From the tent of old Psalmsinger there had emerged the only member of the gentler sex who had reached Happy Rest.
For only a moment she stood still and looked about her, as if uncertain which way to go; but before she had taken a step, old Psalmsinger raised his voice, and said:
“I thort it last night, when I only seed her in the moonlight, but I know it now—she’s a lady, an’ no mistake. Ef I was a bettin’ man, I’d bet all my dust on it, an’ my farm to hum besides!”
A number of men immediately announced that they would bet, in the speaker’s place, to any amount, and in almost any odds. For, though old Psalm, by reason of non-participation in any of the drinks, fights, or games with which the camp refreshed itself, was considered a mere nonentity, it was generally admitted that men of his style could tell a lady or a preacher at sight.
The gentle unknown finally started toward the largest group of men, seeing which, several smaller groups massed themselves on the larger with alacrity.
As she neared them, the men could see that she was plainly dressed, but that every article of attire was not only neat but tasteful, and that she had enough grace of form and carriage to display everything to advantage. A few steps nearer, and she displayed a set of sad but refined features, marred only by an irresolute, purposeless mouth.
Then an ex-reporter from New York turned suddenly to a graceless young scamp who had once been a regular ornament to Broadway, and exclaimed:
“Louise Mattray, isn’t it?”
“’Tis, by thunder!” replied the young man. “I knew I’d seen her somewhere. Wonder what she’s doing here?”
The reporter shrugged his shoulders.