aces. In size it was similar to that of the
bedroom in New York, and its furnishings were much the same. A narrow
bunk held a bed over which there was spread a single blanket. It was
silent in the tent, save for the scratching of the writer's pen; so
that now and then there might easily have been heard a faint rustling
as of paper. Indeed, this rustling was caused by the small feet of the
prairie mice, which now and then ran over the newspaper which lay
beneath the blanket. Battersleigh's table was again a rude one,
manufactured from a box. The visible seats were also boxes, two or
three in number. Upon one of these sat Battersleigh, busy at his
writing. Upon the table lay his whip, gloves, and hat, in exactly the
same order as that which had been followed in the little chamber in the
city. A strip of canvas made a carpet upon the hard earthen floor. A
hanging cloth concealed a portion of the rear end of the tent. Such
had been Battersleigh's quarters in many climes, under different flags,
sometimes perhaps more luxurious, but nevertheless punctiliously neat,
even when Fortune had left him servantless, as had happened now.
Colonel Battersleigh as he wrote now and then looked out of the open
door. His vision reached out, not across a wilderness of dirty roads,
nor along a line of similar tents. There came to his ear no neighing
of horses nor shouting of the captains, neither did there arise the din
of the busy, barren city. He gazed out upon a sweet blue sky,
unfretted by any cloud. His eye crossed a sea of faintly waving
grasses. The liquid call of a mile-high mysterious plover came to him.
In the line of vision from the tent door there could be seen no token
of a human neighbourhood, nor could there be heard any sound of human
life. The canvas house stood alone and apart. Battersleigh gazed out
of the door as he folded his letter. "It's grand, just grand," he
said. And so he turned comfortably to the feeding of his mice, which
nibbled at his fingers intimately, as had many mice of many lands with
Battersleigh.

CHAPTER V

THE TURNING OF THE ROAD

At the close of the war Captain Edward Franklin returned to a shrunken
world. The little Illinois village which had been his home no longer
served to bound his ambitions, but offered only a mill-round of duties
so petty, a horizon of opportunities so restricted, as to cause in his
mind a feeling of distress equivalent at times to absolute abhorren