“W'll, ye must fix up a story 'bout thet too. Ye needn't be ver partickelar what hit is, so long's hit's awful savage on the Yankees. Be keerful ter say frequently thet the yankees is awful sick o' their job o' holdin' Nashville; that their new Dutch Gineral is a mean brute, an' a coward beside, thet he's skeered 'bout out'n his wits half the time, an' he's buildin' the biggest kind o' forts to hide behind, an' thet he won't dar show his nose outside o' them--leastways not this 'ere Winter. Talk ez much ez ye kin 'bout the sojers gwine inter Winter quarters; 'bout them being mortally sartin not ter do anything tell next Spring, an' 'bout them desartin' by rijimints an' brigades, an' gwine home, bekase they're sick an' tired o' the war.” “My,” said Rachel, with a gasp, “what awful things to tell!” “Yes,” returned the scout complacently, “I s'posed hit'd strike you thet-a-way. But my experience with war is thet hit's jest plum full o' awful things. In fact hit don't seem ter hev much else in hit. All ye hev ter ax yerself is whether this is nigh on ter ez awful ez the the things they 'uns do to we 'uns. Besides, we 'uns are likely ter give they 'uns in a few days a heap more interestin' things ter think about then the remarkable stories told by young ladies out fur a mornin' ride.” “I'll take some hours to think this matter over,” said Rachel, “and give you your answer this afternoon. That'll be time enough, will it not?” “Heaps an' plenty, ma'am,” he answered, as he rose to go. “She'll go,” he added to himself. “I'm not fooled a mite on thet 'ere stock. I'll jest go to headquarters an' git things ready for her.” He was right. The prospect of doing an important service on a grand occasion was stimulous enough for Rachel's daring spirit, to make her undertake anything, and when Fortner returned in the afternoon he found her eager to set out upon the enterprise. But as the evening came on with its depressing shadows and silence, she felt the natural reaction that follows taking an irrevocable step. The loneliness of her unlighted room was peopled with ghostly memories of the horrors inflicted upon spies, and of tales she had heard of the merciless cruelty of the Rebels among whom she was going. She had to hold her breath to keep from shrieking aloud at the terrors conjured up before her vision. Then the spasm passed, and braver thoughts reasserted themselves. Fortner's inadvertent words of praise of Harry Glen were recalled, and began glowing like pots of incense to sweeten and purify the choking vapors in her imagination.