The camp was like some great picnic or political barbecue, with the smoking trenches, the burgoo, and the central feast of beef and mutton left out.  Everywhere country folks were gathering up fragments of lunch on the thick grass, or strolling past the tents of the soldiers, or stopping before the Colonel’s pavilion to look upon the martial young gentlemen who composed his staff, their beautiful horses, and the Colonel’s beautiful guests from the river city—­the big town of the State.  Everywhere were young soldiers in twos and threes keeping step, to be sure, but with eyes anywhere but to the front; groups lying on the ground, chewing blades of bluegrass, watching pretty girls pass, and lounging lazily; groups to one side, but by no means out of sight, throwing dice or playing “craps”—­the game dear to the darkey’s heart.  On the outskirts were guards to gently challenge the visitor, but not very stern sentinels were they.  As Crittenden drove in, he saw one pacing a shady beat with a girl on his arm.  And later, as he stood by his buggy, looking around with an amused sense of the playful contrast it all was to what he had seen at Chickamauga, he saw another sentinel brought to a sudden halt by a surprised exclamation from a girl, who was being shown through the camp by a strutting lieutenant.  The sentinel was Basil and Phyllis was the girl.

“Why, isn’t that Basil?” she asked in an amazed tone—­amazed because Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently.

“Why, it is Basil; why—­why,” and she turned helplessly from private to officer and back again.  “Can’t you speak to me, Basil?”

Basil grinned again sheepishly.

“Yes,” he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, “I can if the Lieutenant there will let me.”  Phyllis was indignant.

“Let you!” she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant at her side.

“Now, don’t you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been in the Legion a little longer than some people.  Of course, I’m going to speak to my friends.  I don’t care where they are or what they happen to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them.”

And she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched, while the equally helpless Lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand.

“Let me see your gun, Basil,” she added, and the boy obediently handed it over to her, while the little Lieutenant turned redder still.

“You go to the guard-house for that, Crittenden,” he said, quietly.  “Don’t you know you oughtn’t to give up your gun to anybody except your commanding officer?”

“Does he, indeed?” said the girl, just as quietly.  “Well, I’ll see the Colonel.”  And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house for him that night.

“Anyhow,” she added, “I’m the commanding officer here.”  And then the gallant lieutenant saluted too.