The other grasped it warmly. “Tell them who I am, for God’s sake, Bobbie. I am proud to be a ‘Yankee soldier,’ as she calls me, but tell them who else I am.” Anne had dropped into a chair, and Bobbie laughed at her look of blank astonishment. “This is Dick Hardwicke, of Boston, Anne. He graduated two terms before I, and though he was older and we were not in the same classes, we were always good friends while at college.” “And did you come to search for your college friend as you would for a thief?” she cried, her voice ringing with unutterable scorn, as she rose to her feet. “Not a bit of it,” he answered, fearlessly. “In open fight we would have had to take the chances of this beastly war, but that the Robert F. Taylor, as our order read, was our Bobbie Tayloe, I no more suspected than you did my identity. Do you believe me?” She look at him a moment searchingly. “Yes,” she answered, after a long pause. “I hate to do it—but I’m bound to.” * * * * * It was just after the clock struck the birth of another Christmas-Day that Bobbie led his bride into the beautiful parlors, and while they plighted their troth with only those around who knew and loved them most, Uncle Lias outside the door played softly on his old violin the sweet old Christmas carol of “Peace on Earth—Good Will to Men,” and after it was over the Blue and the Grey shook hands together, to the intense and unqualified disgust of loyal old Sallie Tom. [Illustration]