this respect.

"Six of us are lodged in a tent. It is pretty close packing, but
we don't stand upon ceremony here. My messmates seem to be pleasant
fellows. I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a bright young
fellow of eighteen. He tells me that he is an only son, and his mother
is a widow.

"'Wasn't your mother unwilling to have you come out here?' I asked him
one day.

"'No,' he answered, 'not unwilling. She was only sorry for the
necessity. When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told me at
once to go. She said she would never stand between me and my country.'

"'You must think of her often,' I said.

"'All the time,' he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression
stealing over his young face. 'I write to her twice a week regular, and
sometimes oftener. For her sake I hope my life may be spared to return.'

"'I hope so, too,' I answered warmly. Then after a minute's silence, I
added from some impulse: 'Will you let me call you Frank? I have a boy
at home, not many years younger than you. His name is Frank also--it
will seem to remind me of him.'

"'I wish you would,' he answered, his face lighting up with evident
pleasure. 'Everybody calls me Frank at home, and I am tired of being
called Grover.'

"So our compact was made. I shall feel a warm interest in this brave
boy, and I fervently hope that the chances of war will leave him
unscathed.

"I must give you a description of Hiram Marden, another of our small
company, a very different kind of person from Frank Grover. But it takes
all sorts of characters to make an army, as well as a world, and Marden
is one of the oddities. Imagine a tall young fellow, with a thin face,
lantern jaws, and long hair 'slicked' down on either side. Though he
may be patriotic, he was led into the army from a different cause. He
cherished an attachment for a village beauty, who did not return his
love. He makes no concealment of his rebuff, but appears to enjoy
discoursing in a sentimental way upon his disappointment. He wears such
an air of meek resignation when he speaks of his cruel fair one that the
effect is quite irresistible, and I find it difficult to accord him
that sympathy which his unhappy fate demands. Fortunately for him, his
troubles, deep-seated as they are, appear to have very little effect
upon his appetite. He sits down to his rations with a look of subdued
sorrow upon his face, and sighs frequently between the mouthfuls. In
spite of this, h