I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

Her eyes danced, her brows arched. "Haven't you got"--she hid her smile
with an embroidered handkerchief--"haven't you got your second figure
upside down?" I glared, but with one look of hurt sisterliness she
melted me. Then, pensive just long enough to say, "I was nineteen once,"
she shot me a sidelong glance so roguish that I was dumb with
indignation and tried to find my mustache, forgetting I had shaved it
off to stimulate it. She smiled in sweet propitiation and then came
gravely to business. "Have you come from beyond the pickets?"

"No, madam."

"Have you met any officer riding toward them?"

I had not. Her driver gathered the reins and I drew back.

"Good-bye, New Orleans soldier-boy," she said, gaily, and as I raised my
cap she gave herself a fetching air and added, "I'll wager I know
your name."

"Madam,"--my cap went higher, my head lower--"I never bet."

I could not divine what there was ridiculous about me, except a certain
damage to my dress, of which she could not possibly be aware as long as
I remained in the saddle. Yet plainly she wanted to laugh. I made it as
plain that I did not.

"Good-day, sir," she said, with forced severity, but as I smiled