'Let me kiss him for his mother!' she cried, as I interrupted her progress. 'Do let me kiss him for his mother!'
'Kiss whom?'
'The dear little lieutenant, the one who lies dead within. P'int him out to me, sir, if you please. I never saw him, but—oh!'
I led her through a room in which Lieutenant ——, of Philadelphia, lay stretched out on an up-turned trough, fast asleep. Supposing him to be the 'article' sought for, she rushed up, and exclaiming, 'Let me kiss him for his mother,' approached her lips to his forehead. What was her amazement when the 'corpse,' ardently clasping its arms around her, returned the salute vigorously, and exclaimed:
'Never mind the old lady, Miss, go it on your own account. I haven't the slightest objection!'
Sentiment is a fine thing, Mr. Editor, but it should be handled as one handles the spiked guns which the rebels leave behind, loaded with percussion-caps—very carefully.
Yours amazingly,
Warden.
Readers who are desirous of seeing Ravenshoe fully played out will please glance at the following: