nd got from Old Jack a
regular withering up! They'll all tell you, ma'am, that he excels in
withering up! 'You are wrong, Mr. Wilson,' says he, in that tone of
his--dry as tinder, and makes you stop like a musket-shot! 'You are
always wrong. Go to your seat, sir.' Well, old Wilson went, of course,
and sat there so angry he was shivering. You see he was right, and he
knew it. Well, the day went on about as usual. It set in to snow, and by
night there was what a western man we've got calls a 'blizzard.'
Barracks like an ice house, and snowing so you couldn't see across the
Campus! 'T was so deadly cold and the lights so dismal that we rather
looked forward to taps. Up comes an orderly. 'Mr. Wilson to the
Commandant's office!'--Well, old Wilson looked startled, for he hadn't
done anything; but off he marches, the rest of us predicting hanging.
Well, whom d' ye reckon he found in the Commandant's office?"

"Old Jack?"

"Good marksmanship! It was Old Jack--snow all over, snow on his coat, on
his big boots, on his beard, on his cap. He lives most a mile from the
Institute, and the weather was bad, sure enough! Well, old Wilson didn't
know what to expect--most likely hot shot, grape and canister with
musketry fire thrown in--but he saluted and stood fast. 'Mr. Wilson,'
says Old Jack, 'upon returning home and going over with closed eyes
after supper as is my custom the day's work, I discovered that you were
right this morning and I was wrong. Your solution was correct. I felt it
to be your due that I should tell you of my mistake as soon as I
discovered it. I apologise for the statement that you were always wrong.
You may go, sir.' Well, old Wilson never could tell what he said, but
anyhow he accepted the apology, and saluted, and got out of the room
somehow and back to barracks, and we breathed on the window and made a
place through which we watched Old Jack over the Campus, ploughing back
to Mrs. Jack through the blizzard! So you see, ma'am, things like that
make us lenient to Old Jack sometimes--though he is awfully dull and has
very peculiar notions."

Margaret Cleave sat up. "Is that you, Richard?" Miriam put down Tabitha
and rose to her knees. "Did you see Cousin Judith? Is she as beautiful
as ever?" Will hospitably gave up the big chair. "You must have galloped
Dundee both ways! Did you ask about the shotgun?"

Cleave took his seat at the foot of his mother's couch. "Yes, Will, you
may have it.--Fauquier sent his lov