“They are the enemy. These lead soldiers are mine, and they are all veterans, and all brave. This is myself,” and he held up a bent and battered relic on a three-legged horse. “And who are you in these fights, Goosey?” “Napoleon, generally; often Cæsar and Frederick, and sometimes George Washington and General Lee.” “But you have no head. Isn’t that a drawback for a commander?” “Not with troops like these. I lost that head at Quebec, as Montcalm.” She looked down upon him with a wish that she also might have been one of those absurd little soldiers and shared his victories. “The cracks between the floor-boards,” he continued, “are railroads, rivers, canals, stone walls, or mountain ranges, according to the campaign.” “They must have been a nuisance, though. Could not a soldier disappear and not return?” “I should say he could! Why, those ravines are gorged with heroes, and that recalls the most humiliating event of my career. I was leading the charge of the Light Brigade, six of these cavalrymen, each representing a hundred men. I of course was in front, and it was a supreme moment. As we dashed across the open field--the cracks, mind you, didn’t count this time--I, the leader, suddenly disappeared, head downward, feet up, in an open field! Of course the charge could not stop, and the others rushed on to a magnificent death.” With a sigh he gathered the motley company together again, and laid them away in their box. She got up and moved about. “I should like to live in an attic. It is mysterious and poetic, and so crammed with history. Each of these things has its little story for somebody,” and she stopped before a curious feminine garment in India silk, of a long-ago fashion. Pointing to a quaint old cap with ear-laps, she exclaimed, “What a funny rig that is! Put it on.” And she took it from its peg and placed it upon his head, then laughed and led him to a broken mirror that was hanging from a rafter. “Unless you wear it in New York next winter, I shall never marry you!” “Then I promise, but at present it is a trifle warm.” As he removed it a letter slipped from the lining and fell to the floor. She picked it up and turned it over in her fingers. “Why, it has never been opened! It is directed to Mr. Josiah Judd.” Amos examined it, studied the date, then looked at the old cap. “He wore this at the time of his death, when he had just come from the post-office, and the Daleford postmark says December fifth, the very day before. That is very curious.” And he stood looking down at the letter, deep in thought. “Why don’t you open it? You are the one who should do it, I suppose.” “Yes, I suppose so.” “Where is it from?” “India. From Mr. Morton Judd, his brother, the one who sent me here.” “Oh, yes! I remember. Is Mr. Morton Judd alive?” “No, he died ten years ago.” “Well, please open it, for it may be interesting. Come over near the light.”