"No. 4"'s emaciated
breast. They looked almost like small crosses, about the size of the
decorations the European veterans wear. The old doctor bent over and
examined them.

"Hello! Bayonet-wounds," he said briefly.

A little later I went out to get a breath of fresh morning air to
quiet my nerves, which were somewhat unstrung. As I passed by a little
second-hand clothing-store of the meanest kind, in a poor, back street,
I saw hanging up outside an old gray jacket. I stopped to examine it.
It was stained behind with mud, and in front with a darker color. An old
patch hid a part of the front; but a close examination showed two holes
over the breast. It was "No. 4"'s lost jacket. I asked the shopman about
it. He had bought it, he said, of a pawnbroker who had got it from some
drunkard, who had probably stolen it last year from some old soldier. He
readily sold it, and I took it back with me; and the others being gone,
an old woman and I cut the patch off it and put "No. 4"'s stiffening
arms into the sleeves. Word was sent to us during the day to say that
the city would bury him in the poorhouse grounds. But we told them that
arrangements had been made; that he would have a soldier's burial. And
he had it.

MISS DANGERLIE'S ROSES

Henry Floyd was a crank, at least so many people said; a few thought
he was a wonderful person: these were mostly children, old women, and
people not in the directory, and persons not in the directory do not
count for much. He was in fact a singular fellow. It was all natural
enough to him; he was just like what he believed his father had been,
his father of whom his mother used to tell him, and whom he remembered
so vaguely except when he had suddenly loomed up in his uniform at the
head of his company, when they went away on that march from which he
had never returned. He meant to be like him, if he was not, and he
remembered all that his mother had told him of his gentleness, his high
courtesy, his faithfulness, his devotion to duty, his unselfishness.
So it was all natural enough to Floyd to be as he was. But a man can
no more tell whether or not he is a crank than he can tell how old he
looks. He was, however, without doubt, different in certain ways from
most people. This his friends admitted. Some said he was old-fashioned;
some that he was "old-timey"; some that he was unpractical, the shades
of criticism ranging up to those saying he was a fool. This did not mean
intellectu