"Good night, Abe."
Frank left him. And Atwater, stretching himself upon the ground, put his arm beneath his head, and with the fire-light on his placid countenance, dismissed all worldly care from his mind, and slept peacefully.
OLD SINJIN.
At the foot of a pine tree, on a pillow of boughs, lies the old drum-major. The blaze of the bivouac fire covers him with its glow as with a mantle. But his face looks haggard and care-worn, and his grizzled mustache has a cynical curl even in sleep.
At a sound he starts, opening wide those watchful gray eyes an instant, then closing them quickly. It is a footstep approaching.
Stealthily it comes, and passes by his side. Then silence—broken only by the crackle and roar of the flames. At length one eye of the sleeper opens a little, and peeps; and as it peeps, it sees, sitting on the pine roots, in the broad fire-light, with his cap before his eyes shading them, and his eyes fixed wistfully on him, Frank, the drummer boy.
The eye that opened a little and peeped, closes again. The old fellow begins to snore.
"Poor old man!" says the boy to himself; "how tired he looks. And to think I have done so much to hurt his feelings! I wish I could tell him how sorry I am; but I must not wake him."
Again the ambushed eye opens, and the little corner of the sleeper's soul that happens to be not asleep, reconnoitres. Frank is sitting there still, faithfully watching. A stream of electric fire tingles in that misanthropic breast, at the sight. But still the old man snores.