For only a moment she stood still and looked about her, as if uncertain which way to go; but before she had taken a step, old Psalmsinger raised his voice, and said: “I thort it last night, when I only seed her in the moonlight, but I _know_ it now—she’s a lady, an’ no mistake. Ef I was a bettin’ man, I’d bet all my dust on it, an’ my farm to hum besides!” A number of men immediately announced that they would bet, in the speaker’s place, to any amount, and in almost any odds. For, though old Psalm, by reason of non-participation in any of the drinks, fights, or games with which the camp refreshed itself, was considered a mere nonentity, it was generally admitted that men of his style could tell a lady or a preacher at sight. The gentle unknown finally started toward the largest group of men, seeing which, several smaller groups massed themselves on the larger with alacrity. As she neared them, the men could see that she was plainly dressed, but that every article of attire was not only neat but tasteful, and that she had enough grace of form and carriage to display everything to advantage. A few steps nearer, and she displayed a set of sad but refined features, marred only by an irresolute, purposeless mouth. Then an ex-reporter from New York turned suddenly to a graceless young scamp who had once been a regular ornament to Broadway, and exclaimed: “Louise Mattray, isn’t it?” “’Tis, by thunder!” replied the young man. “I knew I’d seen her somewhere. Wonder what she’s doing here?” The reporter shrugged his shoulders. “Some wild-goose speculation, I suppose. Smart and gritty—if _I_ had her stick I shouldn’t be here—but she always slips up—can’t keep all her wires well in hand. Was an advertising agent when I left the East—picked up a good many ads, too, and made folks treat her respectfully, when they’d have kicked a man out of doors if he’d come on the same errand.” “Say she’s been asking for Axel,” remarked the young man. “That so!” queried the reporter, wrinkling his brow, and hurrying through his mental notebook. “Oh, yes—there was some talk about them at one time. Some said they were married—_she_ said so, but she never took his name. She had a handsome son, that looked like her and the major, but she didn’t know how to manage him—went to the dogs, or worse, before he was eighteen.” “Axell here?” asked the young man. “No,” replied the reporter; “and ’twouldn’t do her any good if he was. The major’s stylish and good-looking, and plays a brilliant game, but he hasn’t any more heart than is absolutely necessary to his circulation. Besides, his——” The reporter was interrupted by a heavy hand falling on his shoulder, and found, on turning, that the hand belonged to “The General.” The general was not a military man, but his title had been conferred in recognition of the fact that he was a born leader. Wherever he went the general assumed the reins of government, and his administration had always been popular as well as judicious.