It was the day before Thanksgiving. The brief cloudy November afternoon was fast merging into early twilight. The trees, now gaunt and bare,
Picnicking in December would be a dreary experience even if one could command all the appliances of comfort which outdoor life permitted.
It was the beginning of a battle. The skirmish line of the Union advance was sweeping rapidly over a rough mountainous region in the South, and in his place on the extreme left of this line was Private Anson Marlow.
Not very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but at a considerable distance from the river, there stood, one hundred years ago, a farmhouse that evidently had been built as much for strength and defence as for comfort.
The August morning was bright and fair, but Herbert Scofield's brow was clouded. He had wandered off to a remote part of the grounds of a summer hotel on the Hudson,
"Mother," remarked Farmer Banning, discontentedly, "Susie is making a long visit." "She is coming home next week,"
Jeff, the hero of my tale, was as truly a part of the Southern Confederacy as the greater Jeff at Richmond. Indeed, were it not for the humbler Jeff and the class he represented,
"Jack, she played with me deliberately, heartlessly. I can never forgive her." "In that case, Will, I congratulate you. Such a girl isn't worth a second thought, and you've made a happy escape."