esired to see Mr. Broussard for a few
minutes.

Broussard, like the Colonel, was not the man to shirk an unpleasant
five minutes, so he made straight for the Colonel's private office. In
spite of his courageous advance, Broussard felt very much as Sergeant
McGillicuddy described himself when in the abhorred buggy which Mrs.
McGillicuddy had given him as a Christmas gift, "Hollow inside." There
is something appalling to a subaltern in the kind of an interview which
Broussard felt was ahead of him. He knew in advance the very tone in
which Colonel Fortescue and all other Colonels prepare a wigging for a
junior. "It is my painful duty." The extreme politeness with which
this was accompanied was not reassuring. Then the Colonel, taking the
advice of old Horace, plunged into the middle of things.

"I was very much surprised," said Colonel Fortescue, fixing his clear
gaze on Broussard, "when, yesterday evening, after dark, I saw you
standing in the passage-way to the home of an enlisted man, and
evidently upon familiar terms with the man's wife."

"I was on my way to you, sir, just now, to explain that occurrence when
I received your order," replied Broussard promptly.

"I shall be glad to have it satisfactorily explained," said the C. O.

Colonel Fortescue had the eye of command, that secure power in his
glance which is possessed by all the masters of men; the look that can
wring the truth out of a man's mouth even if that man be a liar, and
can see through the eyes of a man into his soul. This look of command
suddenly flashed into Colonel Fortescue's face, and gazing into the
clear eyes of Broussard saw honor and truth and candor there as
Broussard spoke.

"The man, Lawrence, as you may know, sir, is a gentleman in origin and
socially above most of the good fellows in the ranks."

"And these men sometimes make trouble," interrupted the Colonel.

"He came from the same place that I do and tells me he knew my
mother--God bless her--and that she was very kind to him in his
boyhood. That was before I was born. He knows a surprising deal about
my parents, both of whom died when I was a boy. Sometimes I have
doubted whether all he told me was true, but invariably it tallies with
my own childish recollections and what I have been told of my mother.
Lawrence has a passionate attachment to my mother's memory. He knows
her birthday, and the day of her death, and more even than I do about
her. The first word I had