Bradwell and Mrs. Bradwell, John and Eva, were to go to the railway station, thirty miles away, in a wagon. Alf and his wife would ride a mule. After many farewells had been exchanged, and after John had affectionately kissed his aunt, old Jeff's wife remarked: "I jest know you air all goin' to starve ter death, but don't think I want ter keep you here, fur goodness knows I don't." She watched the wagon until it had turned a bend in the road, and then, clasping her hands over old Jeff's shoulder, bowed her head and sobbed. The bridal party stood on the railway platform. "Eva," said John, "are you happy?" "Yes, my soul is filled with a quiet joy." The train came within sight. "It is the vehicle," said John, gazing up the road, "that is to convey us to a new and happy life." "Yes." Bradwell lifted his hand to point out something. John seized it and pressed it to his breast. BEHIND A BUGLER. The conversation had turned upon the war and the old soldiers' fondness for reminiscence had been freely indulged, when someone, addressing Alf Billingsly, asked if he had served during the war. "No," Billingsly replied. "I was not in the army, but I was in one engagement. I was a boy and was living in Gallatin, Tenn., when John Morgan dashed in and captured Colonel Boon. Some time had elapsed since the Confederate forces were driven away, and the villagers, especially the boys, were almost wild with joy at the sight of gray uniform. A season of feasting followed, and then there came the report that Colonel Johnson, a dashing Federal officer, was, with a thousand picked cavalrymen, advancing upon the town. My mother gathered her children about her and took refuge in a cellar, but, feeling that my pride had been trampled upon, I escaped and mingled with the soldiers that were preparing for battle. Old wine, and whisky of less venerable age, had flowed during the feast, and many of the men and officers were drunk. Some were singing songs of more implied patriotism than of actual tune; others, with the rising fervor of tipsyness, declared that they would not go home till morning. Ah, before the next morning came many of them had gone home. I importuned a bugler to let me get on his horse behind him and ride out to the battle. He said that if I would take his canteen over to the house of a well-known old negro and bring it back full of peach brandy, I might go home with him. I did so, having left with the negro my hat and jacket as pawned evidences of good faith, and took my place behind the bugler. An officer ordered me to get down, but I begged so hard that his reckless good humor overcame his soberer sense of discipline. With shouts and songs of discordant loudness we marched out to battle. The morning was beautiful. The ironweed was in bloom, and sitting on its purple top the dryfly sang the song of midsummer. Mockingbirds flitted in the apple trees, and the bee-martin flew round and round, waiting for a sight of the honey-laden