her.

Colonel Winchester gave the young officers who had been awake all night
permission to sleep, and Dick was glad to avail himself of it. He still
felt weak, and ill, and, with a tender smile, remembering his mother's
advice about the blanket, he spread one in the shade of a small oak and
lay down upon it.

Despite the terrible repulse of the morning most of the men had regained
their usual spirits. Several were playing accordions, and the others
were listening. The Winchesters were known as a happy regiment, because
they had an able colonel, strong but firm, efficient and tactful minor
officers. They seldom got into mischief, and always they pooled their
resources.

One lad was reading now to a group from a tattered copy of "Les
Miserables," which had just reached them. He was deep in Waterloo and
Dick heard their comments.

"You wait till the big writers begin to tell about Chickamauga and
Gettysburg and Shiloh," said one. "They'll class with Waterloo or ahead
of it, and the French and English never fought any such campaign as that
when Grant came down through the Wilderness. What's that about the
French riding into the sunken road? I'm willin' to bet it was nothing
but a skirmish beside Pickett's charge at Gettysburg."

"And both failed," said Warner. "There are always brave men on every
side in any war. I don't know whether Napoleon was right or wrong--
I suppose he was wrong at that time--but it always makes me feel sad to
read of Waterloo."