rrying clatter
of waggons, the noise of pick and spade and crack of hammer and
mallet.

He drew himself to a sitting posture. A regimental surgeon passing
through the room glanced at him humorously, saying: "You've got a
pretty snug berth here, son. How does it feel to sleep in a real
bed?" And, extinguishing his candle, he went away through the door
without waiting for any answer.

Berkley turned toward the window, striving to reach the drawn
curtains. And at length he managed to part them, but it was all
dark outside. Yet the grounds were evidently crowded with waggons
and men; he recognised sounds which indicated that tents were being
erected, drains and sinks dug; the rattle of planks and boards were
significant of preparation for the construction of "shebangs."

Farther away on the dark highway he could hear the swift gallop of
cavalry and the thudding clank of light batteries, all passing in
perfect darkness. Then, leaning closer to the sill, he gazed
between the curtains far into the southwest; and saw the tall curve
of Confederate shells traced in whirling fire far down the river,
the awful glare of light as the enormous guns on the Union warships
replied.

Celia, her lovely hair over her shoulders, a scarf covering her
night-dress, came in carrying a lighted candle; and instantly a
voice from outside the window bade her extinguish the light or draw
the curtain.

She looked at Berkley in a startled manner, blew out the flame, and
came around between his bed and the window, drawing the curtains
entirely aside.

"General Claymore's staff has filled eve'y room in the house except
yours and mine," she said in her gentle, bewildered way. "There's
a regiment--Curt's Zouaves--encamped befo' the west quarters, and a
battery across the drive, and all the garden is full of their
horses and caissons."

"Poor little Celia," he said, reaching out to touch her hand, and
drawing her to the bed's edge, where she sat down helplessly.

"The Yankee officers are all over the house," she repeated.
"They're up in the cupola with night-glasses now. They are ve'y
polite. Curt took off his riding boots and went to sleep on my
bed--and oh he is so dirty!--my darling Curt' my own husband!--too
dirty to touch! I could cry just to look at his uniform, all black
and stained and the gold entirely gone from one sleeve! And
Stephen!--oh, Phil, some mise'ble barber has shaved the heads of
all the Zouaves, and Steve is perf