him, but the 8th New York Lancers,
reorganising at Orange Hill, were ordered to recruit the depleted
regiment to twelve companies.

In August, Berkley's ragged blue and yellow jacket had been gaily
embellished with brand-new sergeant's chevrons; at the Stone Bridge
where the infantry recoiled his troop passed over at a gallop.

The War Department, much edified, looked at the cavalry and began
to like it. And it was ordered that every cavalry regiment be
increased by two troops, L and M. Which liberality, in combination
with Colonel Arran's early reports concerning Berkley's conduct,
enabled the company tailor to sew a pair of lieutenant's
shoulder-straps on Berkley's soiled jacket.

But there was more than that in store for him; it was all very well
to authorise two new troops to a regiment, but another matter to
recruit them.

Colonel Arran, from his convalescent couch in the North, wrote to
Governor Morgan; and Berkley got his troop, and his orders to go to
New York and recruit it. And by the same mail came the first
letter Ailsa had been well enough to write him since her transfer
North on the transport _Long Branch_.

He read it a great many times; it was his only diversion while
awaiting transportation at the old Hygeia Hotel, where, in company
with hundreds of furloughed officers, he slept on the floors in his
blanket; he read it on deck, as the paddle-wheeled transport
weighed anchor, swung churning under the guns of the great
Fortress--so close that the artillerymen on the water-battery could
have tossed a biscuit aboard--and, heading north-east, passed out
between the capes, where, seaward, the towering black sides of a
sloop of war rose, bright work aglitter, smoke blowing fitfully
from her single funnel.

At Alexandria he telegraphed her: "Your letter received, I am on my
way North," and signed it with a thrill of boyish pride: "Philip O.
Berkley-Arran, Capt. Cavalry, U. S. V."

To his father he sent a similar telegram from the Willard in
Washington; wasted two days at the State, War, and Navy for an
audience with Mr. Stanton, and finally found himself, valise in
hand, waiting among throngs of officers of all grades, all arms of
the service, for a chance to board his train.

And, as he stood there, he felt cotton-gloved fingers fumbling for
the handle of his valise, and wheeled sharply, and began to laugh.

"Where the devil did you come from, Burgess? Did they give you a
furlough?"

"Yes,