orses' hoofs, the
clatter of harness, the rumble of wheels tearing along over the
ground, the flash of a sabre now and then, the ringing words of
command, and the soft, shrill echoing bugle which repeated them. I
only wanted to understand it all; and in the evening I plied Preston
with questions. He explained things to me patiently.

"I understand," I said, at last, "I understand what it would do in war
time. But we are not at war, Preston."

"No."

"Nor in the least likely to be."

"We can't tell. It is good to be ready."

"But what do you mean?" I remember saying. "You speak as if we might
be at war. Who is there for us to fight?"

"Anybody that wants putting in order," said Preston. "The Indians."

"O Preston, Preston!" I exclaimed. "The Indians! when we have been
doing them wrong ever since the white men came here; and you want to
do them more wrong!"

"I want to hinder them from doing us wrong. But I don't care about the
Indians, little Daisy. I would just as lief fight the Yankees."

"Preston, I think you are very wrong."

"You think all the world is," he said.

We were silent, and I felt very dissatisfied. What _was_ all this
military schooling a preparation for, perhaps? How could we know.
Maybe these heads and hands, so gay to-day in their mock fight, would
be grimly and sadly at work by and by, in real encounter with some
real enemy.

"Do you see that man, Daisy?" whispered Preston, suddenly in my ear.
"That one talking to a lady in blue."

We were on the parade ground, among a crowd of spectators, for the
hotels were very full, and the Point very gay now. I said I saw him.

"That is a great man."

"Is he?" I said, looking and wondering if a great man could hide
behind such a physiognomy.

"Other people think so, I can tell you," said Preston. "Nobody knows
what that man can do. That is Davis of Mississippi."

The name meant nothing to me then. I looked at him as I would have
looked at another man. And I did not like what I saw. Something of
sinister, nothing noble, about the countenance; power there might
be--Preston said there was--but the power of the fox and the vulture
it seemed to me; sly, crafty, selfish, cruel.

"If nobody knows what he can do, how is it so certain that he is a
great man?" I asked. Preston did not answer. "I hope there are not
many great men that look like him." I went on.

"Nonsense, Daisy!" said Preston, in an energetic whisper. "That is
Davis of Mississippi