ho is
that man?"

"Oh, he was a good while ago in my regiment--in our company too, the 71st
Pennsylvania--a drunken beast--name of Stacy--Joe Stacy. We missed him
when we were near the North Anna--at roll-call."

"What will they do with him?"

"Shoot him, I hope. His hands were powder blacked. He was caught on the
skirmish line."

"Thank you." Josiah walked away deep in thought. He soon settled to the
conclusion that the Rebs had found Peter and that perhaps he had had no
choice of what he would do and had had to enlist. What explanatory lie
Peter had told he could not guess.

Josiah went slowly back to the tent. His chicken was gone. He laid this
loss on Peter, saying, "He always did bring me bad luck." Penhallow was
still asleep. Ought he to tell him of Peter Lamb. He decided not to do
so, or at least to wait. Inborn kindliness acted as it had done before,
and conscious of his own helplessness, he was at a loss. Near to dusk he
lighted a pipe and sat down outside of Penhallow's hut. Servants of
engineer officers spoke as they passed, or chaffed him. His readiness for
a verbal duel was wanting and he replied curtly. He was trying to make
out to his own satisfaction whether he could or ought to do anything but
hold his tongue and let this man die and so disappear. He knew that he
himself could do nothing, nor did he believe anything could be done to
help the man. He felt, however, that because he hated Peter, he was bound
by his simply held creed to want to do something. He did not want to do
anything, but then in confusing urgency there was the old mother, the
colonel's indulgent care of this drunken animal, and at last some
personal realization of the loneliness of this man so near to death. Then
he remembered that Mark Rivers was within reach. To get this clergyman to
see Peter would relieve him of the singular feeling of responsibility
he could not altogether set aside. He was the only person who could
identify Lamb. That, at least, he did not mean to do. He would find Mr.
Rivers and leave to him to act as he thought best. He heard Penhallow
calling, and went in to find him reading his letters. After providing
for his wants, he set out to find the clergyman. His pass carried him
where-ever he desired to go, and after ten at night he found Mark Rivers
with the Christian Commission.

"What is it?" asked Rivers. "Is John ill?"

"No, sir," and he told in a few sentences the miserable story, to the
clergyman's a