satisfaction of feeling venerable and antique?"

"All right," I replied, laughing again. "You're my commanding officer, and if you order me to consider you a relic, why, I must, I suppose. Perhaps it may comfort you to know that the boys conversationally refer to you as 'the old man.'"

"There, enough of that," said the colonel, as we stepped upon the planking of the long piazza. "What's the use of discussing my infirmities? Now, how shall we kill time this forenoon? Billiards? No, hardly; it's too good a day to waste indoors. I'll tell you what we'll do, my boy: we'll go over to Hampton and take a look at the old fellows in the 'Home.' Which shall it be, drive or walk?"

"Walk," said I promptly, as I felt the fresh, salt breeze come stealing in from off the water; "yes, we'll walk, unless at your advanced age you don't feel quite up to the exertion."

"Walk it is, then," said the colonel, ignoring my attempt to pay proper deference to his accumulated years. "Just wait a second, though; I must fill my pockets before we start. I like to lay a trail of cigars when I go among the old boys," and with this he disappeared into the hotel, from which he emerged a moment later, bearing a paper of weeds which, he explained, were not rankly poisonous for open-air smoking, though they might involve some unpleasant consequences if lighted within-doors.

We set off at a swinging gait along the road, and in something less than half an hour found ourselves at the entrance of the well-kept grounds in which are clustered the buildings of the Soldiers' Home. It is a beautiful place, that quiet spot by the southern sea, and I never could tire of strolling along its flower-bordered walks, and among its sunny nooks and corners. And yet, even in the midst of the brightest sunshine, one cannot escape the thought that the hundreds upon hundreds of gray-haired, feeble men who throng these grounds have come here, after all, only to die, and are waiting—waiting until it shall be their turn to be carried out to the great graveyard which, with its acres and acres of white headstones, lies but a few short steps outside the gates. It is a thought that somehow seems to dim the sunshine a little, and though the place is wonderfully picturesque, and wears an outward air of ease and comfort, yet I, for one, never can be there without feeling almost awe-stricken at the remembrance of what it all means.

"Now, Jack," said the colonel, as we walked leisurely along the broad, hard roadway, which runs parallel with the blue waters of Hampton Roads, "keep an eye out for 'blue Maltees,' for that's the particular breed of cats we're after."

"All right," I replied, interpreting this command to mean that I was to be on the watch for veterans wearing the badge of the old 19th Army Corps—the blue Maltese cross; a device which we of the Third still retain, in memory of the days when the "Old Regiment" won its renown. "White diamonds, red crescents, and stars of every color seem to be plenty, Colonel, but, so far as I can see, 'Maltees' are at a premium."

"Oh, we shall find one," said the colonel, "we surely shall find one. There are rows upon rows of them lying quietly over yonder," with a nod towards the flag floating above the cemetery, "but they are not yet all mustered out. There's one now, over on that bench. See him?"

Yes, I saw him; a short, wiry man; a man with whitened hair, keen gray eyes, a sharply-pointed nose, and a clean-shaven face whose every line and wrinkle betokened shrewdness and native wit. At the first brief glance I knew him for a Yankee, a thoroughbred old New Englander.

He was sitting alone upon the bench, with one knee drawn up and held by his clasped hands. Upon his cap he wore the blue Maltese cross we had been seeking, and on the breast of his faded and loosely fitting army blouse hung a simple medal of bronze. Into one corner of his mouth was stuck a quaintly carved, briar-wood pipe, and as he tranquilly sat there, blowing from his thin lips an occasional puff of smoke, he seemed contented with himself and the world in general—and I somehow thought that in his expression I saw something different from the air of hopelessness which had been so sadly common to the many old soldiers we had passed before we happened upon him.

"Hello, comrade," said the colonel, walking towards the bench on which the old fellow sat, and throwing open his coat to bring into view the enamelled corps badge pinned upon his waistcoat, "how goes it with you?"

"Fust-rate," replied the veteran, without bothering to remove his pipe from its resting place. "How be ye?" he went on, speaking with a sharp, nasal twang which at once opened my heart to him—for he was a Yankee, and I love the honest, hardy old stock that comes from among the New England hills and valleys. "I see you was in th' ol' 19th, too," said he, moving over to the end of the seat. "Set ye down an' be comf'table."

"Yes, I went out with the —th Massachusetts and saw the thing through," said the colonel, seating himself next his new-found friend and leaving vacant for me one end of the bench. "What was your regiment?"

"Burdett's Batt'ry, New Hampshire," replied the old fellow, with a critical side-glance at the colonel; "an' if ye was in th' Massachusetts —th ye won't have no trouble in rememberin' how our guns use'ter sound, neither."

"Lord! I should say not," said the colonel, turning to me with, "This comes to pretty much the same thing as meeting an old acquaintance, Jack, for Burdett's Battery was one of the best in our division, and the 'Old Regiment' has supported it more times than one. Yes, indeed," he went on, as he reached into his pocket for his cigars, "I've listened to your music many a day. Good music, too, it was. The infantry does the work—but sometimes guns are mighty comforting companions."

"You bet they be," said the old artilleryman, shaking the ashes from his pipe and taking a cigar from the paper which the colonel held towards him. "Thank ye. A pipe's my reg'lar smoke, but once 'n a while I kind o' like t' change off onto a cigar. Yis, I was in Burdett's Light Batt'ry, an' was mustered out a sargint."

"What brought you down here?" asked the colonel, handing a match to the old soldier. "Down on your luck a bit, eh?"

"No-o, not exackly," returned the veteran, as he smartly drew the match across his thigh after the manner of one who had acquired the habit in active service. Glancing quickly around, and seeing that we were alone—for the nearest group was gathered beside an old siege gun, some fifty yards away—he lowered his voice a trifle and said, "Fact is, I ain't obliged t' board down here, an', strickly speakin', I s'pose I hadn't oughter be here at all. Ye see, when I'm home I live up Swanzey way—that's up in New Hampshire, an' not sech an orful way from th' Massachusetts line. I'm able t' git along tol'ably comf'table up there, with one odd job an' another, but this fall I kind o' took it inter my head that I'd like t' spend th' winter south, an' I managed it, too. So here I be. Nex' spring, though, when things gits all thawed out up north, I guess I'll move along up agin t' see th' folks, for this is a terrible shif'less sort o' country, down here, an' I wouldn't want t' stay here for a stiddy thing."

"I see how it is," laughed the colonel, understanding that this confession was made because the old sergeant hated to have it thought that he had been driven by want to accept the government's hospitality. "You're playing it foxy on Uncle Sam for a little