The living Lilian was even more beautiful than the Lilian of the photograph.
"Dear me! So you are the soldier that wore the socks I knit," said Lilian; and our hero thought it was the sweetest voice he ever heard.
"I am, Miss Ashford, and I did not run away in them either." "I'm glad you did not," added she, with a musical laugh, which made Tom think of the melody of the spheres, or some such nonsense.
"I have to thank you for my promotion," said Tom, boldly.
"Thank me!" exclaimed she, her fair blue eyes dilating with astonishment.
"The socks inspired me with courage and fortitude," replied Tom, in exact accordance with the programme he had laid down for the occasion.

"I am sure the thought of her who knit them, the beautiful letter, and the more beautiful photograph, enabled me to do that which won my promotion." "Well, I declare!" shouted Lilian, in a kind of silvery scream.
Bravo, Tom! you are getting along swimmingly.

And he said sundry other smart things which we have not room to record.

He stayed half an hour, and Lilian begged him to call again, and see her grandmother, who was out of town that day.

Of course he promised to come, promised to bring his photograph, promised to write to her when he returned to the army--and I don't know what he did not promise, and I hardly think he knew himself.
But the brief dream ended, and Tom went home to Pinchbrook, after he had sat for his picture.