n. The thing was still there. It spoke in the brute
strength of his powerful body as his marching feet struck the ground, in
the iron look about his broad shoulders, the careless strength with
which he carried his musket as if it were a feather, and above all in
the hard cold glint from his shining eyes set straight in front.

She lay awake for hours on the little white cot at the headquarters of
the ambulance corps reviewing her life and dropped to sleep at last with
a deep sense of gratitude to God that she was free, and could give
herself in unselfish devotion to her country. Her last waking thoughts
were of Ned Vaughan and the sweet, foolish worship he had laid at her
feet. She wondered vaguely if he were in those grey lines beyond the
river. Ned Vaughan was there this time--back with his regiment.

Lee, Jackson and Longstreet had known for days that a battle was
imminent. Their scouts from over the river had brought positive
information. The Confederate leaders had already planned the conflict.
Their battle lines circled the hills beyond Fredericksburg, spread out
in a crescent, five miles long. Nature had piled these five miles of
hills around Fredericksburg as if to build an impregnable fortress. On
every crest, concealed behind trees and bushes, the Confederate
artillery was in place--its guns trained to sweep the wide plain with a
double cross fire, besides sending a storm of shot and shell straight
from the centre. Sixty thousand matchless grey infantry crouched among
those bushes and lay beside stone walls, in sunken roadways or newly
turned trenches.

The great fan-shaped death-trap had been carefully planned and set by a
master mind. Only a handful of sharpshooters and a few pieces of
artillery had been left in Fredericksburg to dispute the passage of the
river and deceive Burnside with a pretense of defending the town.

The Confederate soldier was ragged and his shoes were tied together with
strings. His uniform consisted of an old hat or cap usually without a
brim, a shirt of striped bed-ticking so brown it seemed woven of the
grass. The buttons were of discolored cow's horn. His coat was the color
of Virginia dust and mud, and it was out at the elbow. His socks were
home-made, knit by loving hands swift and tender in their endless work
of love. The socks were the best things he had.

The one spotless thing about him was his musket and the bayonet he
carried at his side. His spirits were high.

A ba