“Mail! Letters!” was the cry, at a late hour. The sacks had come in by way of Fortress Monroe, and soon Louis had two letters from home, both of which he perused eagerly. He learned that his father was better and around as usual. Agents of the government had called, trying to buy beef, but, so far, none of the cows had been sold. “I have had one thing to worry me considerably,” wrote Mr. Rockford. “If you will remember, when I purchased this place, a party named Faily had an interest in it. There has appeared a man named Samuel Hammer who now claims that the Faily interest was really his--that Faily sold out to him. This Hammer threatens to make trouble for me unless I buy him off. I am now doing my best to locate Theodore Faily, to get him to explain, or make a settlement which will clear me, but so far I can get no trace of him. One man told me Faily had moved south, but could not say where to. Hammer wants me to pay him three thousand dollars. If I have to do that in these times it will almost ruin me.” Louis was very sober after reading this communication. He could well understand how worried the folks at home must be. He drew a long sigh as he put the letter away. “Poor father!” he murmured. “I hope he finds Theodore Faily and gets the matter straightened out without further trouble. Three thousand dollars would be a terribly big sum to pay out in these war times. I suppose they are all about worried to death over this.” That very night before retiring, he wrote a long letter in return, telling of the various things that had happened to him. The next day was Sunday, cloudy but without rain. The day was kept, as nearly as possible, as a day of rest. At ten in the morning came inspection drill, when the regimental commanders inspected the arms and accoutrements. The drill over, the chaplain held divine service, which all the Goreville Volunteers attended as regularly as they could. Then came a late dinner, after which the men did as they pleased. Some would talk and walk around, some sat and read, and others would mend their clothing. Some would try to play cards, but this was frowned down. There was also a good deal less of drinking on the Lord’s day than on any other. This Sunday turned off cold towards night, and Louis was glad enough when tattoo sounded that he was not out on picket duty, but could go to sleep in his tent, close to the blazing fire. “A dent don’t vos so goot as a house,” was the way in which Hans Roddmann expressed himself, “but it vos besser as noddings den dimes ofer!” “I think they might put up some sheds, at least,” grumbled Jerry Rowe, “seeing as how we seem to be booked to stay here all summer.” “You’d like carpet on the floor, too, wouldn’t you, Jerry?” laughed Callings. “Never mind--we won’t stay here long, mark my word.”