ackson, "that you don't emulate him in all
things." He looked sternly and he rode away with no other word. He rode
from the pine wood, crossed the Mine Road, and presently the narrow
Massaponax. The streamers were gone from the sky; there was everywhere
the hush of dawn. The courier with him wondered where he was going. They
passed John Pelham's guns, iron dark against the pallid sky. Presently
they came to the Yerby House, where General Maxey Gregg, a gallant
soldier and gentleman, lay dying.

As Jackson dismounted Dr. Hunter McGuire came from the house. "I gave
him your message, general. He is dying fast. It seemed to please him."

"Good!" said Jackson. "General Gregg and I have had a disagreement. In
life it might have continued, but death lifts us all from under earthly
displeasure. Will you ask him, Doctor, if I may pay him a little
visit?"

The visit paid, he came gravely forth, mounted and turned back toward
headquarters on Prospect Hill. In the east were red streaks, one above
another. The day was coming up, clear and cold. Pelham's guns, crowning
a little eminence, showed distinct against the colour. Stonewall Jackson
rode by, and, with a face that was a study, a gunner named Deaderick
watched him pass.

All this day these two armies stood and faced each other. There was
sharpshooting, there was skirmishing, but no full attack. Night came and
passed, and another morning dawned. This day, forty-eight hours after
battle, Burnside sent a flag of truce with a request that he be allowed
to collect and bury his dead. There were few now alive upon that plain.
The wind in the reeds had died to a ghostly hush.

That night there came up a terrible storm, a howling wind driving a
sleety rain. All night long, in cloud and blast and beating wet, the
Army of the Potomac, grand division by grand division, recrossed the
Rappahannock.

The storm continued, the rain and snow swelled the river. The Army of
the Potomac with Acquia creek at hand, Washington in touch, lay
inactive, went into winter quarters. The Army of Northern Virginia,
couched on the southern hills, followed its example. Between the two
foes flowed the dark river. Sentries in blue paced the one bank,
sentries in grey the other. A detail of grey soldiers, resting an hour
opposite Falmouth, employed their leisure in raising a tall signpost,
with a wide and long board for arms. In bold letters they painted upon
it THIS WAY TO RICHMOND. It rested there, month