As the long winter passed away, he learned, not only much of the spirit of his own side, but something that became almost a sunny tolerance, of the great blue army across the Rappahannock. He had exchanged Virginian tobacco for Northern coffee at the outposts, and when on picket duty along the cold banks of the river he would sometimes shout questions and replies across the stream. In these meetings there was only a wide curiosity with little bitterness; and once a friendly New England picket had delivered a religious homily from the opposite shore, as he leaned upon his rifle. “I didn't think much of you Rebs before I came down here,” he had concluded in a precise and energetic shout, “but I guess, after all, you've got souls in your bodies like the rest of us.” “I reckon we have. Any coffee over your side?” “Plenty. The war's interfered considerably with the tobacco crop, ain't it?” “Well, rather; we've enough for ourselves, but none to offer our visitors.” “Look here, are all these things about you in the papers gospel truth?” “Can't say. What things?” “Do you always carry bowie knives into battle?” “No, we use scissors--they're more convenient.” “When you catch a runaway nigger do you chop him up in little pieces and throw him to the hogs?” “Not exactly. We boil him down and grease our cartridges.” “After Bull Run did you set up all the live Zouaves you got hold of as targets for rifle practice?” “Can't remember about the Zouaves. Rather think we made them into flags.” “Well, you Rebels take the breath out of me,” commented the picket across the river; and then, as the relief came, Dan hurried back to look for the mail bag and a letter from Betty. For Betty wrote often these days--letters sometimes practical, sometimes impassioned, always filled with cheer, and often with bright gossip. Of her own struggle at Uplands and the long days crowded with work, she wrote no word; all her sympathy, all her large passion, and all her wise advice in little matters were for Dan from the beginning to the end. She made him promise to keep warm if it were possible, to read his Bible when he had the time, and to think of her at all hours in every season. In a neat little package there came one day a gray knitted waistcoat which he was to wear when on picket duty beside the river, “and be very sure to fasten it,” she had written. “I have sewed the buttons on so tight they can't come off. Oh, if I had only papa and Virginia and you back again I could be happy in a hovel. Dear mamma says so, too.”