It is the surgeon-in-chief, who happens to give our particular Christmas dinner,—I mean the one that interests you and me. Huldah and the other ladies had accepted his invitation. Horace Bartlett and his staff, and some of the other officers, were guests; and the doctor had given his own permit that Major Barthow might walk up to his quarters with the ladies. Huldah and he were in advance, he leaning, with many apologies, on her arm. Dr. Sprigg and Anna Thwart were far behind. The two married ladies, as needing no escort, were in the middle. Major Barthow enjoyed the emancipation, was delighted with his companion, could not say enough to make her praise the glimpses of Virginia, even if it were West Virginia.
"What a party it is, to be sure!" said he. "The doctor might call on us for our stories, as one of Dickens's chiefs would do at a Christmas feast. Let's see, we should have
The Surgeon's Tale;
The General's Tale;
for we may at least make believe that Hod's stars have come from Washington. Then we must call in that one-eyed servant of his; and we will have
The Orderly's Tale.
Your handsome friend from Wisconsin shall tell
The German's Tale.
I shall be encouraged to tell
The Prisoner's Tale.
And you"—