Dr. Fenton’s house was situated immediately upon the street.  Opening the door, one passed into a small square hall where the Confederate flag hung above a life-size portrait of General Lee.  On every side were old muskets and rusty swords, large pictures of decisive battles, and maps of the siege of Vicksburg and the battle of Bull Run.  In the midst of this warlike atmosphere sat the unreconstructed little doctor, wearing his gray uniform and his gray felt hat, which he removed only when he ate and slept.

Here he ostensibly held office hours, but in reality he was doing sentry duty.  His real business in life was keeping up with Annette, and his diversion was in the constant perusal of a slim sheet known as “The Confederate Veteran.”

It was Sandy’s privilege to pass the lines unchallenged.  In fact, the doctor’s strict surveillance diminished, and he was occasionally guilty of napping at the post when Sandy was with Annette.

“Come in, come in,” he said one day.  “Just looking over the ‘Veteran.’  Ever hear of Sam Davis?  Greatest hero South ever knew!  That’s his picture.  Wasn’t afraid of any damned Yankee that ever pulled a trigger.”

“Was he a rebel?” asked the unfortunate Sandy.

The doctor swelled with indignation.  “He was a Confederate, sir!  I never knew a rebel.”

“It was the Confederates that wore the gray?” asked Sandy, trying to cover his blunder.

“They did,” said the doctor.  “I put it on at nineteen, and I’ll be buried in it.  Yes, sir; and my hat.  Wouldn’t wear blue for a farm.  Hate the sight of it so, that I might shoot myself by mistake.  Ever look over these maps?  This was the battle of—­”

A door opened and a light head was thrust out.

“Now, d-dad, you hush this minute!  You’ve told him that over and over.  Sandy’s my company.  Come in here, Sandy.”

A few moments later there was a moving of chairs, and Annette’s voice was counting, “One, two, three; one, two, three,” while Sandy went through violent contortions in his efforts to waltz.  He had his tongue firmly between his teeth and his eyes fixed on vacancy as he revolved in furniture—­destroying circles about the small parlor.

“That isn’t right,” cried Annette.  “You’ve lost the time.  You d-dance with the chair, Sandy, and I’ll p-play the p-piano.”

“No, you don’t!” he cried.  “I’ll dance with you and put the chair at the piano, but I’ll dance with no chair.”

Annette sank, laughing and exhausted, upon the sofa and looked up at him hopelessly.  Her hair had tumbled down, making her look more like a child than ever.

“You are so b-big,” she said; “and you’ve got so m-many feet!”

“The more of me to love ye.”

“I wonder if you d-do?” She put her chin on her palms, looking at him sidewise.

“Don’t ye do that again!” he cried.  “Haven’t I passed ye the warning never to look at me when you fix your mouth like that?”