The boy sat proud and beaming. To his saddle was strapped a kettle drum. He also was clad in buckskin and carried a smaller rifle, while the big hunting knife in his belt brought another smile from the General. “He ran off from school, General,” she heard Trevellian saying; “came into our camp to-night just as we were leaving. He wants to go, and I haven’t the heart to send him back.” “General, don’t say I cannot,” pleaded the boy. “I can shoot better than I can ride. Let me go.” General Jackson glanced up into the little, excited face, the determined eye. How handsome he was, and as he turned his thoughts flashed, how like Trevellian! “General, General,” came again, “we need a drummer, and I want to fight them, too. I am a Trevellian; didn’t you know it?” “There is no doubt of that, boy. Yes, go if you want to.” He turned to Trevellian: “By the Eternal, Trevellian, how can the British expect to whip a people whose very children beg to go out and fight them?” He turned to the boy: “Yes—go, boy; go fight the invaders of your country, and God bless and preserve you!” Pale, trembling and with a bursting heart which hated itself for her weakness, Juliette slipped away and into the house. From her own room she heard the huzzahs, the rattling volley of parting salute, and Trevellian’s command of “fall in!” She heard the soft tread if moccasined feet going into the wooded night. Then there was wafted faintly the uncouth, broken notes of a tune that somehow held together till it reached her: “The girl I left behind me.” She ran to the bed and buried her head in the pillow. Was she the girl he had left behind him? Would she ever see him again? He hated her now; she knew it, and yet she was so weak as to love him. Why did she not hate him also? Hate him as he deserved to be for— The rattle of a kettle-drum burst into the music. Then cheers faint and far-off, but saying: “Hurrah for the drummer boy of the First Tennessee!” She buried deeper her head and sobbed louder. [_To be continued._] MELLIE’S MAN By William McLeod Raine “Why don’t you-all git a man, Mellie?” Mrs. Chunn waited impatiently for an answer, her potato knife poised in air. She was a sallow lath of a woman, dry and hard, with piercing little black eyes that bored like gimlets. Efficiency of management was the dominant note of the widow. She ruled like an autocrat, a kindly one if people submitted gracefully, but a firm one in any event. Three deceased husbands had endured her sway not unhappily. Each of them had fortunately possessed the requisite sense of humor.