laughingly to the departing guests; it seemed exquisite music to the
major. Then the door closed, and the major, with a groan, retired within
his own door, and sorrowfully consumed many cigars.

The week that followed was a very dismal one to the major. He petted his
garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant
habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and
his whistling--sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes
wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression--was restricted to the
execution of dead-marches alone. He jeopardized his queen so often at
chess that Parson Fisher deemed it only honorable to call the major's
attention to his misplays, and to allow him to correct them.

The saddler post-master noticed that the major--usually a most
accomplished smoker--now consumed a great many matches in relighting
each pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to
meet Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and
raised hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober
herself for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any
way have given the major offense.

As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major's desk for many sorrowful
hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely
written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless,
collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner
traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a
flute.

The major complained--rather frequently for a man who had spent years on
the Plains--of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally