Who Goes There?. B. K. Benson

       --SHAKESPEARE.

      When I awoke in Dr. Khayme's tent toward four o'clock of the afternoon of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.

      On the cover of my bed an envelope was lying--a telegram. I hastily tore it open, and read: "Dr. Khayme tells me you are safe. Continue to do your duty." My heart swelled,

      I rose, and dressed, and went out. The Doctor was standing under a tree, near a fire; a negro was cooking at the fire. Under an awning, or fly, beneath which a small eating table was dressed, a woman was sitting in a chair, reading. I thought I had seen her before, and looking more closely I recognized the woman who had given the Doctor a cup of coffee on Pennsylvania Avenue.

      The Doctor stepped forward to meet me, "Ah, I see you have rested well," said he; then, "Lydia, here is Mr. Berwick."

      I was becoming accustomed to surprises from the Doctor, so that I was not greatly astonished, although I had received no intimation of the young lady's identity. The feeling that was uppermost was shame that I had not even, once thought of asking the Doctor about her.

      "I should, never have recognized you," I said. She replied with, a smile, and the Doctor relieved the situation by cheerfully crying out "Dinner!" and leading the way to the table.

      "Now, Jones," said the Doctor, "you are expected to eat; you have had nothing since yesterday afternoon, when you choked yourself while bandaging--"

      "What do you know about that?" I asked.

      "You talked about it in your sleep last night on the road. As for Lydia and me, we have had our breakfast and our luncheon, and you must not expect us to eat like a starving fantassin. Fall to, my boy. I know that you have eaten nothing to-day."

      There were fruit, bread and butter, lettuce, rice, and coffee. I did not wonder at the absence of meat; I remembered some of the talks of my friend. The Doctor and his daughter seemed to eat merely for the purpose of keeping me in countenance.

      "Lydia, would you have known Mr. Berwick?"

      "Why, of course, Father; I should have known him anywhere; it is not four years since we saw him."

      These four years had made a great change in Miss Khayme. I had left her a girl in the awkward period of a girl's life; now she was a woman of fine presence, wholesome, good to look at. She did not resemble her father, except perhaps in a certain intellectual cast of feature. Her dark wavy tresses were in contrast with his straight black hair; her eyes were not his; her stature was greater than his. Yet there were points of resemblance. Her manner was certainly very like the Doctor's, and many times a fleeting expression was identical with, the Doctor's habitually perfect repose.

      She must have been clad very simply; at any rate, I cannot remember anything of her dress. I only know that it was unpretentious and charming.

      Her eyes were of that shade of gray which is supposed to indicate great intelligence; her complexion was between dark and fair, and betokened health. Her face was oval; her mouth a little large perhaps. She had an air of seriousness--her only striking peculiarity. One might have charged her with masculinity, but in this respect only: she was far above the average woman in dignity of manner and in consciousness of attainment. She could talk seriously of men and things.

      I was wishing to say something pleasant to Miss Lydia, but could only manage to tell her that she had changed wonderfully and that she had a great advantage over me in that I was the same ungainly boy she had known in Charleston.

      She did not reply to this, covering her silence by making me my third cup of coffee.

      "Lydia," said the Doctor, "you must tell Mr. Berwick something about our life in the East. You know how I dislike to speak three sentences."

      "With great pleasure, Father; Mr. Berwick will find that I can speak four."

      "Not now, my dear. I warn you, Jones, that I shall watch over you very carefully while you are with us. I am responsible to the hospital surgeon for your health, and I cannot be a party to your extinction."

      "How many sentences did you speak then, Father?"

      "It depends on how you punctuate," he replied.

      "Mr. Berwick," said Lydia, "Father pretends that he is not talkative, but don't you believe him. He can easily talk you to sleep."

      The Doctor was almost gay, that is, for the Doctor. His eyes shone. He did not cease to look at me, except when he looked at Lydia. For the time, Lydia had a severer countenance than her father's. I ate. I thanked my stars for the conversation that was covering my ignoble performance.

      "Doctor," I asked, pausing for breath, "is there any news of Willis?"

      "Willis is doing well enough. The ball has been extracted; it was only a buck-shot, as you rightly surmised."

      "How do you know what I surmised, Doctor?"

      "Willis told the surgeon of your supposition, giving you full credit for the origin of it. By the way, that was a famous bandage you gave him."

      "Was it the correct practice?"

      "Well, I can hardly go as far as to say it was scientific, but under the circumstances we must pardon you."

      "How long will the sergeant be down?"

      "From three to six weeks, I think, according to the weather and his state of mind."

      "What's the matter with his mind?"

      "Impatience," said the Doctor; "the evil of the whole Western world."

      I had finished eating. The Doctor got his pipe: the idol's head was the same old idol's head. Lydia disappeared into one of the tents.

      "Jones," said Dr. Khayme, "I have been thinking that yesterday will prove to be the crisis of the war."

      "You alarm me more than ever; do you mean to say that the South will win?"

      "My words do not imply that belief; but what does it matter which side shall win?"

      "Doctor, you are a strange man!"

      "I have been told so very frequently; but that is not to the point. I ask what difference it would make whether the North or South should succeed."

      "Then why go to war? Why not let the South, secede peaceably? What are we doing here?"

      "Indeed, Jones, you may well ask such questions. War is always wrong; going to war is necessarily a phase of a shortsighted policy; every wrong act is, of course, an unwise act."

      "Even when war is forced upon us?"

      "War cannot be forced upon you; it takes two nations to make war; if one refuses, the other cannot make war."

      "I have known, for a long time, Doctor, that you are opposed to war on the whole; but what was left for the North to do? Acknowledge the right of secession? Submit to insult? Submit to the loss of all Federal property in the Southern States? Tamely endure