evening I sit with my mother on the stoop and watch the river redden in the sunset. Over the sandy plains of pines comes blowing the wind of the Western wilderness. I feel its breath on my cheek, faintly frosty, and wonder if the same wind had also touched your dear face ere it blew east to me.”

Often I read this letter on the march to the Hudson; ever wondering at the history of this sweet mistress of my affections, marvelling at its mystery, its wonders, and eternally amazed at this young girl’s courage, her loyalty and chaste devotion.

I remember one day when we were halted at a cavalry camp, not far from the Hudson, conversing with three soldiers — Van Campen, Perry, and Paul Sanborn, they being the three men who first discovered poor Boyd’s body; and then