad his confidence. He could be grim enough when circumstances demandeda display of temper, but he had never made me the victim of hisdispleasure.

  I looked forward with no little concern to our next meeting, for I feltthat I merited a reprimand, and I knew how severe he could be on suchoccasions. He was far to the front, as I knew he would be. "Hello,Shannon!" he exclaimed, in response to my salute. His countenance wasserious enough, but there was a humorous twinkle in his eye. "Did youfetch me the fellow I sent you for?"

  Thereupon, I related my adventures as briefly as I could. He seemed tobe amused at something or other--I have thought since that it must havebeen at my attitude of self-depreciation--and called two or three ofhis favorite officers so that they might enjoy it with him. He washighly tickled by the narrative of my experience with the little ladyin the top-buggy, though, as a matter of course, I suppressed some ofthe details.

  "Now, I want you all to look at this boy," he said to his officers whenI had concluded. "He ain't anything but a boy, and yet he did what noother man in my command could have done. He captured Leroy, the fellowyou have been reading about, and fetched him to me, and I've put himout of business. There's Goodrum, an old campaigner, a man who knowsevery man, woman, and child in this part of Tennessee. I put Goodrum onthe same trail, and Goodrum's a prisoner. This boy was a prisoner, too,and yet he turns up all right and puts up a poor mouth about what hefailed to do. If every man in my command would fail in the same wayI'd have the finest body of troops in the army. And look at him blush.Why, if these other fellows were in your place"--indicating theofficers--"they'd be strutting around here like peacocks."

  "But, General," I protested, "what I did was through my blundering."

  "Then I hope you'll go right ahead with your blunders; you couldn'tplease me better. I'm going to take you away from the Independents, andI'll put you where I can get my hands on you any hour of the night orday."

  And as he said so it was--and so it remained until the close of thewar. Especially was it so when Forrest was ordered to cover Hood'sretreat after the disastrous affair at Nashville. History has not madevery much of this achievement, but I have always thought that it wasthe most remarkable episode of the war. Under the circumstances, noother leader could have accomplished it. No other man could haveimposed his personality between the defeated Confedera
tes and theirvictorious foe, bent on their total destruction. It was little short ofwonderful.

  I remember that I was shoeless, along with the greater part of mycommand, though the weather was bitter cold, and my feet were bleeding,and yet when I heard that trumpet voice, ordering us from the wagons tomake one more stand, I never thought of my feet. Nor was there ashirker among the men--and all because the leader was Forrest. Nothingbut death would have prevented us from responding to his summons. Andwe saved that defeated army from annihilation, holding the enemy at bayand driving him back, when, if he had known the true condition ofaffairs, he would have ridden over us roughshod. There were times whenwe were upon the point of giving way and fleeing before the numbersthat were hurled against us. But always the imposing figure of Forrestappeared at the weak point, and then it would be the enemy would giveway.

  * * * * *

  At this point, with only a few more words, my story would have beenended, but the young lady to whom it was first told would not permit itto end there. Her Boston education had not eliminated her curiosity.She sat looking at her mother with an indescribable expression on herface. I knew not whether she was on the point of laughing or crying,and I think that for a moment the mother was as doubtful as I. She didneither the one nor the other, but went to her mother's chair andkneeled on the floor beside her.

  "Hasn't Dad left something out?"

  "Why, I think not," replied the mother. "Indeed, I think he has toldtoo much."

  "Oh, no, not too much," replied the young woman. "I know he has leftout something, and I think it is the most important part."

  "What I have not told," I remarked, "has been strongly intimated. It isbest to leave some things to the imagination."

  "I think not," replied the young woman, with decision. "You haven'ttold anything about what happened after the war."

  "That's true," commented the mother, with something like a blush; "butI think that is almost too personal."

  "No, no," the girl insisted with a smile; "you know how the public takesuch things. If Dad writes his story and has it put in a book thereaders will think it is pure fiction."

  "But if it were fiction," said I, "it would be a bad thing for all ofus."

  Fiction or not, I was compelled to tell the story until there was nomore story to tell.

  In the middle of April, one year after the surrender, I made all mypreparations to return to Murfreesborough, and it was no surprise to methat Harry Herndon was keen to go with me. His grandmother made noobjection, especially when he explained that he desired to be my bestman. His real reason for going, however, was a lively hope thatKatherine Bledsoe would accompany Jane Ryder. And then there wasWhistling Jim to be taken into account. He made known his intention ofaccompanying me whether or no. He was free, and he had money of hisown, and there was no reason why he shouldn't visit Murfreesborough ifhe cared to. He settled the matter for himself, and, once on the way, Iwas very glad to have him along.

  But for the subtle changes made by peace, the town was the same, andeven the old tavern in the woods had survived all the contingencies ofwar and stood intact, but tenantless. I made haste to escape from theold house, and was sorry that I had ventured there before the appointedtime. The sight of it gave me a feeling of depression, and I had aforetaste of the emptiness there would be in life should Jane Ryderfail to come.

  The only consolation I had was in the hopefulness of Whistling Jim."She'll be dar ez sho' ez de worl'," he said, and his earnestness wasso vital that it was the means of lifting me across a very bad place inmy experience; yet it did not cure me of the restlessness that hadseized me. The night before the appointed day, I wandered far beyondthe limit of the town, and presently, without knowing how I got there,I found myself near the house where Jack Bledsoe had lain when he waswounded. I went to the gate and would have gone in on the pretence ofinquiring the way to the town; but a woman was standing there in thedarkness.

  I hesitated, but I should have known her among a thousand--I shouldhave known her if the darkness had been Egyptian. I opened the gate andheld her in my arms. Neither said a word, and the silence was unbrokenuntil someone in the house came out upon the veranda and called:

  "Jane! Jane! Are you out there? Where are you?" It was the voice ofKatherine Bledsoe, and I was glad for Harry's sake.

  * * * * *

  "I don't think that is a very pretty way to end a story," said themother of the college graduate, perceiving that I had nothing more tosay. "You should by all means get your sweetheart out of your arms."

  "Since that day," I replied, "she hasn't been out of them long at atime."

  "But you will have to change that part of it when you write the storyout."

  "Oh, no!" cried the daughter.

  I refilled my pipe and listened to their tender arguments until I wassleepy, and when I went to bed they were still arguing.

  THE END