A War-Time Wooing | Page 8

boy."
And still there is no sign of recognition in Abbot's face. He is courteous,
sympathetic, but it is all too evident that there is something grievously
lacking.
"I fear there is some mistake," he gently says; "I have no recollection of
knowing or writing of any one of that name."

"Mistake! Good God! How can there be?" is the gasping response. The
tired old eyes are ablaze with grief, bewilderment, and dread
commingled. "Surely this is Lieutenant Paul Revere Abbot--of the--th
Massachusetts."
"It certainly is, doctor, but--"
"It surely is your photograph we have: surely you wrote to--to us all
this last year--letter after letter about my boy--my Guthrie."
There is an instant of silence that is almost agonizing. The colonel
stands like one in a state of shock. The old doctor, trembling from head
to foot, looks with almost piteous entreaty; with anguish and
incredulity, and half-awakened wrath, into the pale and distressed
features of the young soldier.
"I bitterly grieve to have to tell you, sir," is the sorrowful answer, "but I
know no such name. I have written no such letters."
Another instant, and the old man has dropped heavily upon the bench,
and buried his face in his arms. But for the colonel he might have fallen
prone to earth.

II.
An hour after sundown and the rattling old cabriolet has two occupants
as it drives back to town. Colonel Putnam comes forth with the old
gentleman whom he had so tenderly conducted to the farmhouse but a
few moments after the strange scene out on the bank, and is now his
escort to Frederick. The sergeant of the guard has been besieged with
questions, for several of the men saw the doctor drop upon the bench
and were aware of the melodramatic nature of the meeting. Lieutenant
Abbot with a face paler than before, with a strange look of perplexity
and smouldering wrath about his handsome eyes, has gone over to his
own tent, where the surgeon presently visits him. The colonel and his
civilian visitor are closeted together over half an hour, and the latter
looks more dead than alive, say the men, as he feebly totters down the

steps clinging to the colonel's arm.
"What did you say was the name of the officer who was killed--his
son?" asks one of the guards as he stands at the entrance to the tent.
"Warren--Guthrie Warren," answers the sergeant, briefly. "I don't know
whether the old man's crazy or not. He said the lieutenant had been
writing to him for months about his son, and the lieutenant denied
having written a line."
"He lied then, by----!" comes a savage growl from within the tent.
"Where is the old man? Give me a look at him!" and the scowling face
of Rix makes its sudden appearance at the tent-flop, peering forth into
the fire-light.
"Be quiet, Rix, and go back where you belong. You've made more than
enough trouble to-day," is the sergeant's low-toned order.
"I tell you I only want to see the old man," answers the teamster,
struggling, "Don't you threaten me with that bayonet, Drake," he growls
savagely at the sentry, who has thrown himself in front of the opening.
"It'll be the worse for you fellows that you ever confined me, no matter
by whose order; but as for that stuck-up prig, by----! you'll see soon
enough what'll come of his ordering me into the guard-tent."
His voice is so hoarse and loud with anger that the colonel's attention is
attracted. He has just seated Doctor Warren in the vehicle, and is about
to take his place by his side when Rix's tirade bursts upon his ear. The
words are only partially distinguishable, but the colonel steps promptly
back.
"What is the matter with your prisoner, sergeant? Is he drunk or crazy,
that he persists in this uproar?"
"I don't think it either, sir," answers the sergeant; while Rix, at sight of
his commanding officer, pops his head back within the tent, and shuts
the narrow slit. "He's simply ugly and bent on making trouble."

"Well, stop it! If he utters another insubordinate word, have him
bucked and gagged at once. He is disgracing the regiment, and I won't
tolerate it. Do you understand?"
"I do, sir."
The colonel turns abruptly away, while the prisoner, knowing his man,
keeps discreetly out of sight, and correspondingly silent. At the gate the
older officer stops once more and calls to a soldier who is standing
near.
"Give my compliments to Lieutenant Abbot, and say that I will be out
here again to-morrow afternoon. Now, doctor, I am with you."
The old gentleman is leaning wearily back in his corner of the cab; a
strange, stunned, lethargic feeling seems to have come over him. His
eyes