A soldier belonging to a brigade in command of a General who believed in a celibate army asked permission to marry, as he had two good-conduct badges and money in the savings-bank.
"Well, go-away," said the General, "and if you come back to me a year from today in the same frame of mind you shall marry. I'll keep the vacancy."
On the anniversary the soldier repeated his request.
"But do you really, after a year, want to marry?" inquired the General in a surprised tone.
"Yes, sir; very much."
"Sergeant-Major, take his name down. Yes, you may marry. I never believed there was so much constancy in man or woman. Right face; quick march!"
As the man left the room, turning his head, he said, "Thank you, sir; but it isn't the same woman."
His companion bent over the dying man, to catch the last faintly whispered words. The utterance came with pitiful feebleness, yet with sufficient clearness:
"I am dying—yes. Go to Fannie. Tell her—I died—with her name—on my lips, that I—loved her—her alone—always ... And Jennie—tell Jennie—the same thing."