an, thinking that a comrade was
coming to his aid, leveled his gun again and fired. But Little Compton
had seized the weapon near the muzzle and wrested it around. The bullet,
instead of reaching its target, tore its way through Compton's empty
sleeve. In another instant the German was covered by Compton's revolver.
The hand that held it was steady, and the eyes that glanced along its
shining barrel fairly blazed. The German dropped his gun. All trace of
passion disappeared from his face; and presently seeing that the crisis
had passed, so far as he was concerned, he wheeled in his tracks,
gravely saluted Little Compton, and made off at a double-quick.

"You mustn't think hard of the boys, Jack, on account of that chap. They
understand the whole business, and they are going to take care of this
town."

And they did. The army came marching along presently, and the stragglers
found Hillsborough patrolled by a detachment of cavalry.

Walthall and Little Compton stood on the wide steps, and reviewed this
imposing array as it passed before them. The tall Confederate, in his
uniform of gray, rested his one hand affectionately on the shoulder of
the stout little man in blue, and on the bosom of each was pinned an
empty sleeve. Unconsciously, they made an impressive picture.

The Commander, grim, gray, and resolute, observed it with sparkling
eyes. The spectacle was so unusual--so utterly opposed to the logic of
events--that he stopped with his staff long enough to hear Little
Compton tell his story. He was a grizzled, aggressive man, this
Commander, but his face lighted up wonderfully at the recital.

"Well, you know this sort of thing doesn't end the war, boys," he said,
as he shook hands with Walthall and Little Compton; "but I shall sleep
better to-night."

Perhaps he did. Perhaps he dreamed that what he had seen and heard was
prophetic of the days to come, when peace and fraternity should seize
upon the land, and bring unity, happiness, and prosperity to the
people.

AUNT FOUNTAIN'S PRISONER

IT is curious how the smallest incident, the most unimportant
circumstance, will recall old friends and old associations. An old
gentleman, who is noted far and near for his prodigious memory of dates
and events, once told me that his memory, so astonishing to his friends
and acquaintances, consisted not so much in remembering names and dates
and facts, as in associating each of these with some special group of
facts