He had never much regarded my disapproval, and now his early ill-defined fear of Mrs. Wesley was evaporated.  He no longer hesitated to indulge in his war reminiscences, which necessarily brought his personal exploits under a calcium-light.  These exploits usually emphasized his intimacy with some of the more dashing Southern leaders, such as Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart and Mosby.  We found ourselves practically conscripted in the Confederate army.  We were taken on long midnight rides through the passes of the Cumberland Mountains and hurled on some Federal outpost; we were made—­a mere handful as we were—­to assault and carry most formidable earthworks; we crossed dangerous fords, and bivouacked under boughs hung with weird gonfalons of gray moss, slit here and there by the edge of a star.  Many a time we crawled stealthily through tangled vines and shrubs to the skirt of a wood, and across a fallen log sighted the Yankee picket whose bayonet point glimmered now and then far off in the moonlight.  We spent a great many hours around the camp-fire counting our metaphorical scalps.

One evening the colonel was especially exasperating with anecdotes of Stonewall Jackson, and details of what he said to the general and what the general said to him.

“Stonewall Jackson often used to say to me, ’George’—­he always called me George, in just that off-hand way—­’George, when we get to New York, you shall have quarters in the Astor House, and pasture your mare Spitfire in the Park."’

“That was very thoughtful of Stonewall Jackson,” remarked Mrs. Wesley, with the faintest little whiteness gathering at the lips.  “I am sorry that your late friend did not accompany you to the city, and personally superintend your settlement here.  He would have been able to surround you with so many more comforts than you have in Macdougal Street.”

The colonel smiled upon Clara, and made a deprecating gesture with his left hand.  Nothing seemed to pierce his ironclad composure.  A moment afterward he returned to the theme, and recited some verses called “Stonewall Jackson’s Way.”  He recited them very well.  One stanza lingers in my memory—­

     “We see him now—­the old slouched hat
        Cocked o’er his brow askew,
      The shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
        So calm, so blunt, so true. 
      The Blue-light Elder knows ’em well. 
      Says he:  ’That’s Banks; he’s fond of shell. 
      Lord save his soul! we’ll give him’—­Well,
        That’s Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

“His ways must have been far from agreeable,” observed my wife, “if that is a sample of them.”

After the colonel had taken himself off, Mrs. Wesley, sinking wearily upon the sofa, said, “I think I am getting rather tired of Stonewall Jackson.”

“We both are, my dear; and some of our corps commanders used to find him rather tiresome now and then.  He was really a great soldier, Clara; perhaps the greatest on the other side.”