ble mention, Tom," said Hapgood. "You will be promoted as true as
you live."

"O, I guess not," replied Tom, modestly. "I didn't do any more than any
body else. At any rate, you were close by my side, uncle."

"Yes, but I followed, and you led. The commander of the division says you
shall be a lieutenant. He said so on the field, and the colonel said so
to-day."

"I don't think I deserve it."

"I do; and if you don't get a commission, then there ain't no justice left
in the land. I tell you, Tom, you shall be a brigadier if the war lasts
only one year more."

"O, nonsense, uncle!"

"Well, if you ain't, you ought to be."

"I'm lucky to get out alive. Whom have we lost, uncle?"

"A good many fine fellows." replied Hapgood, shaking his head, sadly.

"Poor Ben dropped early in the day."

"Yes, I was afraid he'd got most to the end of his chapter afore we went
in. Poor fellow! I'm sorry for him, and sorry for his folks."

"Fred Pemberton said he should be killed, and Ben said he should not, you
remember."

"Yes, and that shows how little we know about these things."

"Bob Dornton was killed, too."

"No, he's badly hurt, but the surgeon thinks he will git over it. The
cap'n was slightly wounded." And Hapgood mentioned the names of those in
the company who had been killed or wounded, or were missing.

"It was an awful day," sighed Tom, when the old man had finished the list.
"There will be sad hearts in Pinchbrook when the news gets there."

"So there will, Tom; but we gained the day. We did something handsome for
'Old Glory,' and I s'pose it's all right."

"I would rather have been killed than lost the battle."

"So would I; and betwixt you and me, Tom, you didn't come very fur from
losing your number in the mess," added the veteran, as he thrust his
little fingers into a bullet hole in the breast of Tom's coat. "That was
rather a close shave."

"I felt that one, but I hadn't time to think about it then, for it was
just as we were repelling that flank movement," replied Tom, as he
unbuttoned his coat, and thrust his hand into his breast pocket. "Do you
suppose she will give me another?" he added, as he drew forth the envelope
which contained the letter and the photograph of the author of his socks.

A minie ball had found its way through the envelope, grinding a furrow
through the picture, transversely, carrying away the chin and throat of
the young lady. The letter was mangled and minced up beyond res