“I’m not afraid, Colonel,” answered Mr. Hopper, with a feeble attempt at geniality.  He was, in truth, awed at last.

“You need not be, sir!” said the Colonel, with equal force.  “If you were —­this instant you should leave this place.”  He sat down, and continued more calmly:  “It will not be long before a Southern Army marches into St. Louis, and the Yankee Government submits.”  He leaned forward.  “Do you reckon we can hold the business together until then, Mr. Hopper?”

God forbid that we should smile at the Colonel’s simple faith.  And if Eliphalet Hopper had done so, his history would have ended here.

“Leave that to me, Colonel,” he said soberly.

Then came the reaction.  The good Colonel sighed as he signed, away that business which had been an honor to the, city where it was founded, I thank heaven that we are not concerned with the details of their talk that day.  Why should we wish to know the rate of interest on those notes, or the time?  It was war-time.

Mr. Hopper filled out his check, and presently departed.  It was the signal for the little force which remained to leave.  Outside, in the store; Ephum paced uneasily, wondering why his master did not come out.  Presently he crept to the door of the office, pushed it open, and beheld Mr. Carvel with his head bowed, down in his hands.

“Marse Comyn!” he cried, “Marse Comyn!”

The Colonel looked up.  His face was haggard.

“Marse Comyn, you know what I done promise young miss long time ago, befo’—­befo’ she done left us?”

“Yes, Ephum.”

He saw the faithful old negro but dimly.  Faintly he heard the pleading voice.

“Marse Comyn, won’ you give Ephum a pass down, river, ter fotch Cap’n Lige?”

“Ephum,” said the Colonel, sadly, “I had a letter from the Captain yesterday.  He is at Cairo.  His boat is a Federal transport, and he is in Yankee pay.”

Ephum took a step forward, appealingly, “But de Cap’n’s yo’ friend, Marse Comyn.  He ain’t never fo’get what you done fo’ him, Marse Comyn.  He ain’t in de army, suh.”

“And I am the Captain’s friend, Ephum,” answered the Colonel, quietly.  “But I will not ask aid from any man employed by the Yankee Government.  No—­not from my own brother, who is in a Pennsylvania regiments.”

Ephum shuffled out, and his heart was lead as he closed the store that night.

Mr. Hopper has boarded a Fifth Street car, which jangles on with many halts until it comes to Bremen, a German settlement in the north of the city.  At Bremen great droves of mules fill the street, and crowd the entrances of the sale stables there.  Whips are cracking like pistol shots, Gentlemen with the yellow cavalry stripe of the United States Army are pushing to and fro among the drivers and the owners, and fingering the frightened animals.  A herd breaks from the confusion and is driven like a whirlwind down the street, dividing at the Market House.  They are going to board the Government transport—­to die on the battlefields of Kentucky and Missouri.