From an eye-witness comes the following story. General Asboth returned one day from a scouting expedition with a bullet through his shoulder; and as there had been little fighting up to this time, the accident was a great event. There happened to be in camp a young volunteer captain of engineers on “detached duty.” Swelling with a pleasant sense of his own importance, he thought proper at this crisis to call and offer his services. The old general thanked him: “Mine own officers are very good,” said he; “they do everythings for me. But, Captain, there is a thing; if you would go through the camp and find my little dog-pup which was stole, I would be so much obliged.” This chance of distinction was not appreciated. “At last accounts,” said my informant, “he had not yet begun to search for the ‘little dog-pup,’ and the remarks he made in private were quite frightful to hear.” From Asboth to Frémont is a natural transition. They were friends and comrades; they had in common the traits of courage and enthusiasm; they had a like disdain of pettiness, and capacity for silent endurance; and they had also, as you might expect in natures so sound at core, a great affection for animals. “For ourselves,” writes Mrs. Frémont, “dogs have always been part of the family. I do not know, indeed, how boys can be happy without them.... To the General some of ours were friends and companions, especially a noble staghound, Thor. They walked together, they could talk together; a sort of Indian sign-language belonging with old experiences made Mr. Frémont proficient in sign and eye language, and Thor knew that. “Thor’s father, Thor the First, belonged to Charlotte Cushman, and for years was part of the hunt in the Campagna around Rome. She brought her dog home, and thinking death near her, gave it to a friend of mine who had a beautiful Scotch deer-hound of pure breed, Sheila by name. Sheila had been given to my friend’s brother-in-law, an officer on duty in Arizona, at Yuma, by an Englishman who came there intending to hunt. Fancy hounds coursing over that cactus! “Our Thor was son to the traveled Sheila and Miss Cushman’s dog, who had traveled also, but in civilized places. We took him with us to Arizona, and there he died, of fever partly, partly of old age, for he was eleven, and hounds give out young. He was nearly human in intelligence--more than human in loyal attachment and undeviating memory. He and Pluto, a thorough-bred coursing hound, were the two who were longest with and closest to the whole family.