“My compliments to Lieutenant Stephen Brice, Sixth Missouri, and ask him to report here at once.  At once, you understand!”

“Yes, General.”

It so happened that Mr. Brice’s company were swinging axes when the orderly arrived, and Mr. Brice had an axe himself, and was up to his boot tops in yellow mud.

The orderly, who had once been an Iowa farmer, was near grinning when he gave the General’s message and saw the lieutenant gazing ruefully at his clothes.

Entering headquarters, Stephen paused at the doorway of the big room where the officers of the different staffs were scattered about, smoking, while the negro servants were removing the dishes from the table.  The sunlight, reflected from the rippling water outside, danced on the ceiling.  At the end of the room sat General Sherman, his uniform, as always, a trifle awry.  His soft felt hat with the gold braid was tilted forward, and his feet, booted and spurred, were crossed.  Small wonder that the Englishman who sought the typical American found him in Sherman.

The sound that had caught Stephen’s attention was the General’s voice, somewhat high-pitched, in the key that he used in telling a story.  These were his closing words.

“Sin gives you a pretty square deal, boys, after all.  Generally a man says, ‘Well, I can resist, but I’ll have my fun just this once.’  That’s the way it happens.  They tell you that temptation comes irresistibly.  Don’t believe it.  Do you, Mr. Brice?  Come over here, sir.  Here’s a friend of yours.”

Stephen made his way to the General, whose bright eyes wandered rapidly over him as he added: 

“This is the condition my officers report in, Brinsmade,—­mud from head to heel.”

Stephen had sense enough to say nothing, but the staff officers laughed, and Mr. Brinsmade smiled as he rose and took Stephen’s hand.

“I am delighted to see that you are well, sir,” said he, with that formal kindliness which endeared him to all.  “Your mother will be rejoiced at my news of you.  You will be glad to hear that I left her well, Stephen.”

Stephen inquired for Mrs. Brinsmade and Anne.

“They are well, sir, and took pleasure in adding to a little box which your mother sent.  Judge Whipple put in a box of fine cigars, although he deplores the use of tobacco.”

“And the Judge, Mr. Brinsmade—­how is he?”

The good gentleman’s face fell.

“He is ailing, sir, it grieves me to say.  He is in bed, sir.  But he is ably looked after.  Your mother desired to have him moved to her house, but he is difficult to stir from his ways, and he would not leave his little room.  He is ably nursed.  We have got old Nancy, Hester’s mother, to stay with him at night, and Mrs. Brice divides the day with Miss Jinny Carvel, who comes in from Bellegarde every afternoon.”

“Miss Carvel?” exclaimed Stephen, wondering if he heard aright.  And at the mention of her name he tingled.