him to several stores before
he could find a ready-made uniform that would fit him; but at last they
found one which had been made to order for an officer who was too sick to
use it at present. It was an excellent fit, and the young lieutenant was
soon arrayed in the garments, with the symbolic straps on his shoulder.

"Bravo, Tom! You look like a new man. There isn't a better looking officer
in the service."

Very likely the subject of this remark thought so too, as he surveyed
himself in the full-length mirror. The old uniform, with two bullet-holes
in the breast of the coat, was done up in a bundle and sent to the express
office, to be forwarded to Pinchbrook. Captain Barney then walked with him
to a military furnishing store, where a cap, sword, belt, and sash, were
purchased. For some reason which he did not explain, the captain retained
the sword himself, but Tom was duly invested with the other accoutrements.

Our hero felt "pretty good," as he walked down to the station with his
friend; but he looked splendidly in his new outfit, and we are willing to
excuse certain impressible young ladies, who cast an admiring glance at
him as he passed down the street. It was not Tom's fault that he was a
handsome young man; and he was not responsible for the conduct of those
who chose to look at him.

With a heart beating with wild emotion, Tom stepped out of the cars at
Pinchbrook. Here he was compelled to undergo the penalty of greatness. His
friends cheered him, and shook his hand till his arm ached.

Captain Barney's wagon was at the station, and before going to his own
home, he drove Tom to the little cottage of his father. I cannot describe
the emotions of the returned soldier when the horse stopped at the garden
gate. Leaping from the vehicle, he rushed into the house, and bolted into
the kitchen, even before the family had seen the horse at the front gate.

"How d'ye do, mother?" cried Tom, as he threw himself pell-mell into the
arms of Mrs. Somers.

"Why, Tom!" almost screamed she, as she returned his embrace. "How _do_
you do?"

"Pretty well, mother. How do you do, father?"

"Glad to see you," replied Captain Somers, as he seized his son's hand.

"Bless my soul, Tom!" squeaked gran'ther Greene, shaking in every fibre of
his frame from the combined influence of rhapsody and rheumatism.

Tom threw both arms around Jenny's neck, and kissed her half a dozen times
with a concussion like that of a battery of