(i
THE MAN WHO HADN’T TlME.‘
He never had time to play.
He never had time to rest,
But he worked away and thought of a. day
When what he had done would attest
- The usefulness of his life. ”
His worth as a man among men;
Then he would quit the strife.—
He would rest on his laurels then. #,
As a hondman chained he slaved,
Ever looking ahead; 5 '.
Asa miscr he boarded and saved, , l , ,3
Grudging his daily bread i v {
Beyond was a happy day— - ' A ,g
Nearer and nearer it drew— 3A. ~
IV’hen his work should be put away Raf,
I; .And cares should be'banished, tool :34!
At last, upon a day,
When the sun was low in the west.
5 He put. his work away,
And sat him down to res't,
lint where was the dreamed-of bliss?
And why was it now denied?
Things seemed to be going amiss—
So he brooded awhile and died.
~S. E. Kiser in Cleveland Loader.
A PAIR OF SINNERS.
BY ST. JOHN ADCOCK.
She was the only daughter of a dra-
pcr who had once been eminent and
was now retired; he was a young and
prosperous barrister. Her manners
and habits of thought were, perhaps,
overrefined and affected; she was of a
morbidly poetical temperament, and
looked at life always through a prism
of sentiment. He was unimaginative
and practical.
Naturally, then, when they met they
loved; and she was too romantic and
he too matter—of-‘fact to believe in a
long engagement.
They had been two months married,
and but just returned from the honey-
moon, were seated cozily by the fire one
wild, wintry evening, when Mabel, in a
languishing mood of sentimental mel-
ancholy, unburdened herself of a tardy
confession.
It had really never occurred to her
during the rapture of their short en-
gagement, but once or twice before
since their marriage it had risen to
her lips, but, fearing it might make a
note of discord in the harmony of their
wedded lives, she had left it unspoken.
It was a trifle, no doubt; but hers was a
disposition that magnified trifies. She
found a. subtle joy in‘grief, as do all
who are surfeited with happiness, and,
under such circumstances, the small-
ness of the grief is no disadvantage.
“Are you sure, Clarence,” she asked
him, sighing, “that you really love
me?”
“Absolutely, dearest."
"And you have never loved any one
but._me?”
“Never—never—never! ” .
“And you will love me always?”
”Forever.”
He'yawned and looked at his watch.
They were half expecting a visitor.
“Suppose I had a secret in my life
which I had never revealed to you?”
She regarded him yearningly.
“What sort of secret?"
“I always used to say, dear, that I
had told you all about myself—every—
thing; that I was keeping nothing back
from you. I am so sorry!” Her eyes
grew misty with tears. “I did not in-
tend to deceive you. There is one~—on-
l) one—event of my life I have never
mentioned to you. I had forgotten it
until lately.
“Well—and what is it?”
rup-ted, a little irritably.
be inter-
She sank down on the rug beside
hub in an attitude of supplication, and
clasped her arms about his knees. !
“Don’t look at me so coldly, Clar-l
ence." she pleaded. “Don’t speak so
harshly. Say you will forgive me,
dearest. I know there should be no
secrets between us, but it is such a.
little, little secret, and I never meant ,
to-—”
“No—no. Well—let me know what
it is.”
“It overwhelmed me with shame.
Oh, words cannot tell how deeply it
humiliated me.”
“My dear child, do calm yourself."
He laughed, but felt vaguely uneasy.
“It can't have been anything so very
awful.”
“I will tell you, Clarence.”
She dried her eyes, and, reaching rp,
laid a hand upon his shoulder caress-
ingly.
“Did you know, dear, that I once used
to write poetry?”
“Well, many persons do that. It
may be foolish, but it is not wicked.”
“I wrote a. great deal of it. My sole
ambition then was to be a poetess.
Much of . what I wrote was love
poetry—7’
“Addressed, I presume, to the heart-
less man you just referred to?"
“No“, dear. It was addressed to quite '
imaginary persons.”
“Well, well! Yes?"
“And'ab‘out'sixyears ago, dear, I col-
le'cted an my poems into a volume and
published them.”
“And the heartless man was the pub-
Eisner?"
“No. The publisher was exceedingly
kind. He thought very highly of my
Work-J
“Never mind the publisher. I am
.anxious to get to that heartless man.”
“The book was published, and I saw
only one review of it, and that—it was
in a paper called The Writer—Oh, Clar-
ence, it was cruel—cruel!”
' “If that is all—" _
“All! It humiliates me to think of
It even now. I remember every har-
row’ing word of it, but I cannot—cannot
bring myself to repeat them."
“Don't try to. My dear girl, why on
earth should you upset yourself like
this over a trivial matter that hap-
pened and was forgotten six years ago
by everybody but yourself?"
“But think how I suffered! The
publicity—the disgrace! ‘These poems,’
. he wrote—oh, do not ask me what he
' said!”
“I assure you, I won’t."
“For months after I avoided all who
knew. me. Such contempt—such ridi-
pon ‘-
1
I I ,was the worst ,of the two.
rule as be poured upon me in that re-
lf there is any man I hate—-
view!
res, hatc. (‘lai'cnceE—it is he."
“And he may be quite a harmless,
:no‘ffenzir ::-:L of ass, if we only knew
aim.”
"I witL-Ercw the book instantly and
Ournt tlzc entire edition.”
“if all authors accepted their critics'
verdict in the same spirit, that man
who wrcze about the hundred'best au-
';hors world have had to fix his total
at lift-r."
"I l‘._l; :23 if all the world were laugh-
ing at 11.0."
She :hmldered at the recollection of
it.
“By Jove! Of course, the best of
:ritics are not angels, but yours must
have teen a-—”
“A heartless, heartless man!”
“If it had been a man’s book——-"
“He may not have known I was a
woman."
“You are too severe. No reviewer
criticizes a book till he has read the
title page.”
“21:: I did not use my own name. .
i wanted to see if they would mistake
my work for that of a man. I called it
‘Heart Longings, by Harold Ranson;
but all my friends knew, so that really
made no difference.”
“Not a bit."
He had grown suddenly thoughtful,
and spoke absently.
“You wil lforgive me, darling—-
won’t you?—for deceiving you?"
“Deceiving me?” he asked.
“Well, for seeming not to confide in
you unreservedly?”
Taking the childish, pretty face be-
tween his hands, he gazed down into
her dreamy blue eyes, and laughed
softly to himself.
“I—don’t—know,” he said.
“But—it was nothing actually wrong,
Clarence,” she cried indignantly; then,
melting again, “I know, dear, I used to
say all along that I had concealed
nothing from you. I had told you ev-
erything—”
“I used to say the same to you, didn’t
I ?”
“Yes." ~
“Well, coming to think of it, I re-
member I have a secret which I have
never disclosed to you. So, after all,
we are each as bad as the other.”
She started, and scanned his features
eagerly.
“You? A secret, Clarence?”
“Only a little one—like yours.”
“But mine was no secret. I had
forgotten it,” she protested. “Besides,
mine was nothing for which you could
blame me!”
“I wish I could say that of mine."
“Clarence!” she sobbed, "you have
been deceiving me!”
“No; I had forgotten about it.”
“You always said,” she faltered, her
lips quivering, “you never loved any
girl until you met me.”
“Now, I want you to make me a
promise: If I forgive you, you will for-
give me?"
She hesitated.
“Tell me, first, all about it.” 7
“Do you promise?" he insisted.
“Oh, Clarence, you can never be the
same .to me again! I do hope it is
nothing dreadful. What can it be? 1-—
I—"'
“Do—you——"
“Yes, yes, dear. I promise!” she said
desperately. “Whatever it is, I love
you and I must forgive you."
“You won’t hate me?’_’
“I could not."
She pressed her handkerchief to her
eyes.
“I won’t keep you in suspense," said
he. “We have both been sinners, and
I must
tell you, then. Before I was a success-
ful barrister I was a good-for-nothing
young scoundrel with a very good opin-
ion of myself and a very bad one of
everybody else. I was a wicked young
dog and did several scandalous things
that I am ashamed of now."
She canghther breath and waited in
an agony of expectation. He seemed
very serious, and yet a bailing smile
was flickering round the corners of
his mouth.
“They were all of the same descrip-
tion, but I am sorry on account of one
in particular."
“And that?"
“Well, being hard up, I used to earn
old guineas in all manner of odd ways.
I was a flippant, self—satisfied brute,
and—” he paused, and putting an arm
about her, drew her closer to him. “ I
have a heart now—you know I have,
sweetheart, don’t you? But once upon
a. time—you have promised to forgive
me, and not to hate mel—in the days
when you published your book, I
was—"
“You—you, were?”
“The heartless man who reviewed
itl”—St. Paul’s. '
. on! in the Service.
“How are you getting along with
your new servant girl?" asked the call-
er. .
“Our new servant girl?” replied the
hostess, with some indignation in her
voice. “Why, she has been with us for
four days!"
Exceptions.
“Oratory is a. gift," remarked the
admiring constituent. “Well," replied
Farmer Corntossell, “mostly it is. But
now and then a man gets good enough
at. it to charge you fur listenin’.”-—
Washington Star.
In the Winter Months.
“Mrs. Lowdiet,” meekly muttered the
hitherto patient boarder, “I can stand
hash every day without a. murmur; but
when you put. raisins in it and call it
mince pic, I draw the line.”
Teacher (in geography claim—"John
nie, how is the earth divided?” John-
nle (who. reads the foreign. news)—-
“Don’t know; I haven't read the pa—
per: this morning."—Chicago News.
- ' , *‘1
i...“
w E u KLY
JUSTIFI ABLE DECEIT
"Yes. mother, he will come. Of
course he will come!” and the girl
turned her drawn and anxious young
face toward the cottage door, just as if
her blind mother could see the action.
It IS probable that the old woman di-
vined the longing glance from the
change in the girl’s tone, for she, too,
half turned toward the door. It was a.
a habit these two women had acquired.
They constantly looked toward the
door for the arrival of one who never
came through the long summer days,
through the quiet winter evenings;
moreover, they rarely spoke of other
things; this arrival was the topic of
their lives. And now the old woman’s
life was drawing to a close, as some
lives do, without its object. She her-
self felt it and her daughter knew it.
He had left them eighteen years be-
fore in afit of passionate resentment
against his father, whose only fault
had been too great indulgence for the
son of his old age. Nothing had been
too good for dear Stephen—hardly any-
thing lrad been good enough. Educated
at a charity school himself, the simple
old clergyman held the mistaken view
that no man can be educated above his
station. '
Stephen Leach left England, and be-
fore he landed in America his father
had departed on a longer journey. The
never-do-well had the good grace to
send back the little sums of money
saved by his mother in her widowhood,
and gradually his letters ceased. It
was known that he was in Chili, and
there was war going on there, and yet
the good old lady’s faith never wav-
ered.
“He will come, Joyce. He will sure-
ly come.”
And the girl would go to the window
and draw aside the curtains, lookng
down the quiet country road toward
the village.
“Yes, mother, he will come,” was her
usual answer; and one day she gave
a little exclamation of surprise and al-
most of fear.
“Mother,” she exclaimed, “there is
some one coming along the road.”
The old lady .was already sitting up
in bed, staring with her sightless orbs
toward the window.
Thus they waited. The man stopped
opposite the cottage, and the two wom«
en heard the latch of the gate. Then
Joyce, turning, saw that her mother
had fainted. But it was only momen‘
tary. By the time she reached the bed
her mother had recovered conscious—
ness.
“Go,” said the old lady, breathless-
ly, “go and let him in yourself."
Down stairs on the doorstep the girl
found a tall man of thirty or there-
abouts with a browner face than Eng~
lish suns could account for. He looked
down into her eager eyes with a
strange, questioning wonder.
“Am I too late?” he asked, in a voice
which almost seemed to indicate a hope
that it might be so.
“No, Stephen," she answered.
mother cannot live much longer.
are just in time.”
The young man made a hesitating
little movement with his right hand
and shuffled uneasily on the clean
stone step. He was like an actor called
suddenly upon the stage, having no
knowledge of his part. '
When he followed the girl across the
threshold of their mother's bedroom
the old-lady was sitting up in bed,
holding out trembling hands toward
the door.
Here StephensLeach seemed to know
better what to do. He heldhis mother
in his arms while she sobbed and mur-
mured out her joy. He had no words,
but his arms meant more than his lips
could ever have told.
It would seem that the best part of
happiness is sharing it with some one
else.
“J oyce," continued the old lady. fev.
erishly, “I am not afraid to die now,
for Stephen is here. Your brother will
take care of you, dear. when I am
gone."
It was strange that Stephen had not
spoken yet, and it was pcrlnips just
as well, because there are occasions in
life when men do wisely to keep si-
lent.
“He is strong,” the proud mother
went on, “I can feel it. His hands are
“But
You
” large and steady and quiet, and his
arms are big and very hard.”
The young man knelt upright and
submitted gravely to this maternal in-
ventory. '
“Yes,” she said, “I k‘hew he would
grow to be a big man. His little fin-
gers were so strong-he hurt me some
times. What a great mustache. I knew
you would become a soldier. And the
skin of your face is brown and a little
rough. ,What is this? What is this,
Stephen, dear? Is this a. wound?”
“ch." answered the prodigal, speak-
ing for the first time. “This is a sword
cut. 1 got that in the last war. I am
a colonel in the Chilian army, or was,
before I resigned.” '
Such was the home-coming of the
prodigal. After all he arrived at the
right moment in the afternoon, when
the house was ready. It sometimes
'does happen so in real life, and not
only in books. There is a great deal
that might be altered in this world,
but sometimes by a. mere chance
things come about rightly. And yet
there was something wrong, something
subtle. which the dying woman's dull
cr senses failed to detect. Her son, he:
Stephen. was quiet and had not much
to so y for himself. ' He apparently had
the habit of taking things as they
(ma-c. There was no enthusiasm. bui
rmlwr :l restraint. in his manner, more
csyrrinlly toward Joyce:—
.\i‘u-r the first excitement of the re
mm was over’ it became glaringly up
part-m that Stephen had'just arrived
in time. His mother fell into a happy
sleep before sunset. and when the ac
' asleep and quiet—too quiet.
five young doctor came a little later in
the evening he shook his head.
“I see that she is
Some on.
“Yes,” he said.
people have it.”
Presently the doctor took his leave.
He was a young man engaged in get-
ting together a good practice; and in
his own. interest he had been forced to
give up waiting for his patients to flu
ish dying.
“I am glad you are here.” he said to
Stephen, who accompanied him to the
door. “It would not do for your sis,-
ter to be alone; this may go on for a
couple of days.”
It did not go on for a couple of days,
but Mrs. Leach lived through that
night in the same semi-comatose state.
The two watchers sat in her room un-
til supper time, when they left their
mother in charge of a hired nurse,
whose services Joyce had been forced
to seek.
After supper Leach seemed at last
to find his tongue, and he talked in his
quiet, almost gentle voice, such as
some men possess, not about himself
or the past, but about Joyce and the
futurc.‘ In a deliberate, business-lil-zc
way he proceeded to investigate the at-
fairs of the dying woman and the pros-
pects of her daughter; in a word. he
asserted his authority as a brother.
and Joyce was relieved and happy to
obey him.
It is not in times of gayety that
friendships are formed, but in sorrow
or suspense. During that last evening
this brother and sister suddenly be-
came intimate, more so than months of
prosperous intercourse could have
made them. At ten o’clock Stephen
quietly insisted that Joyce should go
to bed, while he lay down, all dressed.
on the sofa in the dining-room.
“I shall sleep perfectly; it is not the
first time I have slept in my clothes,”
he said simply.
The next morning Mrs. Leach was
fully
stronger; nevertheless she knew that
the end was near. She called her two
children to her bedside, and turning
her blind eyes toward them, spoke in
broken sentences:
“I am ready now—I am ready,” she
>~said. “Dear‘ I am going to your father
—and . . . thank God I can tell
him that I left you together. I always
knew Stephen would come back. I
found it written everywhere in the Bi-
ble—kiss me, dear!"
The man leaned over the bed and
kissed her.
“Ah, she sighed, “how I wish I could
see you—just once before I die; Joyce!"
she added, suddenly turning to her
daughter, who stood at the other side
of the bed, “tell me what he is like.
But I knew . . . I know—I feel it.
Listen!
father. His hair is black, like his
father's—it was black before he went
away. His eyes, I know, were dark—
almost black. He is pale—dike a Span-
lard!”
Joyce looked across the bed with
slow horror dawning in her face, look-
ed, into a pair of blue \eyes he-
neath tawny hair, cut short, as a sol-
dier’s hair should be. She looked upon
a man big, broad, fair—English, from
crown to toe—and the quiet command
of his lips and eyes made her say:
“Yes, mother, yes.”
For some moments there was silence,
Joyce stood pale and breathless, won-
dering what this might mean. Then
the dying woman spoke again:
“Kiss me," she said, “‘I—am going.
Stephen first; my first born! And now,
Joyce . . ., and now kiss each other
—across”thevbed! I want to hear it .
I want . . . to tell . . . your
. . father."
With a last effort she raised her
hands, seeking their heads. At first
Joyce hesitated, then she leaned for-
ward, and the old woman’s chilled fin-
fiers pressed their lips together. That
was the end.
Half an hour afterward Joyce and
this man stood facing each other in the
little dining-room. He began his ex-
planation at once.
“Stephen,” he said, “was shot—out
there-as a traitor. I could not tell
her that! I did not mean to do this,
but what else could I do?"
He paused, moved toward the door
with that strange hesitation which she
had noticed on his arrival. At the
door he turned to justify himself.
“I still think,” he said gravely, “that
it was the best thing to do."
“Joyce made no answer.
stood in her eyes. The e was some-
thing very pathetic in e distress of
this strong man, facing, at it were. an
emergency of which he felt the deli-
cacy to be beyond his cleverness to
handle.
“Last night,” he went on. “I made
all the necessary arrangements for
your future-just as Stephen would
have made them—as a brother might
have done. I . . . He and I were
brother omcers in a very wild army.
Your brother was not a good man.
‘ None of us were.”
His hand was on the door.
“He asked he to come and tell you,”
he added. “I shall go back now.”
They stood thus, be watching her
face with his honest, soft blue eyes,
she falling to meet his glance.
“May I come back again?” he asked
suddenly. .
She gave a little gasp, but made no
answer. '
“I will come back in six months," he
announced quietly, and then closed the
door behind him—Anon, in the Corn-
hlll Magazine. -
Her First Impreulon.
“0h, do look at that dear Mile
lamb?" said Frances, on seeing: a
young lamb for the first time'in 1m
life. . ‘ ,
“Isn’t it pretty?" asked momma.
“Yes; and it is so natural, too. {i
squeaks just like a. toplnmb, and im
the. same sort of Wool on its back,"
conscious and appeared to bel
He is tall and spare, like his .
The tears.
TRIMMING ON DRESSY GOWNS.
Cordlng Used In Every Possible “'ay on
Blouse I‘Vaiste.
The Pacquin skirt, with the circular
flounce from the knee and the aproh
effect with flounce below, seems to
lead in the organdie gowns, and nar-
row ruflies, ruches, and insertions of
lace are the prevailing modes of trim-
ming. Narrow satin ribbon, both
gathered and plain, is also ,very much
in evidence.
All the indications of coming fash-
ions tend to show that. dressy gowns
of every sort will have trimmed skirts,
but many of the tailor gowns are made
with plain skirts. 0f coui-se there are
exceptions, where rows of stitching,
cloth bands, or braid are used, but
the skirt which is nearly if not quite
plain is recommended by the most
fashionable tailors as the only means
of giving a. distinctive, ladylike ele-
gance to your gown, since the shops
are so filled with tucked, corded, and
lavishly braided models.
‘Skirts with all their diversity and
various modes of decoration cannot
certainly takes the lead as a. means of
producing variety of every sort. Cord-
ing is employed in every possible way
on the latest blouse waist, and is/cov-
ered with velvet in some contrasting
color, and sewn in curved or straight
lines across or up and down the bodice.
The material is not always gathered
over the cords, as it is one of the new
fancies to cover them plain.
Tacks are still and will continue to
be a. conspicuous feature of the silk
blouse waists, being made by the thou-
sand for spring and summer wear, but
the latest fancy is the fine tucks, no
wider than the tiny lines in an infant’s
gown. It is evidently the quality of
the handiwork which is to distinguish
the elegance of our gowns this sea-
son, and it cannot be too well done for
the approval of fashion. The tucks
can be arranged in horizontal or per-
pendicular groups, in squares or diag-
onal clusters, but they must be daintlly
fine. Rumor says that one of the fads
in diess for the coming summer will
be the silk waist of some dainty plain
color. worn with a. white pique Skirt or
lane of white mohair prettiiy tucked or
stitched in tiny cords. ’
claim the palm, for the blouse waist'
fl
' ~ :14 r» .n. N .
GEN. FITZHUVGH.’ IEE ,‘
OUR ERRING BROTHER WHO PROVES
HIMSELF THE MAN OF THE HOUR.
Educated at “’est Point He Left the, '
Army ,When I Virginia Seccded, and
Joined the Confederacy—Gen. Lee has
Been an Invaluable Government Officer
Thackeray says somewhere that
whenever you find a man whose friends
all call him by his first name that man
is very apt to be a good fellow. If this
were ever signally illustrated by any
one, it has been in the can; of Fitzhugh
Lee. Every man who knows himis his
friend, and all call him “Fitz.”
Sidney Smith Lee, the father of
Fitzhugh, was the fleet captain of Com—
modore Perry’s squadron when it
opened Japan to the world and western
' civilization. When the war began Capt.
Lee, of the United ‘States Navy, re-
signed about the same time his brother,
Robert E., his junior in age by: two
years, quitted the United States
Army. It was a terrible blow to Capt.
Smith Lee, as it was to his brother,
to leave the service of the United
States, in which he had passed forty
years of his life and won honor and
rank. But there was no other course,
from his point of view. Capt. Smith.
Lee’s first son was in the United States
Navy when the war began. He was
afterward a. lieutenant on the famous
confederate cruiser Shenandoah, Capt.
Waddell, the finest and swiftest fight-‘-
ing ship the confederacy ever owned.
HEN. FITZHUGH LEE.
But “Fitz,” the second of the famous
sons of Capt. Smith Lee, would go into
the army. He had inherited the cavalry
spirit of his grandsire, and when he
was fourteen could ride like a C0-
manche. So, in 1852, the lad, then sev-
enteen, was sent to our military school
on the Hudson,-which his grandfather,
“Light Horse Harry,” had helped
Vv‘ashington to found. You cannot al-
ways tell what a. man’s future will be
from his standing at school. Robert
E. Lee was second in the class of 1829
at West Point, a. class whose members
in after years were among the most
brilliant men of their time in our milit-
ary service. “Fitz" Lee graduated
third, “if you begin counting the class
from the bottom," as he always says.
The truth was—and still is—Lee was a.
man of action rather than a. student.
It was to the Second United States
Cavalry that Lieut. Fitzhugh Lee went,
after his graduating leave in 1856. His
active service commenced at once. The
Indians were much excited at the
crossing by emigrants of their lands
and hunting grounds. With his usual
energy Lieut. Lee distinguished him-
self in every fight with the Comanches
in which he took part. He had some
close calls.
In one Indian fight a. warrior, clash-
ing up close to him, shot Lee with an
arrow. It would have killed him had
not the point turned on a rib. As it
was it penetrated several inches, and
Lee had to ride about and command
his men with the feather end of the
arrow sticking out of his breast. It
began to be painful, and lying down on
his side, Lee called a friend and said:
“Jack, pull this devilish thing out.”
The friend gave a. tug. The arrow did
not move. “Put your foot against my
side and try it again.” The other did
so. The pain must have been horrible.
for Lee’s face. turned very white.
Finally, out came the shaft of the mis-
sile, leaving the steel head four or five
inches deep in the young lieutenant's
breast; It was a. severe wound, for the
heavy steel head could not be reached
by the surgeon. But the wound healed
over, and the steel happened to' be new
and clean, and therefore did not induce
blood-poisoning. For some years it
troubled Lieut. Lee, but was finally
absorbed and passed into the blood.
Ther were five of the Lees of Vir-
ginia wearing the United States uni-
form when South Carolina. fired on
Sumter. They all waited and watched
the trend and course of events. The
Lees would follow Virginia. alone, and
they waited for her word. When it
came, first Sidney Smith, then Robert,
G. W. Custis, Sidney Smith, Jr., of the
navy, finally and last Fitzhugh, all
quitted the service of the country _
whose foundations their fathers and
grandfathers had helped to lay. Of
the awful pain and reg-re: all felt (es-
pecialiy the seniors) at the dissolution
of the Union as they deemed it, there
is ample evidence extant. But go they
must. Virginia had at last spoken. She
was their cherishing mother. Her
word must be obeyed, and it was.
As a. soldier, Fitzhugh Lee was among
the very first of that gallant lot. of;
young general officers «no helped to;
make “Stuart’s Cavalry" the famous
corps it became, under its brilliant
young Virginia Chieftain and head. As
a leader Fitzhugh Lee was, perhaps.
the most popular officer in the corps
lifter Stuart himself. Stuart is in evi—
dence in oft-repeated words. showing
his appreciation of his young lieutcn~
ant.- It is, indeed, high praise when
Stuart commends an officer as he does
Fitzhugh. Lee.
wan,” .
Norwalk Chronicler