When the merriment of the dance was at its height that evening, Stephen stood at the door of the long room, meditatively watching the bright gowns and the flash of gold on the uniforms as they flitted past. Presently the opposite door opened, and he heard Mr. Brinsmade's voice mingling with another, the excitable energy of which recalled some familiar episode. Almost--so it seemed--at one motion, the owner of the voice had come out of the door and had seized Stephen's hand in a warm grasp,--a tall and spare figure in the dress of a senior officer. The military frock, which fitted the man's character rather than the man, was carelessly open, laying bare a gold-buttoned white waistcoat and an expanse of shirt bosom which ended in a black stock tie. The ends of the collar were apart the width of the red clipped beard, and the mustache was cropped straight along the line of the upper lip. The forehead rose high, and was brushed carelessly free of the hair. The nose was almost straight, but combative. A fire fairly burned in the eyes. "The boy doesn't remember me," said the gentleman, in quick tones, smiling at Mr. Brinsmade. "Yes, sir, I do," Stephen made haste to answer. He glanced at the star on the shoulder strap, and said. "You are General Sherman." "First rate!" laughed the General, patting him. "First rate!" "Now in command at Camp Benton, Stephen," Mr. Brinsmade put in. "Won't you sit down, General?" "No," said the General, emphatically waving away the chair. "No, rather stand." Then his keen face suddenly lighted with amusement,--and mischief, Stephen thought. "So you've heard of me since we met, sir?" "Yes, General." "Humph! Guess you heard I was crazy," said the General, in his downright way. Stephen was struck dumb.