ears the aiguillette." And Braxton was a Briton
by birth and breeding, and that ended it,--at least so nearly ended it
that Cram's diplomatic invitation to come up and try some Veuve
Clicquot, extra dry, upon the merits of which he desired the colonel's
opinion, had settled it for good and all. Braxton's officers who
ventured to suggest that he trim the plumage of these popinjays only got
snubbed, therefore, for the time being, and ordered to buy the infantry
full dress forthwith, and Cram and his quartette continued to blaze
forth in gilded panoply until long after Sam Waring led his last german
within those echoing walls and his name lived only as a dim and
mist-wreathed memory in the annals of old Jackson Barracks.

But on this exquisite April morning no fellow in all the garrison was
more prominent, if not more popular. Despite the slight jealousy
existing between the rival arms of the service, there were good fellows
and gallant men among the infantry officers at the post, who were as
cordially disposed towards the gay lieutenant as were the comrades of
his own (colored) cloth. This is the more remarkable because he was
never known to make the faintest effort to conciliate anybody and was
utterly indifferent to public opinion. It would have been fortune far
better than his deserts, but for the fact that by nature he was most
generous, courteous, and considerate. The soldiers of the battery were
devoted to him. The servants, black or white, would run at any time to
do his capricious will. The garrison children adored him. There was
simply no subject under discussion at the barracks in those days on
which such utter variety of opinion existed as the real character of
Lieutenant Sam Waring. As to his habits there was none whatever. He was
a _bon vivant_, a "swell," a lover of all that was sweet and fair and
good and gracious in life. Self-indulgent, said everybody; selfish, said
some; lazy, said many, who watched him day-dreaming through the haze of
cigar-smoke until a drive, a hop, a ride, or an opera-party would call
him into action. Slow, said the men, until they saw him catch Mrs.
Winslow's runaway horse just at that ugly turn in the levee below the
south tower. Cold-hearted, said many of the women, until Baby Brainard's
fatal illness, when he watched by the little sufferer's side and brought
her flowers and luscious fruit from town, and would sit at her mother's
piano and play soft, sweet melodies and sing in low