"Couldn't you let me go now, sir? She's real sick. Here's the medicine, just as I got it from the doctor. You can look at it if you want to; and she'll be scaret bad if I don't come. I'll give you my word not to say anything to anybody, if you don't want me to." The man is very earnest; he has the medicine, and he appears very truthful. I am afraid you will think me quite cruel when I answer: "I am sorry; but it's my duty to detain you. You cannot go." The man sits down beside the gate, and the sergeant who has him in charge sits down with him, where, I fear, they do not enjoy themselves. The owner of the house stepped out as soon as we arrived, and good-naturedly invited us in; finding that we wished to feed, he showed the way to the corn-cribs, and dealt out his corn with a free hand. But one object in our halt here is to arrest him. As he returns from the cribs, I tell him I wish to speak to him; and we walk to the house. "Mr. Bennett," I say, "you are a soldier in the Southern army." "No, sir. I was, but I've been discharged." "Let me see your discharge." His wife searches for it in a wardrobe, and in a few minutes brings it to me. It states that he was discharged from the service of the Confederate States on account of physical disability. "You left, then, because you could not serve any longer." "Yes, sir." "Had you a pass through our lines?" "No, sir." "Have you reported to any of our officers, or taken the oath?" "No, sir." "Don't you know you are violating military law, and are liable to be arrested?" The man says nothing. The three children, who have watched the reading of the "discharge" as though it were a safeguard, turn their frightened faces upon me, and his wife moves nearer and says pleadingly: "Oh, sir, he is sick. He can't fight any more, and will never go again. He is willing to take the oath, and was going down to take it last week." "Why did you not go?" "I heard there would be an officer up at Boydsville, and that I could take it before him. I acknowledge I ought to have gone down before." "Well, you have answered so frankly against your self that I will take your word for this. Go down to the fort by Thursday, report yourself to the commanding officer, and take the oath." The man promises he will, and his wife thanks me and gives many assurances that she has had enough of the war. We have a little talk about the rebellion, and then I go out. The man whose wife is sick still sits by the gate, and looks up entreatingly as I pass. But the horses have finished their feed, and the rear guard is coming up the road. "You may go now, sir," I say to him, "and I regret that you have been stopped; but be careful to tell no one that we are here to-night."