ked into camp, asking if a Mr. Halsey was
there. He signified that he was the gentleman, whereupon the other drew
out my note, saying a young lady on the cars had requested him to
deliver it. Instantly recognizing the chirography, he asked where I
was. "Hammond. This is her name," replied the other, extending to him
my card. Thinking, as he modestly confessed, that I had intended it
only for him, Mr. Halsey coolly put it into his pocket, and called for
his horse. Mr. Howard lingered still, apparently having something to
say, which he found difficult to put in words. At last, as the other
prepared to ride off, with a tremendous effort he managed to say, "The
young lady's card is mine. If it is all the same to you, I should like
to have it returned." Apologizing for the mistake, Mr. Halsey returned
it, feeling rather foolish, I should imagine, and rode on to the
village, leaving, as he avers, Mr. Howard looking enviously after the
lucky dog who was going to see _such_ a young lady.

He told me something that slightly disgusted me with Captain Bradford.
It was that when he reached the bivouac the next morning after leaving
Linwood, the Captain had put him under arrest for having stayed there
all night. It was too mean, considering that it is more than probable
that he himself remained at Mrs. Fluker's. We discovered, too, that we
had missed two letters Mr. Halsey had written us, which, _of course_,
is a great disappointment. One, written to both, the other, a short
note of ten pages, for me, which I am sure was worth reading.

It was not until after sunset that we exhausted all topics of conversation,
and Mr. Halsey took his leave, promising to see us in the morning.

And, to be sure, as soon as I was dressed on Saturday, he again made
his appearance, followed soon after by the carriage. Taking a cordial
leave of Mrs. Cate, with many thanks for her hospitality, we entered
our conveyance, and with Mr. Halsey riding by the side of the carriage,
went on our way. He was to accompany us only as far as Ponchatoula--some
six miles; but the turning-point in his journey seemed to be an
undetermined spot; for mile after mile rolled away--rather the wheels
rolled over them--and still he rode by us, talking through the window,
and the sprays of wild flowers he would pick for me from time to time
were growing to quite a bouquet, when he proposed an exchange with the
farmer who was driving us, and, giving him his horse, took the reins