became more beautiful
and picturesque. Rich fields of grain waved on every side. Pretty
towns, villages, and hamlets seemed to me to lie everywhere, smiling in
the midst of plenty; in short, all that the heart of man could desire
was there in superabundance, and as one looked on the evidences of
plenty, one naturally associated it with the idea of peace.

But as that is not all gold which glitters, so the signs of plenty do
not necessarily tell of peace. Here and there, as we passed over the
land, we had evidences of this in burned homesteads and trampled fields,
which had been hurriedly reaped of their golden store as if by the sword
rather than the sickle. As we drew near to the front these signs of war
became more numerous.

We had not much time, however, to take note of them; our special service
required hard riding and little rest.

One night we encamped on the margin of a wood. It was very dark, for,
although the moon was nearly full, thick clouds effectually concealed
her, or permitted only a faint ray to escape now and then, like a gleam
of hope from the battlements of heaven.

I wandered from one fire to another to observe the conduct of the men in
bivouac. They were generally light-hearted, being very young and
hopeful. Evidently their great desire was to meet with the enemy.
Whatever thoughts they might have had of home, they did not at that time
express them aloud. Some among them, however, were grave and sad; a few
were stern--almost sulky.

Such was Dobri Petroff that night. Round his fire, among others, stood
Sergeant Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff.

"Come, scout," said the corporal, slapping Petroff heartily on the
shoulder, "don't be down-hearted, man. That pretty little sweetheart
you left behind you will never forsake such a strapping fellow as you;
she will wait till you return crowned with laurels."

Petroff was well aware that Corporal Shoveloff, knowing nothing of his
private history, had made a mere guess at the "little sweetheart," and
having no desire to be communicative, met him in his own vein.

"It's not that, corporal," he said, with a serious yet anxious air,
which attracted the attention of the surrounding soldiers, "it's not
that which troubles me. I'm as sure of the pretty little sweetheart as
I am that the sun will rise to-morrow; but there's my dear old mother
that lost a leg last Christmas by the overturning of a sledge, an' my
old father who's been bedridde