it through his eyes. His
face lighted a little, as if he thought he should dine to his liking.
He looked as if he were poor; but he was most carefully dressed, and I
grew more and more curious about him, while I liked him better and
better for the grace of his good manners, and for his charmingly
bright and clever way of talking. He spoke freely of his
South-American life, and of being in Europe; but there was something
about him which made neither of his friends dare to ask him many
questions. I could see that my cousin George was in a great hurry to
know more of his history, for they had been very good friends, and he
had lost sight of Mr. Whiston years before, and had been amazed when
he was asked to meet him that evening. They talked a great deal about
their Harvard days, and grew more and more merry with each other; but,
when Mr. Whiston's face was quiet, the look of fear and melancholy was
always noticeable.

When dinner was over, I went away to see one of my friends who came in
just then. I could hear the gentlemen laughing together, and I stood
talking in the hall some time with my friend before she went away; but
at last I went back to the dining-room, for I always liked my tea
there with Jack better than in the parlor. I took my chair again; and
I was glad to find I did not interrupt them, of which I had a sudden
fear as I entered the door.

They were talking over their army life; and my brother said, "That was
the same day poor Fred Hathaway was killed, wasn't it? I never shall
forget seeing his dead face. We had thrown a dozen or more men in a
pile, and meant to bury them; but there was an alarm, and we had to
hurry forward again, what there was left of us. I caught sight of
Fred, and I remember now just how he looked. You know what yellow hair
he had, and we used to call him The Pretty Saxon. I know there were
one or two men in that pile still alive, and moving a little. I hardly
thought of the horror of it as I went by. How used we were to such
sights in those days! and now sometimes they come to me like horrid
nightmares. Dunster was killed that day too. Somebody saw him fall,
and I suppose he was thrown in a hurry into one of the trenches; but
he was put down as missing in the reports. You know they drove us back
toward night, and held that piece of cleared land and the pine-woods
for two days."

"It all seems like a dream to me now," said George Sheffield. "What
boys we were too! But I believe I nev