sman in the time of the war. He
had greatly desired to go to fight, but his duties did not permit it.
Still, he loves the old soldier.

Another advance in the conversation, this time by Mr. Fox.

The government, it seems, has now awakened, with deep distress, to the
fact that one class of her soldiers she has hitherto forgotten. The
government--that is, the _chef_ of the customhouse--had this very
morning said to Mr. Fox that this class of old soldiers must be brought
forward, for trust and for honor. "We must choose, for this vacant
place," the _chef_ had said,--here Mr. Fox brings his face forward in
close proximity to Sorel's astonished countenance,--"we must have, not
only an old soldier, but--_a Frenchman!_"

"Ah!"

"Such a soldier lives here," says Mr. Fox; "is it not true? So brave, so
honest, so modest, so faithful! Ready to die for his country; worthy of
trust and worthy of reward!"

"_Mais!_" with amazement. Yes, such a sol-'ier lives here. But can it be
that monsieur refers to our Fidele?

Precisely so!

Whereupon Sorel, hard, hairless, but French, weeps, and embraces Mr.
Fox as the representative of the great government at Washington; and,
weeping and laughing, leads him downstairs and presents him to Fidele
and to the bear-leaders, and opens a bottle of weak vinegar.

Such an ovation as Fidele receives! And such a generous government! To
send a special messenger to seek out the old sergeant in his retirement!
So thoughtful! But it is all of a piece with its unfailing care in the
past.

Fidele begins, on the spot, to resume something of his former erectness
and soldierly bearing; to shake off the stoop and slouch which lameness
and the drawing about of his "_musique_" have given him. He wishes to
tell the story of Lookout Mountain.

As Mr. Fox is about to go, he recollects himself. Oh, by the way, one
thing more. It is not pleasant to mingle sadness with rejoicing. But
Mr. Fox is the reluctant bearer of a gentle reproach from the great
government at Washington. Her French children,--are they not just a
little remiss? And when she is so bountiful, so thoughtful!

"_Mais_--how you mean?" (with surprise.)

Why,--and there is a certain pathos in Mr. Fox's tone, as he stands
facing Sorel, with the gaze of a loving, reproachful friend,--why, how
many of the Frenchmen of this quarter are ever seen now at the pleasant
gatherings of the Republicans, in the wardroom? The Republic, the
Republicans,--it