here to pay me a visit! Perhaps he’ll come to-night; he said he would if he could.”

“Dat gin’ral ’low he gwine come here?” muttered the darky. “Spec’ you better see Miss Celia ’fo’ you ax dis here gin’ral.”

“I’m going to ask her now,” said the boy. “She certainly will be glad to see one of our own men. Who cares if all the niggers have run off? We’re not ashamed—and, anyhow, you’re here to bring in the decanters for the general.”

“Shoo, honey, you might talk dat-a-way ef yo’ pa wuz in de house,” grumbled the old man. “Ef hit’s done fix, nobody kin onfix it. But dess yo’ leave dem gin’rals whar dey is nex’ time, Mars Will’m. Hit wuz a gin’ral dat done tuk de Dominiker hen las’ time de blueco’ts come to San’ River.”

The boy, sitting entranced in reverie, scarcely heard him; and it was only when a far trumpet blew from the camp in the valley that he started in his saddle and raised his rapt eyes to the windows. Somebody had hung out a Union flag over the jasmine-covered portico.

“There it is! There it is, Mose!” he cried excitedly, scrambling from his saddle. “Here—take the bridle! And the very minute you hear the general dashing into the drive, let me know!”

He ran jingling up the resounding veranda—he wore his father’s spurs—and mounted the stairs, two at a jump, calling: “Celia! Celia! You’ll be glad to know that a general who is a friend of mine——”

“Hush, Billy,” said his sister, checking him on the landing and leading him out to the gallery from which the flag hung; “can’t you remember that grandfather is asleep by sundown? Now—what is it, dear, you wish to tell me?”

“Oh, I forgot; truly I did, Celia—but a general is coming to visit me to-night, if you can possibly manage it, and I’m so glad you hung out the flag—and Moses can serve the Madeira, can’t he?”

“What general?” inquired his sister uneasily. And her brother’s explanations made matters no clearer. “You remember what the Yankee cavalry did before,” she said anxiously. “You must be careful, Billy, now that the quarters are empty and there’s not a soul in the place except Mose.”

“But, Celia! the general is a gentleman. I shook hands with him!”

“Very well, dear,” she said, passing one arm around his neck and leaning forward over the flag. The sun was dipping between a cleft in the hills, flinging out long rosy beams across the misty valley. The mocking birds had ceased, but a thrasher was singing in a tangle of Cherokee roses under the western windows.

While they stood there the sun dipped so low that nothing remained except a glowing scarlet rim.

“Hark!” whispered the boy. Far away an evening gunshot set soft echoes tumbling from hill to hill, distant, more distant. Strains of the cavalry band rose in the evening silence, “The Star Spangled Banner” floating from the darkening valley. Then silence; and presently a low, sweet thrush note from the dusky garden.

It was after supper, when the old darky had lighted the dips—there being no longer any oil or candles to be had—that the thrush, who had been going into interminable ecstasies of fluty trills, suddenly became mute. A jingle of metal sounded from the garden, a step on the porch, a voice inquiring for Mr. Westcote; and old Mose replying with reproachful dignity: “Mars Wes’cote, suh? Mars Wes’cote daid, suh.”

“That’s my friend, the general!” exclaimed Billy, leaping from his chair. “Mose, you fool nigger, why don’t you ask the general to come in?” he whispered fiercely; then, as befitted the master of the house, he walked straight out into the hall, small hand outstretched, welcoming his guest as he had seen his father receive a stranger of distinction. “I am so glad you came,” he said, crimson with pleasure. “Moses will take your cap and cloak— Mose!”

The old servant shuffled forward, much impressed by the uniform revealed as the long blue mantle fell across his own ragged sleeve.

“Do you know why I came, Billy?” asked the bandmaster, smiling.

“I reckon it was because you promised to, wasn’t it?” inquired the child.

“Certainly,” said the bandmaster hastily. “And I promised to come because I have a brother about your age—’way up in New York. Shall we sit here on the veranda and talk about him?”

“First,” said the boy gravely, “my sister Celia will receive you.”

He turned, leading the way to the parlor with inherited self-possession; and there, through the wavering light of a tallow dip, the bandmaster saw a young girl in black rising from a chair by the center table; and he brought his spurred heels together and bowed his very best bow.

“My brother,” she said, “has been so anxious to bring one of our officers here. Two weeks ago the Yan—the Federal cavalry passed through, chasing Carrington’s Horse out of Oxley Court House, but there was no halt here.” She resumed her seat with a gesture toward a chair opposite; the bandmaster bowed again and seated himself, placing his sabre between his knees.

“Our cavalry advance did not behave very well in Oxley,” he said.

“They took a few chickens en passant,” she said, smiling; “but had they asked for them we would have been glad to give. We are loyal, you know.”

“Those gay jayhawkers were well disciplined for that business when Stannard took them over,” said the bandmaster grimly. “Had they behaved themselves, we should have had ten friends here where we have one now.”

The boy listened earnestly. “Would you please tell me,” he asked, “whether you have decided to have a battle pretty soon?”

“I don’t decide such matters,” said the bandmaster, laughing.

“Why, I thought a general could always have a battle when he wanted to!” insisted the boy, surprised.

“But I’m not a general, Billy,” replied the young fellow, coloring. “Did you think I was?”

“My brother’s ideas are very vague,” said his sister quickly; “any officer who fights is a general to him.”

“I’m sorry,” said the bandmaster, looking at the child, “but do you know, I am not even a fighting officer? I am only the regimental bandmaster, Billy—a noncombatant.”

For an instant the boy’s astonished disappointment crushed out his inbred courtesy as host. His sister, mortified but self-possessed, broke the strained silence with a quiet question or two concerning the newly arrived troops; and the bandmaster replied, looking at the boy.

Billy, silent, immersed in reflection, sat with curly head bent and hands folded on his knees. His sister glanced at him, looked furtively at the bandmaster, and their eyes met. He smiled, and she returned the smile; and he looked at Billy and smiled again.

“Billy,” he said, “I’ve been sailing under false colors, it seems—but you hoisted them. I think I ought to go.”

The boy looked up at him, startled.

“Good night,” said the bandmaster gravely, rising to his lean height from the chair beside the table. The boy flushed to his hair.

“Don’t go,” he said; “I like you even if you don’t fight!”

Then the bandmaster began to laugh, and the boy’s sister bit her lip and looked at her brother.

“Billy! Billy!” she said, catching his hands in hers, “do you think the only brave men are those who gallop into battle?”

Hands imprisoned in his sister’s, he looked up at the bandmaster.

“If you were ordered to fight, you’d fight, wouldn’t