"It is, it is—couldn't you see? Tell me quickly—don't, don't jest again!"
"Be sure I shall not. Sit down."
But she stood still, with an arm extended to the picture, and again implored me: "See—I'm waiting. Where—how—did you get it?"
"Sit down," I said; and this time she obeyed with a little cry of impatience.
"I'll try to bring it back," I said. "It was that day Sheridan hurried back to find his army broken—all but beaten. Just at dark there was a last charge—a charge that was met. I went down in it, hearing yells and a spitting fire, but feeling only numbness. When I woke up the firing was far off. Near me I could hear a voice, the voice of a young man, I thought, wounded like myself. I first took him for one of our men. But his talk undeceived me. It was the talk of your men, and sorrowful talk. He was badly hurt; he knew that. But he was sure of life. He couldn't die there like a brute. He had to go back and he would go back alive and well; for God was a gentleman, whatever else He was, and above practical jokes of that sort. Then he seemed to know he was losing strength, and he cried out for a picture, as if he must at least have that before he went. Weak as he was, he tried to turn on his side to search for it. 'It was here a moment ago,' he would say; 'I had it once,' and he tried to turn again, still crying out for it,—he must not die without it. It hurt me to hear his voice break, and I made out
