An hour or so later the Colonel's voice awoke me. He was calling my name in a loud, imperative tone, and tramping about the house as if in search of me. I lay still, not knowing what to do. Soon the Colonel entered my room with a candle in his hand. “Heron, you rascal, get out of this room!” said he, loudly. “Didn't I say you were to sleep with me?” Before I could answer he had gathered up my shoes and stockings and flung them into the hall. He took my clothing under his arm while I got out of bed. “Forward, march!” he commanded, and I followed through the dusky halls to his bedroom in silence. I observed that he walked unsteadily, and I knew the nature of his affliction and felt some fear of him. “Heron,” said he, with great frankness, “I want company--I need you right here.” He sang loudly, as I helped him to draw his boots: “''Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.'” In a moment he rose and seized me by the shoulders and crowded me against the wall, by way of demonstrating his strength. “You are iron, boy, but I am steel,” he said, between his teeth, as he lightly thumped my head upon the figured paper. I made no answer. The severe look in his face turned to smiles in half a moment. He showed me his wounds--a saber slash on his head, and a number of scars cut by bullets and flying fragments of shell. He asked me to feel his biceps, and I did so, not wishing to be impolite. Before I could step aside he had my head in chancery, and was making a new demonstration. The candle was knocked to the floor, and I struggled with Colonel Busby in the darkness, feeling a dreadful uncertainty of his plans. Soon he had pushed me into a corner, where I stood clinging to his waist. “Unhand me, villain!” he commanded, and we released each other and I relighted the candle. The Colonel took off his tie and collar, and as he did so whispered gruffly, and with a playful wagging of his head: “'How ill that taper burns! Ha! who comes there? Cold drops of sweat hang on my trembling flesh. My blood grows chilly, and I freeze with horror.'” I saw that it was all a kind of harmless frolic, and soon he proposed that we “knit up the ravelled sleeve of care.” We got into bed, and fortunately the Colonel soon fell asleep. I had rather a bad night of it, for he snored and muttered, and was, on the whole, an irksome creature. In the morning he said little, and sat with a look of sadness. He went into the garden after breakfast, and Jo said to me: “I'm sorry my father disturbed you. I didn't think he would do it.” “Oh, that's nothing,” I assured her, bravely. “I hope it doesn't worry you.” But I could see that my words had not relieved her unhappiness. She went to school, and I spent the day writing letters--one to my mother and one to Mr. McCarthy, in both of which I set down much that I have tried to tell you. Then I composed a verse and engrossed it with great care. For such folly--praise God--I had always a keen relish.