“What is it, sir?”

“I don’t know, but it has an official look.”

The sergeant opened it, and read the commission, duly signed by the governor of Massachusetts, and countersigned and sealed in proper form.  Tom was astounded at the purport of the document.  He could hardly believe his senses; but it read all right, and dated from the day of the battle in which he had distinguished himself.  This was glory enough, and it took Tom forty-eight hours thoroughly to digest the contents of the envelope.

Lieutenant Somers!  The words had a queer sound, and he could not realize that he was a commissioned officer.  But he came to a better understanding of the subject the next day, when a letter from Lilian Ashford was placed in his hands.  It was actually addressed to “Lieutenant Thomas Somers.”  She had read of his gallant conduct and of his promotion on the battle field in the newspapers.  She sent him two photographs of herself, and a sweet little letter, begging him to return the photograph which had been damaged by a rebel bullet.

Of course Tom complied with this natural request; but, as the surgeon thought his patient would improve faster at home than in the hospital, he had procured a furlough of thirty days for him, and the lieutenant decided to present the photograph in person.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

LIEUTENANT SOMERS AND OTHERS.

Tom Somers had been absent from home nearly a year; and much as his heart was in the work of putting down the rebellion, he was delighted with the thought of visiting, even for a brief period, the loved ones who thought of and prayed for him in the little cottage in Pinchbrook.  I am not quite sure that the well-merited promotion he had just received did not have some influence upon him, for it would not have been unnatural for a young man of eighteen, who had won his shoulder-straps by hard fighting on a bloody field, to feel some pride in the laurels he had earned.  Not that Tom was proud or vain; but he was moved by a lofty and noble ambition.  It is quite likely he wondered what the people of Pinchbrook would say when he appeared there with the straps upon his shoulders.

Of course he thought what his father would say, what his mother would say, and he could see the wrinkled face of gran’ther Greene expand into a genial smile of commendation.  It is quite possible that he had even more interest in his reception at No ——­ Rutland Street, when he should present himself to the author and finisher of those marvellous socks, which had wielded such an immense influence upon their wearer in camp and on the field.  Perhaps it was a weakness on the part of the soldier boy, but we are compelled to record the fact that he had faithfully conned his speech for that interesting occasion.  He had supposed every thing she would say, and carefully prepared a suitable reply to each remark, adorned with all the graces of rhetoric within his reach.