One day a box came from the North. It was addressed to "George Washington McKinley Jones, care of Colonel Austin;" but as G. W. was incapable of reading he sharply questioned the messenger who delivered it.

"How you know dis 'blongs ter me?" asked he.

"There's your name," said the messenger.

"Whar?"

The patient messenger traced the boy's illustrious name.

"What's dar 'sides my name?"

"Care of Colonel Austin."

"Oh!" said G. W., understandingly, "dat means I'se got ter take care ob it fur my Colonel! I reckon dey needn't took all de trouble to write dat foolishness out! Co'se I'll take care of it."

G. W. ran straight to Colonel Austin's tent. The officer was sitting inside, and, as it happened, alone.

"Hello, G. W., what have you there?"

The boy held the big box out gravely. Colonel Austin read the address. "It's for you, my boy," he said. "Open it and let us see what is inside. Here, let us drop the tent-flap and keep the surprise to ourselves."

When the Colonel said the package was for him all doubt fled from G. W.'s heart. Others might step from truth's narrow way—but his Colonel? Oh, never! The exciting thought that the box was really for himself made the sturdy little form quiver. His hands shook, and the big brown eyes stood open, as round as full moons.

The heavy papers were off at last. Upon the box itself lay a square white envelope, breathing forth a fragrance of violets, and stating as plainly as could be, in delicate lettering, that the contents of the envelope were also for G. W.

"There's something for you in the letter—open that first," said the Colonel. He was eyeing the scene with a strange look upon his face. "Shall I read it for you, G. W.?" he added.

"Yes, sah! I guess you'll have to, sah, sump-in' seems de matter wid my eyes," said G. W. "You jes' read it, Colonel. Read it slow an' exactly what it done say, kase I doan't want any mistake, sah, 'bout dis sort ob thing."

"All right, old man,—just tell me if I go too fast."

Then the Colonel began:

"To George Washington McKinley Jones,

private in the Ninth Infantry:

"Dear Sir: The enclosed are for you. They were made in Uncle Sam's workshop, just where all the brave boys have theirs made"—

"You reads too fast, Colonel!" gasped G. W., tiny drops of perspiration standing out on his face.

The Colonel began again at the beginning, and then went on, reading slowly:

"I am sure they will fit, because a little messenger brought me the measurements. Accept them with our love, and wear them like the hero you will certainly be some day. There is just one way you can thank us; bring Colonel Austin home to us safe and sound, well and strong. See that he obeys you where this is concerned. We wish him to do his duty, but do not let anything happen to him.

"God bless you, little soldier! That is the daily wish of

"The Boy and his Mother."

There was silence in the tent.

Then said the Colonel, "Well, why don't you open the box, G. W.?"

The boy was kneeling before the box, but his eyes were fastened upon a photograph on the rude table. It was a photograph of "the Boy and his Mother," G. W. felt certain; and he was realizing that these two, far away in the unknown, had spoken to him.

"Open it, G. W.," again the Colonel said.

"You do it, sah! I clar I doan't dare!"

The officer laughed, and cut the string. Within the box, neatly folded, but in such a way as to hide none of their charms, lay trousers and jacket of army blue resplendent with flashing buttons.

Colonel Austin took the garments out, and held them up at arms' length. They were small, but perfect.

"Lawd!" gasped G. W.; "for de Lawd's sake!"

A moment of breathless silence followed; then Colonel Austin said, "They are yours, G. W., try them on! You are 'one of the boys' now for sure and certain, buttons and all! See, there is a '9' on every button!"

Slowly the surprise cleared away in G. W.'s brain. He gave a low whistle, like the note of a bird, and struggled to his feet, for he was still on his knees by the box.

"Colonel," he whispered, "you ain't never tole me a lie—but dis here 'sperience done tries my mind! Turn away yo' head, sah."

Colonel Austin turned away his head and waited.

Behind his back arose a rustling, with mutters of impatience, as buttons refused to comply with the nervous efforts of awkward and trembling fingers. Then came a long breath of content, as things began to run smoother, and presently a sigh of superhuman bliss; then a voice, new and deep, gasped forth:

"Look at me!"

The Colonel turned. There, his face and hands in a tremble, but all exultant, stood G. W. in the uniform of the Ninth. The coat was buttoned crooked, the cap, which G. W. had discovered at the bottom of the box, was hind part before—but what of that? In all the army of the great Republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his Colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face.

"Comrade, give us your hand!" There was a mistiness in the Colonel's eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "You'll never disgrace the uniform, my boy,—it isn't in you to do it!"

G. W. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in Colonel Austin's.

"Dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho! An', Colonel, I'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de Boy an' his Mother tole me. I is sho! Nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you while George Washington McKinley Jones knows what hisself am about! I'se goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay right plumb ober my heart, till I take yer back to dem two all right! Now, sah, let me show de boys. Lawd! I clar if my mammy"—the proud smile quivered—"should see me, I jes' reckon de visions she'd have would make her trimble!"