Capt. Rilford is known as one of the bravest and most gallant officers of the United States army. He is one of those old bachelors to whom the passing years bring additional installments of romance. I have seen him go into ecstatic spasms over a spout spring in the mountains, and have known him to lie under a tree and shed tears over the misfortunes of a heroine drawn by some fourth-class romancer; but in action he was so fearless that his brother officers excused what they pleased to term his soft qualities. A short time ago the captain was granted a leave of absence. He had long since grown tired of all the fashionable watering-places, and no longer could find anything in the cities to interest him, so the question of how he should spend that time, which was all his own, began to perplex him. "I am acquainted with both the wild and civilized life of our country," said he, addressing a friend. "I know the wild Indian and the Boston swell; and, to tell you the truth, I don't know what to do." "Yes, you are acquainted with the extremes," the friend rejoined, "but do you know much of the intermediate? You have made a study of the Indian in his wild state, but do you know anything of him as a citizen? Why not go to the Indian Territory, the Cherokee Nation, for instance, and amuse yourself by studying the habits of the Indian farmer?" The captain was so impressed with the idea that, the next day, he set out for the Indian Territory. He found the country to be beautiful, with hills of charming contemplation and valleys of enrapturing romance. Streams like moving silver thrilled him, and birds, whom it seemed had just found new songs, made the leaves quiver with echoing music. After several days of delightful roaming, the captain rented a small cabin, and, having provided himself with a few cooking utensils, settled down to housekeeping. With the rifle and the fishing rod he provided ample food, and as he soon became acquainted with several farmers he thought, over and over again, that his romantic craving had never before approached so near to (in his own words) sublime satisfaction. His nearest neighbor, four miles distant, was an Indian farmer named Tom Patterson. His family consisted of a wife and one daughter, a rather handsome girl. She had learned to read and write, and, as she seemed to be romantic, the captain soon became much interested in her. Patterson was rather a kind-hearted old fellow, accommodating in everything but answering questions concerning his family, but this was not an eccentricity, for nearly all Indians are disposed to say as little as possible with regard to themselves. Ansy, the girl, was fond of fishing, and as no restraint was placed upon her actions, she and the captain (his words again) had many a delightful stroll. There was, I had forgotten to mention, another member of the Patterson household, a negro named Alf. He was as dark as the musings of a dyspeptic, but he was good-natured and obliging.