ns, but--but
now no one will give me anything. Take me back; she won't care.
She's dead, they say. Besides, I wouldn't stay here now if she was
alive and breathing. I have had enough of war since he--Oh, he
was good to me--I never cared for any one so much."

I looked at the boy with an odd sensation for which I have no name.

"Whom are you talking about?" I asked. "Your mother your sister?"

"Oh, no;" the tone was simplicity itself. "Never had no mother.
I mean the lady at the big house; the one that was married. She
gave me money to go out of Washington, and, wanting to be a soldier,
I followed Curly Jim. I didn't think he'd die--he looked so
strong-- What's the matter, sir? Have I said anything I shouldn't?"

I had him by the arm. I fear that I was shaking him.

"The lady!" I repeated. "She who was married--who gave you money.
Wasn't it Mrs. Jeffrey?"

"Yes, I believe that was the name of the man she married. I didn't
know him; but I saw he r-"

"Where? And why did she give you money? I will take you home with
me if you tell me the truth about it."

He glanced back at the tent from which I had slightly drawn him
and a hungry look crept into his eyes.

"Well, it's no secret now," he muttered. "He used to say I must
keep my mouth shut; but he wouldn't say so now if he knew I could
get home by telling. He used to be sorry for me, he used. What
do you want to know?"

"Why Mrs. Jeffrey gave you money to leave Washington."

The boy trembled, drew a step away, and then came back, and under
those hot Florida skies, in the turmoil of departing troops, I
heard these words:

"Because I heard what she said to Jim."

I felt my heart go down, then up, up, beyond anything I had ever
experienced in my whole life. The way before me was not closed
then. A witness yet remained, though Jim was dead. The boy was
oblivious of my emotion; he was staring with great mournfulness
t the tent.

"And what was that?" said I.

His attention, which had been wandering, came back, and it was
with some surprise he said:

"It was not much. She told him to take the gentleman into the
library. But it was the library where men died, and he just went
and died there, too, you remember, and Jim said he wasn't ever going
to speak of it, and so I promised not to, neither, but--but--when
do you think you will be starting, sir?"

I did not answer him. I was feeling very queer, as men feel, I
suppose, who in some cri