“You’re your father over again,” said Mrs. Arlington, with a smile. “He was captured by the Mexicans at the time he was wounded, and they took off his leg very roughly, but he never winced--so some other soldiers told me.” “Oh, I hope Andy never loses a leg,” cried Grace. “If I do I’ll try to be as heroic as father was,” said the youth, gravely. Mr. Arlington was as well pleased as the others had been to see his son once more. “I was afraid you had been shot and your body had drifted down into Chesapeake Bay,” he said, as he took both of Andy’s hands. “Tell me all about it,” and again the tale was told, the others as eager to hear as though not a word had been said before. Christmas came and went and by that time Andy felt as well and strong as ever. Sometimes, when the weather was particularly raw, the place where the bullet wound had left a scar hurt him, “itched,” he said--a feeling plenty of veterans know only too well. But he never complained, being fearful it might hinder him from going to the front again. In the meantime he had written to Captain Montgomery. The Grays were in winter quarters several miles back of the bank of the Potomac, and an equal distance south of Alexandria. To join them at this time would have been useless, and Andy received word that he might stay home and “get braced up” until the army moved again in the spring. Now that he felt able to do so, the youth worked around the dairy as before, superintending the women and men and giving his father a much-needed holiday. But Andy’s heart was not in the task--it was with the Grays. He was impatient to rejoin them. “A letter fo’ you, Massa Andrew,” said one of the slaves, one day in the spring. Andy took the communication quickly. It was from the army, as the stamp in the corner of the envelope showed. He tore it open hastily, then rushed off to find his folks. “I’ve got an order to join our cavalry at once! The Federals are getting ready for a move from Washington!” he cried, and then followed two hours of hustling, as he arranged his clothing, packed his saddlebags and had Firefly groomed his very best. The horse seemed to understand the order, too, for his brown eyes brightened and he snorted in approval. “Take care of yourself, my boy,” said the fond mother. “Write as often as you can,” added the father. “Don’t let the Yankees catch you again,” chimed in Grace, and then all kissed him affectionately and followed him out on the verandah. Soon he was in the saddle, and with a last wave of the hand he galloped off and was lost to view among the trees.