all over the country. Do as you
please, sergeant."

"I mean to," replied the sergeant in an undertone; for he was not pleased
at this interference on the part of a commissary of subsistence, who had
nothing whatever to do with the affair. "I am satisfied," he added aloud.

"Allan, I am very glad to see you; and I thank God that you have been
enabled to escape from the Yankees. Have you seen Owen since you got
back?"

Somers trembled at the question; and, while he did not dare to tell the
old man the truth, the thought of telling him a falsehood was utterly
repulsive to his nature. It was easy enough to deceive the enemy in
war--his duty called upon him to do this; but to deceive an old, fond
father, in regard to a true and devoted son, seemed terrible to him.

"He was out on picket when I came through," he replied after some
hesitation.

"Then you did not meet him. He will be delighted to see you again; for
really the boy is as fond of you as he is of his sister."

Somers found himself unable to answer to the warm congratulations of the
old man, or to enter into the spirit of the conversation. The staring,
death-sealed eyes of Owen Raynes haunted him; and, when he attempted to
reciprocate the friendly sentiments of the doting father, his heart
seemed to rise up in his throat, and choke his utterance. The only
consolation he could derive from the remembrance of the scene in the
woods was in the fact that he had not taken the life of Owen Raynes
himself. He wore his clothes, and had his diary and letters in his
pocket.

"You are very sad, Allan! I should think you would be happy to escape
from the Yankees. They would have starved you to death in time."

"I think not, sir! They are not so cruel as that," added Somers, who
desired to remove such a reproach from the mind of the old man.

"Perhaps they would not willingly starve their prisoners; but I don't see
how they could avoid it. They say that the people of the North are
suffering terribly for the want of food. In New York, the laboring
classes have attacked the banks and the flour-stores, urged on by hunger.
There will be terrible times in the North before many months have gone
by. I pity the people there, though it is their own fault. I hope God
will be merciful to them, and spare them from some of the consequences of
their own folly. I am thankful that you have escaped from them."

"I don't think they are quite so badly off as you say," answered Somers,