i IU,“Excuse me, sir, but were you not h the battle of Gettysburg?”“I was, sir,” replied Col. Seifert. “And did not you, after the battle was oyer, give a flask of whisky to a wounded Confederate?”“I did.”“I, sir, was that wounded man. Mj name is Pygman—Maj. Pygman. I was with the Second Florida Regiment at the time. You did me a noble kind ness, sir, and I am yqjir friend.”The two men shook hands warmly and then the Major invited Col. Set fert upstairs. Opening a locker lie pointed to a flask and said:“Do you recognize the flask. Colonel?”The Colonel did. It was the identical flask that he had handed to the Major on the battlefield.“It’s my old flask,” he said, “and it’s full, too.”“Yes.” replied the Major, gently. “Your heart was kind, Colonel; you gave me, your enemy, that flask, because it was all you had. I vfcis in pain, but, Colonel,” and his voice grew softer, “the whisky was so infernal bad I could not drink it, and it’s there yet.” Both veterans had a hearty laugh, and then Maj. Pygman took Col. Seifert in charge, and made him a member of the Macon Masonic Lodge, to which he still belongs; the social boycott was removed, and one of the young women who left the table at thlt;? approach of the “horrible Yankee” ia now Col. Seifert’s wife.The Major and the Colonel are still fast friends, and whenever they meet | their reunion makes a big hole in a basket of champagne.