on
any more. It was a rainy night; there were no omnibuses going our way;
and as I walked home, burning up with shame, with the girl on one
arm and my boots under the other, I was an object worthy of some
compassion--especially in those moments of martyrdom when I had to
pass through the glare that fell upon the pavement from street-lamps.
Finally, this child of the forest said, "Where are your boots?" and
being taken unprepared, I put a fitting finish to the follies of the
evening with the stupid remark, "The higher classes do not wear them to
the theater."

The Reverend had been an army chaplain during the war, and while we were
hunting for a road that would lead to Hamilton he told a story about two
dying soldiers which interested me in spite of my feet. He said that in
the Potomac hospitals rough pine coffins were furnished by government,
but that it was not always possible to keep up with the demand; so, when
a man died, if there was no coffin at hand he was buried without one.
One night, late, two soldiers lay dying in a ward. A man came in with
a coffin on his shoulder, and stood trying to make up his mind which of
these two poor fellows would be likely to need it first. Both of them
begged for it with their fading eyes--they were past talking. Then one
of them protruded a wasted hand from his blankets and made a feeble
beckoning sign with the fingers, to signify, "Be a good fellow; put
it under my bed, please." The man did it, and left. The lucky soldier
painfully turned himself in his bed until he faced the other warrior,
raised himself partly on his elbow, and began to work up a mysterious
expression of some kind in his face. Gradually, irksomely, but surely
and steadily, it developed, and at last it took definite form as a
pretty successful wink. The sufferer fell back exhausted with his
labor, but bathed in glory. Now entered a personal friend of No. 2,
the despoiled soldier. No. 2 pleaded with him with eloquent eyes, till
presently he understood, and removed the coffin from under No. 1's bed
and put it under No. 2's. No. 2 indicated his joy, and made some more
signs; the friend understood again, and put his arm under No. 2's
shoulders and lifted him partly up. Then the dying hero turned the dim
exultation of his eye upon No. 1, and began a slow and labored work with
his hands; gradually he lifted one hand up toward his face; it grew weak
and dropped back again; once more he made the effort, but failed again