She continued her nervous walk back and forth across the room. She put aside the grey habit and donned a soft, pretty house-gown of the same color. Her hands were trembling. She clasped and unclasped them with a despairing gesture.

"It is not love," she whispered, as though in wild argument against the fear of it. "Not love—some curse in the blood—that is what it is. And to think that after three years—three years!—it all comes back like this. Oh, you fool, you fool! Love," she continued, in more clear, reasoning tones, speaking aloud slowly as though to impress it on her mind, as a child will repeat a lesson to be learned; "love must be based on respect—what respect can you have for this buyer of young girls?—this ardent-eyed animal who has the good fortune, to be classed as a gentleman. Love in a woman's heart should be her religion; what religion could be centered on so vile a creature? To look up to such a man, how low a woman would have to sink."

Evilena knocked at the door to show some little gift brought by her brother from across the ocean, and Judithe turned to her feverishly, glad of some companionship to drive away her dread and suspense until the expected messenger arrived—the minutes were as long as hours, now!

Colonel McVeigh had scarcely more than greeted Loring when Pluto announced Captain Masterson and some other gentleman. Evilena saw them coming from the window and reported there were two soldiers besides Captain Masterson, and a man in blue clothes, who aroused her curiosity mightily. They were out of range before Judithe reached the window, but her heart almost stopped beating for an instant; the man she expected wore a blue yachting suit, and this sudden gathering of soldiery at the Terrace?

Colonel McVeigh greeted Masterson cordially and turned to the others. Two were men in Confederate uniform, just outside the door, and the third was a tall man in the uniform of a Federal Captain. His left wrist was bandaged. He was smiling slightly as McVeigh's glance became one of doubt for an instant, and then brightened into unmistakable recognition.

"By Jove, this is a surprise!" and he shook hands cordially with the stranger. "Captain Monroe, I am delighted to see you in our home."

"Thank you; I'm glad to get here," replied Monroe, with a peculiar look towards Masterson, who regarded the cordial greeting with evident astonishment, "I had not expected to call on you this morning, but—Captain Masterson insisted."

He smiled as he spoke—a smile of amusement, coolly careless of the amazement of Masterson, and the inquiry in the glance of McVeigh.

"Colonel McVeigh, he is a prisoner," said Masterson, in reply to that glance, and then, as the prisoner himself maintained an indifferent silence, he explained further, "We caught sight of him galloping ahead of us through the pines, a few miles back. Realizing that we were near enough to the coast for the Federals to send in men for special service, we challenged him, got no explanation except that he rode for his own pleasure; so I put him under arrest."

"Well, well! Since luck has sent you into our lines I'm glad it has done us a good turn and sent you to our home," said McVeigh, though he still looked mystified at the situation. "I've no doubt satisfactory explanations can be made, and a parole arranged."

"That's good of you, Colonel," said the prisoner, appreciatively; "you are a good sort of friend to meet when in trouble—brother Fred used to think so up at the Point; but in this case it really isn't necessary—as I have one parole."

He drew a paper from an inner pocket and passed it to McVeigh, who looked relieved.

"Yes, certainly, this is all right," and he looked inquiringly at Masterson, "I don't understand—"

Neither did that officer, who turned in some chagrin to the prisoner, who glanced from one to the other in evident indifference.

"May I ask," said Masterson, with cold courtesy, "why you did not state when taken prisoner that you were paroled?"

"Certainly," and the easy nonchalance of the other was almost insolent; evidently Masterson had not picked up an affinity. "I was coming your way; had been riding alone for several hours, and feared I should be deprived of the pleasure of your society if I allowed you to know how harmless I was."

He paused for a moment—smiled in a quizzical way at McVeigh, and continued: "Then I heard your orderly mention Colonel McVeigh, whose place you were bound for, and I did not object in the least to being brought to him for judgment. But since you see I am paroled, as well as crippled," and he motioned to the arm which he moved carefully, "incapable in any way of doing harm to your cause, I trust that a flag of truce will be recognized by you," and he extended his hand in smiling unconcern.

But to Captain Masterson there was something irritating in the smile, and he only bowed coldly, ignoring the flag of truce, upon which Captain Monroe seemed quietly amused as he turned to McVeigh and explained that he was wounded and taken prisoner a month before over in Tennessee by Morgan's cavalry, who had gathered in Johnson's brigade so effectively that General Johnson, his staff, and somewhere between two and three hundred others had been taken prisoners. He, Monroe, had found a Carolina relative badly wounded among Morgan's boys, had secured a parole, and brought the young fellow home to die, and when his own wound was in a fair way to take care of itself he had left the place—a plantation south of Allendale, and headed for the coast to connect with the blockading fleet instead of making the journey north through Richmond.

It was a very clear statement, but Masterson listened to it suspiciously, without appearing to listen at all. McVeigh, who had known both Monroe and his family in the North, and was also acquainted with the Carolina family mentioned, accepted the Federal's story without question, and invited him to remain at the Terrace so long as it suited him to be their guest.

"I have only two days at home until I leave for my regiment," he explained; "but my mother has enough pleasant people here to make your visit interesting, I hope. She will be delighted to welcome you, and some Beaufort acquaintances of yours are here—the Lorings."

Captain Monroe showed interest in this information, and declared it would give him pleasure to stop over until McVeigh left for the front.

"Good! and you, Captain Masterson?"

Masterson glanced coldly towards Monroe, evidently desirous of a private interview with McVeigh. But seeing little chance of it without a pointed request, he took two packets from a case carefully fastened in his pocket, and presented them.

"I am detailed to convey to you some important papers, and I congratulate you on your promotion to Brigadier-General," he said, with a bow.

"Brigadier? Well, well; they are giving me a pleasant reception," and his face showed his pleasure as he looked at the papers. "Thank you, Captain Masterson. By the way, how much time have you?"

"Until tomorrow night; I meant to ride over to the plantation after delivering this."

"The ladies won't hear to that when they get sight of you. They are giving a party tonight and need all the uniforms we can muster; a squad of your men on their way to the forts below have stopped over for breakfast, and they've even captured them, and you'll be welcome as the flowers of May."

Masterson glanced at Monroe and hesitated. "Those men are needed at one of the fortifications," he said guardedly; "they had better take some other time for a party. With your permission I'll send them on, and remain in their place with one orderly, if convenient."

"Certainly; glad to have you; give your own orders about the men. I do not know that they have accepted the invitation to linger, I only know that the ladies wanted them to."

He rang for Pluto, who was given orders concerning rooms for Captain Monroe, and for Captain Masterson, who left to speak with the men waiting orders without. He made a gesture towards the packet in McVeigh's hand and remarked: "I have reason apart from the commission to think the contents are important. Our regiment is to be merged in your brigade, and all pressed to the front. Towards what point I could not learn at Columbia, but your information will doubtless cover all that, General."

"Colonel will answer until I find my brigade," said McVeigh, with a smile. "You stay over until I learn, since we are to go together, and I will look them over soon as possible."

He himself showed Monroe the room he was to occupy, to the chagrin of Pluto, who was hanging about in a fever of curiosity and dread at sight of a Northern soldier—the first he had ever seen, and the rumor that he was brought there a prisoner suggested calamities to the army through which, alone, his own race dared hope for freedom; and to hear the two men chat and laugh over West Point memories was an aggravation to him, listening, as he was, for the news of today, and the serious questions involved. Only once had there been allusion to the horrors of war—when McVeigh inquired concerning his former classmate, Monroe's brother, Fred, and was told he had been numbered with the dead at Shiloh. The door was open and Pluto could hear all that was said—could see the bronzed face of the Northerner, a face he liked instinctively though it was not exactly handsome—an older face than McVeigh's. He was leaving West Point as the young Southerner entered—a man of thirty years, possibly—five of them, the hard years of the frontier range. A smile lit up his face, changing it wonderfully. His manner was neither diffident nor overconfident—there was a certain admirable poise to it. His cool, irritating attitude towards the zealous Masterson had been drawn out by the innate antagonism of the two natures, but with McVeigh only the cordial side was appealed to, and he responded with frank good will.

Pluto watched them leave the room and enter the apartments of Mr. Loring, where Mrs. McVeigh, Miss Gertrude and Delaven were at that time, and the latter was entertained by seeing one of the Northern wolves welcomed most cordially by the Southern household. Fred Monroe had been Kenneth's alter-ego during the West Point days. Mrs. McVeigh had photographs of them together, which she brought out for inspection, and Kenneth had pleasant memories of the Monroe home where he had been a guest for a brief season after graduation; altogether it was an interesting incident of the war to Delaven, who was the one outsider. He was sorry the Marquise was not there to observe.

The Marquise was, however, making observations on her own account, but not particularly to her satisfaction. She walked from one window to another watching the road, and the only comforting view she obtained was the departure of the squad of soldiers who had breakfasted in the arbor. They turned south along the river, and when they passed through the Terrace gates she drew a breath of relief at the sight. They would not meet Pierson, who was to come over the road to the east, and they would leave on the place only the orderlies of Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson, and the colored men whose quarters were almost a half mile in the rear of the Terrace. She was glad they were at that distance, though she scarcely knew why. Pierson's delay made her fear all sorts of bungling and extreme measures—men were such fools!

Evilena had flitted away again to look up a dress for the party, and did not return, so she was left alone. She heard considerable walking about and talking in the rooms below and on the veranda. No one came along her corridor, however, so she could ask no questions as to the latest arrivals. For reasons of her own she had dispensed with a personal attendant after the departure of Louise; there was no maid to make inquiries of.

An hour passed in this feverish suspense, when she went to the mirror with an air of decision, arranged her hair becomingly, added a coral brooch to the lace at her throat, slipped some glimmering rings on her white fingers, and added those little exquisite touches to the toilet which certain women would naturally linger over though it be the last hour on earth.

Then she opened the door and descended the stairs, a picture of beauty and serenity—a trifle of extra color in the cheeks, perhaps, but it would be a captious critic who would object to the added lustre.

Captain Monroe certainly did not, as he halted in the library at sight of her, and waited to see if she passed out on the veranda, or—

She looked out on the veranda; no one was there; with an impatient sigh she turned, pushed the partly opened door of the library back, and was inside the room before she perceived him. Involuntarily she shut the door back of her.

"Oh—h!" and she held out her hand with a quick, pretty gesture of surprise and pleasure—"well met, Captain Jack!"

He took the hand she offered and looked at her with a certain questioning directness.

"I hope so, Madame Caron," and the gaze was so steady, his grasp so firm, that she drew her hand away with a little laugh that was a trifle nervous.

"Your voice and face reassure me! I dare breathe again!" she said, with a mock sigh of relief; "my first glimpse of your uniform made me fear a descent of the enemy."

"Have you need to fear any special enemy here?" he asked, bluntly. She put her hand out with a little gesture of protest as she sank back into the chair he offered.

"Why should you be so curious on a first meeting?" she asked, with a quizzical smile. "But I will tell you, Monsieur, for all that; I am, of course, very much afraid of the Northern armies. I left Orleans rather than live under the Federal government, if you please! I have bought a very handsome estate a few miles from here which, of course, binds my interests more closely to the South," and she flashed a meaning, mocking glance up at him. "Do not look so serious, my friend, it is all very beautifully arranged; I had my will made as soon as the deed was signed, of course; no matter what accidents should happen to me, all my Southern properties will be held intact to carry on the plans for which they were purchased. I am already building my monuments," and she unfurled a silken fan the color of her corals and smiled across it at him.

Their backs were towards the window. She was seated in the deep chair, while he stood near her, leaning on the back of another one and looking down in her face. Pluto, who was still hovering around with the hope of getting speech with a "sure enough Lincum man," had come noiselessly to the open window and only halted an instant when he saw the stranger so pleasantly occupied, and heard the musical voice of Madame Caron say "My friend." It was to him the sweetest voice in the world now, and he would gladly have lingered while she spoke, but the rest of the words were very soft and low, and Miss Loring was moving towards him coming slowly up the steps, looking at him as though the veranda was no place for a nigger to lounge when unemployed—a fact he was well enough aware of to walk briskly away around the corner of the house, when he found her eye on him.

She had reached the top of the steps and was thinking the colored folks at the Terrace were allowed a great many privileges, when she heard the low tones of a man's voice. Supposing it was Kenneth and possibly his mother, she stepped softly towards the window. Before she reached it she perceived her mistake—the man wore a blue uniform, and though she could not see Madame Caron, she could see the soft folds of her dress, and the white hand moving the coral fan.

Disappointed, and not being desirous of joining the woman whose charm evidently enthralled every one but herself, she stepped quietly back out of range, and passed on along the veranda to the sitting room, where Evilena was deeply engaged over the problem of a dress to be draped and trimmed for the party. And the two talked on within the closed doors of the library, the man's voice troubled, earnest; the woman's, careless and amused.

"I shall tell you what I wish, Captain Jack," she said, tapping the fan slowly on the palm of her hand and looking up at him, "I am most pleased to see you, but for all that I wish you had not come to this particular house, and I wish you would go away."

"Which means," he said, after a pause, "that you are in some danger?"

"Oh, no! if it were that," and her glance was almost coquettish, "I should ask you to remain as my champion."

"Pardon, Madame," and he shook his head, doubtfully, "but I remember days in New Orleans, and I know you better than that."

She only raised her brows and smiled. He watched her for a moment and then said: "Colonel McVeigh is a friend; I should not like to think that your presence means danger to him."

"What an idea!" and she laughed heartily; "am I grown such a thing of terror that I dare not enter a door lest danger follow? Who could be oppressed with political schemes in this delightful life of the plantation? It is really Eden-like; that is why I have purchased one of the places for my own; it is worth seeing. If you remain I shall invite you over; shall you?"

"For some reason you wish I would not; if I only knew what the reason is!"

"A few months ago you did not question my motives," she said, reprovingly; then in a lower tone, "Your commander has never questioned, why should you? Your President has sent me messages of commendation for my independent work. One, received before I left Mobile, I should like you to see," and she rose from the chair. He put out his hand to stop her.

"Not if it has connection with any plot or plan of work against the people on this side of the line; remember, I am on parole."

"Oh, I shall respect your scruples," she said, lightly. "But you need have no dread of that sort. I would not keep by me anything dangerous; it is not compromising to the Marquise de Caron in any way." She halted at the door and added, "Will you wait?"

"Yes, I will wait," he said; "but I can't approve, and I don't need the evidence of any one else in order to appreciate your value," he added, grimly; "but be careful, remember where you are."

"I could not forget it if I tried, Captain Jack," she declared, with a peculiar smile, of which the meaning escaped him until long after.

That ride from Loringwood in the morning, and the nervous expectancy after, had evidently tended to undermine her own self-confidence and usual power of resource, for when she returned to the room a few minutes later, and found Gertrude and her uncle there, she halted in absolute confusion—could not collect her thoughts quickly enough for the emergency, and glanced inquiringly towards Monroe, as one looks at a stranger, while he, after one look as she entered, continued some remark to Mr. Loring.

For an instant Gertrude's eyes grew narrow as she glanced from one to the other; then she recovered her usual sweet manner, as she turned to Judithe:

"Pardon me, I fancied you two had met. Madame Caron, permit me to present Captain Monroe, one of our recent acquisitions."

Both bowed; neither spoke. Colonel McVeigh entered at that moment. He had changed the grey travelling suit in which he arrived, for the grey uniform of his regiment, and Judithe, however critical she tried to be, could not but acknowledge that he was magnificent; mentally she added, "Magnificent animal; but what of the soul, the soul?"

There was no lack of soul in his eyes as he looked at her and crossed the room, as though drawn by an invisible chain, and noted, as a lover ever notes, that the dress she wore had in its soft, silvery folds, a suggestion of sentiment for the cause he championed.

But when he murmured something of his appreciation, she dropped her eyes to the fan she held, and when she glanced slowly up it was in a manner outlawing the tete-a-tete.

"I realize now, Colonel McVeigh, that you are really a part of the army," she remarked in the tone of one who makes the conversation general. "You were a very civilian-looking person this morning. I have, like your Southern ladies, acquired a taste for warlike trappings; the uniform is very handsome."

"Thanks; I hope you will find my next one more becoming, since it is to be that of Brigadier-General."

Although Matthew Loring's sight was impaired, his locomotion slow, and his left hand and arm yet helpless, his sense of hearing was acute enough to hear the words even across Monroe's conversation, for his sunken eyes lit up as he twisted his head towards the speaker:

"What's that, Kenneth? You to command a brigade?"

"So they tell me," assented McVeigh. "The commission just reached me."

"Good enough! Do you hear that, Gertrude? A Brigadier-General at twenty-five. Well, I don't see what more a man could want."

"I do," he said, softly, to Judithe, so softly that she felt rather than heard the words, to which his eyes bore witness. Then he turned to reply to Mr. Loring's questions of military movements.

"No, I can't give you much special information today," and he smiled across at Monroe, when Loring found fault with the government officials who veiled their plans and prospects from the taxpayers—the capitalists of the South who made the war possible. "But the instructions received lead me to believe a general movement of much importance is about to be made in our department, and my opportunities will be all a soldier could wish."

"So you have become a Brigadier-General instead of the Lieutenant we knew only three years ago," and Judithe's eyes rested on him graciously for an instant, as Monroe and Gertrude helped Loring out to the wheeled chair on the lawn. "You travel fast—you Americans! I congratulate you."

She had arisen and crossed the room to the little writing desk in the corner. He followed with his eyes her graceful walk and the pretty fluttering movements of her hands as she drew out note paper and busied herself rather ostentatiously. He smiled as he noticed it; she was afraid of a tete-a-tete; she was trying to run away, if only to the farther side of the room.

"I shall consider myself a more fit subject for congratulation if you prove more kind to the General than you were to the Lieutenant."

"People usually are," she returned lightly. "I do not fancy you will have much of unkindness to combat, except from the enemy."

Evilena entered the room humming an air, and her brother remarked carelessly that the first of the enemy to invade their domain was not very formidable at present, though Captain Jack Monroe had made a fighting record for himself in the western campaign. Judithe did not appear particularly interested in the record of the Northern campaign, but Evilena, who had been too much absorbed in the question of wardrobe to keep informed of the late arrivals, fairly gasped at the name.

"Really and truly, is that Yankee here?" she demanded, "right here in the house? Caroline said it wasn't a Yankee—just some friend of yours."

"So he is."

"And—a—Yankee?"

He nodded his head and smiled at her. Judithe had picked up a pen and was writing. Evilena glanced towards her for assistance in this astonishing state of affairs, but no one appeared to be shocked but herself.

"Well!" she said, at last, resignedly, "since we are to have any Yankee here, I'm glad it's the one Gertrude met at Beaufort. I've been conjuring up romances about them ever since, and I am curious to see if he looks like the Jack Monroe in the song."

"Not likely," said her brother, discouragingly, "he is the least romantic hero for a song you can imagine; but if you put on your prettiest dress and promise not to fight all the battles of the war over with him, I'll manage that you sit beside him at dinner and make romances about him at closer range, if you can find the material."

"To think of me dressing my prettiest for a Yankee! and oh, Ken, I can't dress so astonishingly pretty, either. I'm really," and she sighed dejectedly, "down to my last party dress."

"Well, that's better than none."

"None!" she endeavored to freeze him with a look, but his smile forbade it, and she left the room, singing

"Just as she stepped on ship board, 'Your name I'd like to know?' And with a smile she answered, 'My name is Jack Monroe.'"

"Thanks; glad to find so charming a namesake," said a deep voice, and she looked up to see a tall man gazing down at her with a smile so kindly she should never have guessed he was a Yankee but for the blue uniform.

"Oh!" she blushed deliciously, and then laughed. There really was no use trying to be dignified with a stranger after such a meeting as that.

"I never did mean to steal your name, Captain Monroe," she explained, "for you are Captain Monroe?"

"Yes, except when I am Jack," and then they both smiled.

"Oh, I've known Jack was your name, too, for this long time," she said, with a little air of impressing him with her knowledge; "but I couldn't call you that, except in the song."

"May I express the hope that you sing the song often?" he asked, with an attempt at gravity not entirely successful.

"But you don't know who I am, do you?" and when he shook his head sadly she added, "but of course you've heard of me; I'm Evilena."

"Evilena?"

"Evilena McVeigh," she said, with a trifle of emphasis.

"Oh, Kenneth's sister?" and he held out his hand. "I'm delighted to know you."

"Thank you." She let her hand rest in his an instant, and then drew it away, with a little gasp.

"There! I've done it after all."

"Anything serious?" he inquired.

She nodded her head; "I've broken a promise."

"Not past repair, I hope."

"Oh, it's only a joke to you, but it really is serious to me. When the boys I know all started North with the army I promised I'd never shake hands with a Yankee."

"Promised them all?" he asked, and without waiting for a reply, he continued: "Now, that's a really extraordinary coincidence; I entertained the same idea about Johnnie Rebs."

"Really?" and she looked quite relieved at finding a companion in iniquity; "but you did shake hands?"

"Yes."

"Are you sorry?"

"No; are you?"

"N—no."

And when Delaven went to look for Evilena to tell her they were to have lunch on the lawn (Mrs. McVeigh had installed him as master of ceremonies for the day), he found her in the coziest, shadiest nook on the veranda, entertaining a sample copy of the enemy, and assuring him that the grey uniforms would be so much more becoming than the blue.



CHAPTER XXIV.

Noon. Colonel McVeigh had been at the Terrace already a half day, and no sign had come from Pierson—no message of any sort. Judithe called Pluto and asked if the mail did not leave soon for down the river, and suggested that when he took it to the office he would ask the man in charge to look carefully lest any letters should have been forgotten from the night before.

"Yes'm, mail go 'bout two hours now," and he looked up at the clock. "I go right down ask 'bout any letters done been fo'got. But I don' reckon any mail to go today; folks all too busy to write lettahs."

"No; I—I—I will have a letter to go," and she turned toward the desk. "How soon will you start?"

"Hour from now," said Pluto, "that will catch mail all right;" and with that she must be content. At any other time she would have sent him at once without the excuse of a letter to be mailed. Those easy-going folk who handled the mail might easily have overlooked some message—a delay of twenty-four hours would mean nothing in their sleepy lives. But today she was unmistakably nervous—all the more reason for exceeding care.

She had begun the letter when Colonel McVeigh came for her to go to lunch; she endeavored to make an excuse—she was not at all hungry, really, it appeared but an hour since the breakfast; but perceiving that if she remained he would remain also, she arose, saying she would join their little festival on the lawn long enough for a cup of tea, she had a letter to get ready for the mail within an hour.

She managed to seat herself where she could view the road to the south, but not a horseman or footman turned in at the Terrace gate. She felt the eyes of Monroe on her; also the eyes of Gertrude Loring. How much did they know or suspect? She was feverishly gay, though penetrated by the feeling that the suspended sword hung above her. Pierson's non-appearance might mean many things appalling—and Louise!

All these chaotic thoughts surging through her, and ever beside her the voice of Kenneth McVeigh, not the voice alone, but the eyes, at times appealing, at times dominant, as he met her gaze, and forbade that she be indifferent.

"Why should you starve yourself as well as me?" he asked, softly, when she declined the dishes brought to her, and made pretense of drinking the cup of tea he offered.

"You—starving?" and the slight arching of the dark brows added to the note of question.

"Yes, for a word of hope."

"Really? and what word do you covet?"

"The one telling me if the Countess Biron's gossip was the only reason you sent me away."

Mrs. McVeigh looked over at the two, well satisfied that Kenneth was giving attention to her most distinguished guest. Gertrude Loring looked across to the couple on the rustic seat and felt, without hearing, what the tenor of the conversation was. Kenneth McVeigh was wooing a woman who looked at him with slumbrous magnetic eyes and laughed at him. Gertrude envied her the wooing, but hated her for the laughter. All her life Kenneth McVeigh had been her ideal, but to this finished coquette of France he was only the man of the moment, who contributed to her love of power, her amusement. For the girl, who was his friend, read clearly the critical, half contemptuous gleams, alternating at times the graciousness of Madame Caron's dark eyes. She glanced at Monroe, and guessed that he was no more pleased than herself at the tete-a-tete there, and that he was quite as watchful.

And the cause of it all met Colonel McVeigh's question with a glance, half alluring, half forbidding, as she sipped the tea and put aside the cup.

"How persistent you are," she murmured. "If you adopt the same methods in warfare I do not wonder at your rapid promotions. But I shan't encourage it a moment longer; you have other guests, and I have a letter to write."

She crossed to Mrs. McVeigh, murmured a few words of excuse, exchanged a smile with Evilena, who declared her a deserter from their ranks, and then moved up the steps to the veranda and passed through the open window into the library, pausing for a little backward glance ere she entered; and the people on the lawn who raised their glasses to her, did not guess that she looked over their heads, scanning the road for the expected messenger.

Looking at the clock she seated herself, picked up the pen, and then halted, holding her hand out and noting the trembling of it.

"Oh, you fool! You woman!" she said, through her closed teeth.

She commenced one letter, blotted it in her nervous impatience, turned it aside and commenced another, when Captain Monroe appeared at the window with a glass of wine in his hand.

"Why this desertion from the ranks?" he asked, jestingly, yet with purpose back of the jest. She recognized, but ignored it.

"That you might be detailed for special duty, perhaps, Captain Jack," she replied, without looking around.

"I have to look up stragglers," and he crossed to the desk where she sat. "I even brought you a forgotten portion of your lunch."

She looked up at that, saw the glass, and shook her head; "No, no wine for me."

"But it would be almost treasonable to refuse this," he insisted. "In the first place it is native Carolina wine we are asked to take; and in the second, it is a toast our bear of the swamps—Mr. Loring—has proposed, 'our President.' I evaded my share by being cup-bearer to you." He offered the glass and looked at her, meaningly, "Will you drink?"

"Only when you drink with me," she said, and smiled at the grim look touching his face for an instant.

"To the President of the Southern Confederacy?" he asked.

"No!—to our President!"

She took the glass, touched the wine to her lips, and offered the remainder to him, just as Colonel McVeigh entered from the lawn. He heard Captain Monroe say, "With all my heart!" as he emptied the glass. The scene had such a sentimental tinge that he felt a swift flash of jealousy, and realized that Monroe was a decidedly attractive fellow in his own cool, masterful way.

"Ah! a tryst at mid-day?" he remarked, with assumed lightness.

"No; only a parley with the enemy," she said, and he passed out into the hall, picking up his hat from the table, where he had tossed it when he entered in the morning.

Monroe walked up to the window and back again. She heard him stop beside her, but did not look up.

"I have almost decided to take your advice, and remain only one night instead of two," he said, at last. "I can't approve what you are doing here. I can't help you, and I can't stay by and be witness to the enchantment which, for some reason, you are weaving around McVeigh."

"Enchantment?"

"Well, I can't find a better word just now. I can't warn him; so I will leave in the morning."

"I really think it would be better," she said, looking up at him frankly. "Of all the American men I have met I value your friendship most; yes, it is quite true!" as he uttered a slight exclamation. "But there are times when even our good angels hamper us, and just now I am better, much better, alone."

"If I could help you—"

"You could not," she said hastily. "Even without the barrier of the parole, you could not. But I cannot talk. I am nervous, not myself today. You saw how clumsy I was when I brought the letter to show?—and after all did not get to show it. Well, I have been like that all day. I have grown fearful of everything—distrustful of every glance. Did you observe the watchfulness of Miss Loring on the lawn? Still, what does it matter?"

She leaned her head on her hands for a few moments. He stood and looked at her somberly, not speaking. When she turned towards him again it was to ask in a very different tone if he would touch the bell—it was time for Pluto to start with the mail. When he entered she found that a necessary address book had been left in her own apartments.

"You get the mail bag while I go for it, Pluto," she said after tossing the papers about in a vain search; "and Captain Monroe, will you look over this bit of figures for me? It is an expense list for my yacht, I may need it today and have a wretched head for business details of that sort. I am helpless in them."

Then she was gone, and Monroe, with a pencil, noted the amount, corrected a trifling mistake, and suddenly became conscious that the grave, most attentive, black man, was regarding him in a manner inviting question.

"Well, my man, what is it?" he asked, folding up the paper, and speaking with so kindly a smile that Pluto stumbled eagerly into the heart of questions long deferred.

"Jes' a word, Mahs Captain. Is it true you been took prisoner? Is it true the Linkum men are whipped?"

"Well, if they are they don't know it; they are still fighting, any way."

"If—if they win," and Pluto looked around nervously as he asked the question, "will it free us, Mahs Captain? We niggahs can't fine out much down heah. Yo' see, sah, fust off they all tell how the Nawth free us sure if the Nawth won the battles. Then—then word done come how Mahsa Linkum nevah say so. Tell me true, Mahs Captain, will we be free?"

His eagerness was so intense, Monroe hesitated to tell him the facts. He understood, now, why the dark face had been watching him so hungrily ever since his arrival.

"The men who make the laws must decide those questions, my man," he said, at last. 'In time freedom certainly will be arranged for—but—"

"But Mahsa Linkum ain't done said it yet—that it, Mahsa?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Thank yo', sah," and Monroe heard him take a deep breath, sad as tears, when he turned into the hall for the mail bag.

A stranger was just coming up the steps, a squarely built, intelligent-eyed man, with a full dark beard; his horse, held by one of the boys under a shade tree, showed signs of hard riding, and the fact that he was held instead of stabled, showed that the call was to be brief.

The servants were clearing away the lunch things. Mrs. McVeigh had entered the house. Delaven and Gertrude were walking beside Loring's chair, wheeled by Ben, along the shady places. Evilena was coming towards them from across the lawn, pouting because of an ineffectual attempt to catch up with Ken, whom she fancied she saw striding along the back drive to the quarters, but he had walked too fast, and the hedge had hidden him. She came back disappointed to be asked by Delaven what sort of uniform she was pursuing this time, to which he very properly received no reply except such as was vouchsafed by silent, scornful lips and indignant eyes.

Masterson, who was walking thoughtfully alone, noted this distribution of the people as the stranger dismounted, inquired of Caroline for Madame Caron, and was received by Pluto at the door. The man wore a dark blue suit, plain but for a thin cord of gold on collar and sleeve. He did not recognize it as a uniform, yet instinctively associated it with that other blue uniform whose wearer had caused him an annoyance he would not soon forget. He was there alone now with Madame Caron for whom this stranger was asking. He wondered if Colonel McVeigh was there also, but concluded not, as he had seen him on the western veranda with his hat on. All these thoughts touched him and passed on as he stood there looking critically at the dusty horse.

At the same moment he heard the thud, thud of another horse turning in at the Terrace gates; the rider was leaning forward as though urging the animal to its utmost. At sight of Masterson he threw up his hand to attract attention, and the others on the lawn stared at this second tumultuous arrival and the haste Captain Masterson made to hear what he had to say—evidently news of importance from the coast or the North.

Loring hoped it meant annihilation of some Yankee stronghold, and Evilena hoped it did not mean that Kenneth must leave before the party.

* * * * *

The man whom Pluto showed into the library with the information that Madame Caron would be down at once, glanced about him quickly, and with annoyance, when he found there was another man in the room. But the instant Monroe's face was seen by him, he uttered an exclamation of pleasure.

"By Jove! Captain Jack?" and he turned to him eagerly, after noting that Pluto had left the door.

"I don't think I know you, sir, though you evidently know one of my names," and his tone was not particularly cordial as he eyed the stranger.

"Don't you remember the night run you made on the yacht Marquise, last March?" and the man's tone was low and hurried. "I had no beard then, which makes a difference. This trip is not quite so important, but has been more annoying. I've been followed, have doubled like a hare for hours, and don't believe I've thrown them off the track after all. I have a message to deliver; if I can't see Madame alone at once you get it to her."

"Can't do it; don't want to see it!" and Monroe's tone was quick and decided as the man's own. "I am on parole."

"Parole!" and the stranger looked at him skeptically. "Look here, you are evidently working with Madame, and afraid to trust me, but it's all right. I swear it is! I destroyed the message when I saw I was followed, but I know the contents, and if you will take it—"

"You mistake. I have absolutely no knowledge of Madame's affairs at present."

"Then you won't take it?" and the man's tones held smothered rage. "So, when put to the test, Captain Jack Monroe is afraid to risk what thousands are risking for the cause, at the front and in secret—a life!"

"It is just as well not to say 'afraid,' my good fellow," and Monroe's words were a trifle colder, a shade more deliberate. "Do you know what a parole means? I excuse your words because of your present position, which may be desperate. If you are her friend I will do what I can to save you; but the contents of the dispatch I refuse to hear."

Judithe entered the door as he spoke, and came forward smilingly.

"Certainly; it was not intended that you should. This is the captain of my yacht, and his messages only interest me."

"Madame Caron!" and Monroe's tones were imploring, "Consider where you are. Think of the risks you run!"

"Risks?" and she made a little gesture of disdain. She felt so much stronger now that the suspense was over—now that the message was really here. "Risks are fashionable just now, Monsieur, and I always follow the fashions."

He shook his head hopelessly; words were of no use. He turned away, and remembering that he still held the slip with her account on, he halted and handed it to the stranger, who was nearest him.

"I presume these figures were meant for the master of your yacht," he remarked, without looking at her, and passed out on the veranda, where he halted at sight of Masterson running up the steps, and the dusty rider close behind.

Judithe had seated herself at the desk and picked up the pen. But as Monroe stepped out on the veranda she turned impatiently:

"The despatch?" and she held out her hand.

"I was followed—I read and destroyed it."

"Its contents?"

"Too late, Madame," he remarked, in a less confidential tone, as he laid the slip Monroe had given him on the desk. He had seen Masterson at the door and with him the other rider!

Judithe did not raise her head. She was apparently absorbed in her task of addressing an envelope.

"I will speak with you directly," she said, carelessly sealing the letter. He bowed and stood waiting, respectfully. Glancing up, she saw Captain Masterson, who had entered from the veranda, and bestowed on him a careless, yet gracious smile. Pluto brought the mail bag in from the hall, and she dropped the letter in, also a couple of papers she took from the top of the desk.

"There, that is all. Make haste, please, Pluto," and she glanced at the clock. "I should not like that letter to miss the mail; it is important."

"Yes'm, I gwine right away now," and he turned to the door, when Masterson stepped before him, and to his astonishment, took the bag from his hand.

"You can't take this with you," he said, in a tone of authority. "Go tell Colonel McVeigh he is needed here on business most important."

Pluto stared at him in stupid wonder, and Judithe arose from her chair.

"Go, by all means, Pluto," she said, quietly, "Captain Masterson's errand is, no doubt, more important than a lady's could be," and she moved towards the door.

"I apologize, Madame Caron, for countermanding your orders," said Masterson, quickly, "but circumstances make it necessary that no person and no paper leave this room until this man's identity is determined," and he pointed to the messenger. "Do you know him?"

"Certainly I know him; he is in my employ, the sailing master of my yacht."

Pluto came in again and announced, "Mahs Kenneth not in the house; he gone somewhere out to the quarters." Masterson received the news with evident annoyance. There was a moment of indecision as he glanced from the stranger to Monroe, who had sauntered through the open window, and across to Judithe, who gave him one glance which he interpreted to mean she wished he was somewhere else. But he only smiled and—remained.

"There is only one thing left for me to do in Colonel McVeigh's absence," said Masterson, addressing the group in general, "and that is to investigate this affair myself, as every minute's delay may mean danger. Madame Caron, we are forced to believe this man is a spy." Judithe smiled incredulously, and he watched her keenly as he continued: "More, he is associated with a clever French creole called Louise Trouvelot, who says she is your maid and who is at present under surveillance in Savannah, and they both are suspected of being only agents for a very accomplished spy, who has been doing dangerous work in the South for many months. I explain so you will comprehend that investigation is necessary. This man," and he pointed to the other stranger, who now stepped inside, "has followed him from the coast under special orders."

"What a dangerous character you have become!" said Judithe, turning to her messenger with an amused smile. "I feared that beard would make you look like a pirate, but I never suspected this of you—and you say," she added, turning to Masterson, "that my poor maid is also under suspicion? It is ridiculous, abominable! I must see to it at once. The girl will be frightened horribly among such evidences of your Southern chivalry," and she shrugged her shoulders with a little gesture of disdain. "And what, pray, do you intend doing with my sailor here?"

The man had been staring at Masterson as though astounded at the accusations. But he did not speak, and the Confederate agent never took his eyes off him.

"Ask him his name," he suggested, softly, to Masterson, who took paper and pencil from the desk and handed it to the suspect. "Write your name there," he said, and when it was quickly, good naturedly done, the self-appointed judge read it and turned to Judithe.

"Madame Caron, will you please tell me this man's name?" and the messenger himself stared when she replied, haughtily:

"No, Captain Masterson, I will not!"

"Ah, you absolutely refuse, Madame?"

"I do; you have accused my employe of being a spy, but your attitude suggests that it is not he, but myself, whom you suspect."

"Madame, you cannot comprehend the seriousness of the situation," and Masterson had difficulty in keeping his patience. "Every one he speaks with, everything concerning him is of interest. These are war times, Madame Caron, and the case will not admit of either delays or special courtesies. I shall have to ask you for the paper he placed in your hands as I entered the room."

Judithe picked up the paper without a word and reached it to him, with the languid air of one bored by the entire affair.

He glanced at it and handed it back. As he did so he perceived an unfinished letter on the desk. In a moment his suspicions were aroused; that important letter in the mail bag!

"You did not complete the letter you were writing?"

"No," and she lifted it from the desk and held it towards him. "You perceive! I was so careless as to blot the paper; do you wish to examine that?"

His face flushed at the mockery of her tone and glance. He felt it more keenly, that the eyes of Monroe were on him. The task before him was difficult enough without that additional annoyance.

"No, Madame," he replied, stiffly, "but the situation is such that I feel justified in asking the contents of the envelope you sealed and gave to the servant."

"But that is a private letter," she protested, as he took it from the mail bag; "it can be of no use to any government or its agents."

"That can best be determined by reading it, Madame. It certainly cannot go out in this mail unless it is examined."

"By you?—oh!" And Judithe put out her hand in protest.

"Captain Masterson!"

"Sir!" and Masterson turned on Monroe, who had spoken for the first time. As he did so Judithe deliberately leaned forward and snatched the letter from his hand.

"You shall not read it!" she said, decidedly, and just then Evilena and her brother came along the veranda, and with them Delaven. Judithe moved swiftly to the window before any one else could speak.

"Colonel McVeigh, I appeal to you," and involuntarily she reached out her hand, which he took in his as he entered the room. "This—gentleman—on some political pretense, insists that I submit to such examinations as spies are subject to. I have been accused in the presence of these people, and in their presence I demand an apology for this attempt to examine my private, personal letters."

"Captain Masterson!" and the blue steel of McVeigh's eyes flashed in anger and rebuke. But Masterson, strong in his assurance of right, held up his hand.

"You don't understand the situation, Colonel. That man is suspected of being the assistant to a most dangerous, unknown spy within our lines. He has been followed from Beaufort by a Confederate secret service agent, whom he tried to escape by doubling on the road, taking by-ways, riding fully twenty miles out of his course, to reach this point unobserved."

For the first time the suspected man spoke, and it was to Judithe.

"That is quite true, Madame. I mean that I rode out of my way. But the reason of it is that I came over the road for the first time; there were no sign-boards up, and my directions had not been explicit enough to prevent me losing my way. That is my only excuse for not being here earlier. I am not landsman enough to make my way through the country roads and timber."

"You perceive, Colonel McVeigh, the man is in my employ, and has come here by my orders," said Judithe, with a certain impatience at the density of the accuser.

"That should be credential enough," and McVeigh's tone held a distinct reprimand as he frowned at Masterson's senseless accusation, but that officer made a gesture of protest. He was being beaten, but he did not mean to give up without a hard fight.

"Colonel, there were special reasons for doubt in the matter. Madame Caron, apparently, does not know even the man's name. I asked him to write it—here it is," and he handed McVeigh the paper. "I asked her to name him—she refused!"

"Yes; I resented the manner and reason for the question," assented Judithe; "but the man has been the master of my yacht for over a year, and his name is Pierson—John T. Pierson."

"Correct," and McVeigh glanced at the paper on which the name was written. "Will you also write the name of Madame Caron's yacht, Mr. Pierson?" and he handed him a book and pencil. "Pardon me," and he smiled reassuringly at Judithe, "this is not the request of suspicion, but faith." He took the book from Pierson and glanced at the open page and then at her—"the name of your yacht is?—"

"The Marquise," she replied, with a little note of surprise in her voice, as she smiled at Evilena, who had slipped to her side, and understood the smile. Evilena and she had made plans for a season of holidays on that same yacht, as soon as the repairs were made. Colonel McVeigh tossed the book indignantly on the table.

"Thank you, Madame! Captain Masterson, this is the most outrageous thing I ever knew an officer to be guilty of! You have presumed to suspect a lady in my house—the guest of your superior officer, and you shall answer to me for it! Mr. Pierson, you are no longer under suspicion here, sir. And you," he added, turning to the Confederate secret agent, "can report at once to your chief that spies are not needed on the McVeigh plantation."

"Colonel McVeigh, if you had seen what I saw—"

"Madame Caron's word would have been sufficient," interrupted McVeigh, without looking at him. And Judithe held out the letter.

"I am quite willing you should see what he saw," she said, with a curious smile. "He saw me, after the arrival of Mr. Pierson, seal an envelope leaving him in ignorance of its contents. The seal is yet unbroken—will you read it?"

"You do not suppose I require proof of your innocence?" he asked, refusing the letter, and looking at her fondly as he dare in the presence of the others.

"But I owe it to myself to offer the proof now," she insisted, "and at the same time I shall ask Mr. Pierson to offer himself for personal search if Captain Masterson yet retains suspicion of his honesty;" she glanced towards Pierson, who smiled slightly, and bowed without speaking. Then she turned to Delaven, who had been a surprised onlooker of the scene.

"Dr. Delaven, in the cause of justice, may I ask you to examine the contents of this letter?" and she tore open the envelope and offered it.

"Anything in the wide world to serve you, Madame la Marquise," he answered, with a shade more than usual of deference in his manner, as he took it. "Are the contents to be considered professionally, that is, confidentially?"

She had taken Evilena by the hand, bowed slightly to the group, and had moved to the door, when he spoke. Monroe, who had watched every movement as he stood there in a fever of suspense for her sake, drew a breath of relief as she replied:

"Oh, no! Be kind enough to read it aloud, or Captain Masterson may include you in the dangerous intrigues here," and, smiling still, she passed out with Evilena to the lawn.

But a few seconds elapsed, when a perfect shout of laughter came from the library. The special detective did not share in it, for he thrust his hands into his pockets with a curse, and Masterson turned to him with a frowning, baffled stare—an absolutely crestfallen manner, as he listened to the following, read in Delaven's best style:

"To Madame Smith, "Mobile, Ala.:

"The pink morning gown is perfect, but I am in despair over the night robes! I meant you to use the lace, not the embroidery, on them; pray change them at once, and send at the same time the flounced lawn petticoats if completed. I await reply.

"Judithe de Caron."



CHAPTER XXV.

"Certainly, I apologize," and Masterson looked utterly crushed by his mistaken zeal; "apologize to every one concerned, collectively and individually."

Even McVeigh felt sorry for his humiliation, knowing how thoroughly honest he was, how devoted to the cause; and Mrs. McVeigh was disconsolate over "loyal, blundering Phil Masterson," whom, she could not hope, would remain for the party after what had occurred, and she feared Judithe would keep to her room—who could blame her? Such a scene was enough to prostrate any woman.

But it did not prostrate Judithe. She sent for Mrs. McVeigh, to tell her there must on no account be further hostilities between Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson.

"It was all a mistake," she insisted. "Captain Masterson no doubt only did his duty when presented with the statements of the secret service man; that the statements were incorrect was something Captain Masterson could not, of course, know, and she appreciated the fact that, being a foreigner, she was, in his opinion, possibly, more likely to be imposed upon by servants who were not so loyal to the South as she herself was known to be."

All this she said in kindly excuse, and Mrs. McVeigh thought her the most magnanimous creature alive.

Her only anxiety over the entire affair appeared to be concerning her maid Louise, who, also, was suffering the suspicion attaching to foreigners who were non-residents; it was all very ridiculous, of course, but would necessitate her going personally to Savannah. She could not leave so faithful a creature in danger.

Mrs. McVeigh prevailed upon her to send word with Mr. Pierson to the authorities, and remain herself for two days longer—until Kenneth and his men left for the front, which Judithe consented to do.

Masterson, who for the first time in his life found the McVeighs lacking in cordiality to him (Evilena, even, disposed to look on him as dead and buried so far as she was concerned), felt his loyal heart go out to Gertrude, who was the only one of them all who frankly approved, and who was plainly distressed at the idea of him going at once to join his company.

"Don't go, Phil," she said, earnestly; "something is wrong here—terribly wrong; I can't accuse anyone in particular—I can't even guess what it really means, but, Phil," and she glanced around her cautiously before putting the question, "What possible reason could Madame Caron and Captain Monroe have for pretending they met here as strangers, when it was not a fact?"

Whereupon Gertrude told him of her discovery in that direction.

"I can't, of course, mention it to Kenneth or Mrs. McVeigh, now," she whispered; "they are so infatuated with her, Kenneth in particular. But I do hope you will put aside your personal feelings; make any and every sort of apology necessary, but remain right here until you see what it all means. You may prove in the end that you were not entirely mistaken today. What do you think of it?"

Think! His thoughts were in a whirl. If Madame Caron and Captain Monroe were secretly friends it altered the whole affair. Monroe, whose conduct on arrest was unusual; who had a parole which might, or might not, be genuine; who had come there as by accident just in time to meet Pierson; who had been in the room alone with Pierson before Madame Caron came down the stairs—he knew, for he had been in sight when she crossed the hall.

He had been a fool—right in theory, but wrong as to the individual. He would remain at the Terrace, and he would start on a new trail!

Mrs. McVeigh was very glad he would remain; she believed implicitly in his profound regret, and had dreaded lest the question be recalled between the two men after they had gone to the front; but, if Phil remained their guest, she hoped the old social relations would be completely restored, and she warned Evilena to be less outspoken in regard to her own opinions.

So, Captain Masterson remained, and remained to such purpose that during the brief hour of Mr. Pierson's stay he was watched very closely, and the watcher was disappointed that no attempt was made at a private interview with Captain Monroe, who very plainly (Masterson thought, ostentatiously) showed himself in a rather unsocial mood, walking thoughtfully alone on the lawn, and making no attempt to speak, even with Madame Caron.

Pierson had a brief interview with her, rendered the more brief that he was conscious of Masterson's orderly lounging outside the window, but plainly within hearing, and the presence of Mrs. McVeigh, who was all interest and sympathy concerning Louise.

When he said: "Don't be at all disturbed over the work to be done, Madame; there is plenty of time in which to complete everything," the others present supposed, of course, he referred to the repairs on the yacht; and when he said, in reply to her admonitions, "No fear of me losing the road again, I shall arrive tonight," they supposed, of course, he referred to his arrival at the coast. Judithe knew better; she knew it meant his return, and more hours of uncertainty for her.

Colonel McVeigh helped to keep those hours from dragging by following up his love-making with a proposal of marriage, which she neither accepted or declined, but which gave her additional food for thought.

All the day Pluto brooded over that scene in the library. He was oppressed by the dread of harm to Madame Caron if some one did not at once acquaint her with the fact that the real spy was Madame's maid, who had fled for fear of recognition by the Lorings. He had been curious as to what motive had been strong enough to bring her back to the locality so dangerous to her freedom. He was puzzled no longer—he knew.

But, how to tell Madame Caron? How could a nigger tell a white lady that story of Rhoda and Rhoda's mother? And if part was told, all must be told. He thought of telling Dr. Delaven, who already knew the history of Margeret, but Dr. Delaven was a friend to the Lorings, and how was a nigger to know what a white man's honor would exact that he do in such a case? And Pluto was afraid to ask it.

Instinctively his trust turned to the blue uniformed "Linkum soldier." No danger of him telling the story of the runaway slave to the wrong person. And he was Madame Caron's friend. Pluto had noted how he stepped beside her when Masterson brought his accusation against her, or her agent, Pierson. Monroe had been a sort of divinity to him from the moment the officer in blue had walked up the steps of the Terrace, and Pluto's admiration culminated in the decision that he was the one man to warn Madame Caron of her maid's identity without betraying it to any other.

The lady who caused all this suppressed anxiety was, apparently, care-free herself, or only disturbed slightly over the report concerning Louise. She knew the girl was in no real danger, but she knew, also, that at any hint of suspicion Louise would be in terror until joined by her mistress.

She heard Matthew Loring had sent over for Judge Clarkson to arrange some business affairs while Kenneth was home, and despite Mrs. McVeigh's statement that they neither bought nor sold slaves, she fancied she knew what one of the affairs must be.

Judge Clarkson, however, was not at home—had been called across the country somewhere on business, but Aunt Sajane sent word that they would certainly be over in the evening and would come early, if Gideon returned in time.

But he did not. Several of the guests arrived before them; Colonel McVeigh was employed as host, and the business talk had to be deferred until the following morning.

Altogether, the sun went down on a day heavy with threats and promises. But whatever the rest experienced in that atmosphere of suppressed feeling, Kenneth McVeigh was only responsive to the promises; all the world was colored by his hopes!

And Monroe, who saw clearly what the hopes were, and who thought he saw clearly what the finale would be, had little heart for the festivities afoot—wished himself anywhere else but on the hospitable plantation of the McVeighs, and kept at a distance from the charming stranger who had bewitched the master of it.

Twilight had fallen before Pluto found the coveted opportunity of speaking with him alone. Monroe was striding along the rose arbor, smoking an after-supper cigar, when he was suddenly confronted by the negro who had questioned him about the Federal policy as to slavery.

He had been running along the hedge in a stooping position so as not to be seen from the windows of the dining room, where the other servants were working, and when he gained the shadows of an oleander tree, straightened up and waited.

"Well," remarked Monroe, as he witnessed this maneuver, "what is it?"

Pluto looked at him steadily for an instant, and then asked, cautiously:

"Mahs Captain, you a sure enough friend of Madame Caron?"

"'Sure enough' friend—what do you mean?"

"I mean Madame Caron gwine to have trouble if some sure enough friend don't step in an' tell her true who the spy is they all talk 'bout today."

"Indeed?" said Monroe, guardedly; his first thought was one of suspicion, lest it be some trick planned by Masterson.

"Yes, sah; I find out who that woman spy is, but ain't no one else knows! I can't tell a white lady all that story what ain't noways fitten' fo' ladies to listen to, but—but somebody got to tell her, somebody that knows jest how much needs tellen', an' how much to keep quiet—somebody she trusts, an' somebody what ain't no special friend o' the Lorings. Fo' God's sake, Mahsa Captain, won't yo' be that man?"

Monroe eyed him narrowly for an instant, and then tossed away the cigar.

"No fooling about this business, mind you," he said, briefly; "what has Madame Caron to do with any spy? And what has Matthew Loring?"

"Madame not know she got anything to do with her," insisted Pluto, eagerly, "that gal come heah fo' maid to Madame Caron, an' then ole Nelse (what Lorings use to own) he saw her, an' that scare her plum off the place. An' the reason why Mahsa Loring is in it is 'cause that fine French maid is a runaway slave o' his—or maybe she b'long to Miss Gertrude, I don' know rightly which it is. Any how, she's Margeret's chile an' ought to a knowed more'n to come a 'nigh to Loring even if she is growd up. That why I know fo' suah she come back fo' some special spy work—what else that gal run herself in danger fo' nothen'?"

"You'd better begin at the beginning of this story, if it has one," suggested Monroe, who could see the man was intensely in earnest, "and I should like to know why you are mixing Madame Caron in the affair."

"She bought my baby fo' me—saved him from the trader, Mahsa Captain," and Pluto's voice trembled as he spoke. "Yo' reckon I evah fo'get that ar? An' now seems like as how she's got mixed up with troubles, an' I come to yo' fo' help 'cause yo' a Linkum man, an' 'cause yo' her frien'."

It was twenty minutes later before Pluto completed his eager, hurried story, and at its finish Monroe knew all old Nelse had told Delaven, and more, too, for confidential servants learn many hidden things, and Rosa—afterwards Pluto's wife—knew why Margeret's child was sent to the Larue estate for training. Mistress Larue, whose conscience was of the eminently conventional order, seldom permitting her to contest any decision of her husband, yet did find courage to complain somewhat of the child's charge and her ultimate destination—to complain, not on moral, but on financial grounds—fully convinced that so wealthy a man as Matthew Loring could afford to pay more for her keeping than the sum her husband had agreed to, and that the youth, Kenneth McVeigh, to whose estate the girl was partly sold, could certainly afford more of recompense than his guardian had agreed to.

Pluto told that portion of the story implicating his master with considerable reluctance, yet felt forced to tell it all, that Monroe should be impressed with the necessity of absolute secrecy to every one except Madame Caron, and she, of course, must not hear that part of it.

"Name o' God, no!" burst out Pluto, in terror of what such a revelation would mean. "What yo' reckon Madame Caron think o' we all ef she done heah that? Don't reckon his own ma evah heard tell a whisper o' that ar; all Mahs Matt Loring's doin's, that sale was—must a been! Mahs Ken wan't only a boy then—not more'n fifteen, so yo' see—"

Monroe made no comment, though he also had a vision of what it would mean if Madame Caron—she of all women!—should hear this evidently true story just as Pluto related it.

He walked along the rose hedge and back again in silence, the colored man regarding him anxiously; finally he said:

"All right, my man. I'll speak to Madame and be careful not to tell her too much. You are all right, Pluto; you did right to come to me."

Some one called Pluto from the window. He was about to go when Monroe asked:

"What about that picture you said your wife had of the girl? Madame Caron may not be easy to convince. You'd better let me have it to show her. Is it a good likeness?"

"'Fore God I don' know! I only reckon it is, 'cause Nelse took her, on sight, fo' Margeret's ghost, which shows it must be the plain image of her! I done been so upset since I got back home with Zekal I nevah had a minute to look ovah Rosa's b'longens', but the likeness is in that bundle somewhere; Rosa alles powerful careful o' that locket thing, an' kep' it put away; don't mind as I evah seen it but once, jest when we fust married. I'd a clean fo'got all 'bout it, only fo' an accident—an' that's the woman now it was painted from."

He pointed to a window where Margeret stood outlined for an instant against the bright background.

"Don't look more like her now, I reckon," he continued, "all her trouble must a' changed her mightily, fo' the ole folks do say she was counted a beauty once. Little Rhoda went a'most crazy when some one stole the locket, so Rosa said; then by and by the gal what took it got scared—thought it was a hoodoo—an' fetched it back, but Rhoda gone away then. My Rosa took it an' kep' it faithful, waiten' fo' that chile to come back, but she nevah come back while Rosa lived."

Monroe was staring still at the figure of Margeret, seen dimly, now, through the window.

"Look here!" he said, sharply, "if the old man recognized the likeness, how comes it that the mother herself did not see it?"

"Why, Margeret she not get here till nex' day after Madame Caron's maid start down the river to take the cars fo' Savannah," explained Pluto. "Then Miss Gertrude come a visiten' an' fetch Margeret along. Yo' see, sah, that woman done been made think her chile dead a long time ago, an' when Margeret went clean 'stracted the word went down to Larues that she dead or dyen'—one! any way my Rosa nevah know'd no different till Larues moved back from Georgy, so there wan't no one heah to 'dentify her, an' there wan't no one heah to let that gal know she had a liven mammy."

Again Caroline called Pluto.

"Go on," said Monroe, "but get me the picture soon as you can. I leave in the morning."

"I be right heah with it in hour's time," promised Pluto; "don' reckon I can slip away any sooner, a sight o' quality folks a' comen'."



CHAPTER XXVI.

As Monroe entered the hall Judithe came down the stairs, a dainty vision in palest rose. She wore armlets and girdle of silver filagree, a silver comb in the dark tresses, and large filagree loops in her ears gave the beautiful face a half-oriental character.

Admire her though he must, he felt an impatience with her, a wonder that so beautiful a being, one so blest with all the material things of life, should forsake harmony, home, and her own land, for the rude contests where men fought, and plotted, and died—died ingloriously sometimes, for the plots and intrigues through which she claimed to find the only escape from ennui.

She saw him, hesitated an instant, and then came towards him, with a suggestion of daring in her eyes.

"I might as well hear the worst, first as last," she said, taking his arm. "Is not the veranda more cool than in here? Come, we shall see. I prefer to be out of hearing of the people while you lecture me for today's mishap."

She glanced up at him with a pretense of dread such as a child might show; she was pleased to be alluringly gracious, but he could feel that she was more nervous than she had ever shown herself before—the strain was telling on her. Her beautiful eyes were not so slumbrous as usual; they were brilliant as from some inward fever, and, though she smiled and met his sombre gaze with a challenge, she smothered a sigh under her light words.

"I shan't lecture you, Madame Caron; I have no right to interfere with what you call your—amusements," and he glanced down at her, grimly; "but I leave in the morning because by remaining longer I might gain knowledge which, in honor, I should feel bound to report."

"To Colonel—or, shall we say, General—McVeigh?"

He bent his head, and answered: "I have given you warning. He is my friend."

"And I?" she asked, glancing at him with a certain archness. He looked down at her, but did not speak.

"And I?" she repeated.

"No," he said, after a pause. "You, Madame, would have to be something more, or something less. The fates have decreed that it be less—so," he made a little gesture dismissing the subject. "Pardon me, but I did not mean to attack you in that fashion. I came to look for you to ask you a question relating to the very pretty, very clever, maid you had in New Orleans, and whom, I hear, you brought with you on your visit here."

"Oh! You are curious as to her—and you wish me to answer questions?"

"If you please, though it really does not matter to me. Are you aware that the woman was a runaway slave, and liable to recapture in this particular vicinity?"

"In this particular vicinity?" she repeated, questioningly.

"Yes, if Matthew Loring should once get suspicion of the fact that your maid was really his girl Rosa—no, Rhoda—it would be an awkward fact allied to the episode here today," and he made a gesture towards the library window they were just passing.

"Come, we will go down the steps," she suggested. They did so, and were promenading under the trees, lantern lit, on the lawn, when Colonel McVeigh came out on the veranda and felt a momentary envy of Monroe, who was free from a host's duties. They were clear of the steps and of probable listeners before Judithe asked:

"Where did you get this information?"

"From a slave who wanted you warned that you without knowing it, are probably harboring the spy whom Captain Masterson spoke of today."

"Ah, a slave?" she remarked, thoughtfully; and the curious, intense gaze of Margeret was recalled to her, only to be followed by the memory of Pluto's anxiety that Louise should leave before the arrival of the Lorings; it was, then, without doubt, Pluto who gave the warning; but she remembered Zekal, and felt she had little to be anxious over.

"You probably are not aware," he continued, "what a very serious affair it is considered here to assist in hiding a slave of that sort under assumed names or occupations. But if it is discovered it would prove ruinous to you just now."

"In three days I shall be out of the country," she answered, briefly. "I go down to Savannah, secure Louise from this blunder—for there is really nothing to be proven against her as a spy—and then, farewell, or ill, to Carolina. I do not expect to enter it again. My arrangements are all made. Nothing has been forgotten. As to my good Louise, your informer has not been made acquainted with all the facts. It is true she was a Georgian slave, but is so no longer. For over a year she has been in possession of the papers establishing her freedom. Her own money, and a clever lawyer, arranged all that without any trouble whatever. What Monsieur Loring would do if he knew I had a maid whose name was assumed, I neither know nor care. He could not identify her as the girl Rhoda Larue, even if he saw her. His sight has failed until he could not distinguish you from Colonel McVeigh if across the room. I learned that fact through Madame McVeigh before leaving Mobile, so, you perceive, I have not risked so much in making the journey with my pretty maid; and I shall risk no more when I make my adieus the day after tomorrow."

She laughed, and looked up in his face. He looked down in her's, but he did not laugh.

"And the estate you have just purchased in order to enjoy this Eden-like plantation life?"

"The purpose for which it was purchased will be carried out quite as well without my presence," she said, quietly. "I never meant to live there."

"Well, that beats me!" he said, halting, and looking squarely down at her. "You spend thousands to establish yourself in the heart of a seceding country, and gain the confidence of the natives, and then toss it all aside as though it were only a trifle! You must have spent fortunes from your own pocket to help the Federals!"

"So your President was good enough to say in the letter I tried to show you—and did not," she replied, and then smiled, as she added, "but you are mistaken, Captain Monroe; it was only one fortune spent, and I will be recompensed."

"When?"

"When that long-talked-of emancipation is announced."

The bright music of a mazurka stole out of the open windows, and across the level could be seen a blaze of fat pine torches tied to poles and shedding lustre and black pitch over the negro quarters—they also were celebrating "Mahs Ken's" return. Above the dreamy system of the parlor dances they could hear at times the exuberant calls and shouts of laughter where the dark people made merry. Judge Clarkson, who was descending the steps, halted to listen, and drew Monroe's attention to it.

"Happy as children they are, over there tonight," he remarked. "Most contented people on earth, I do believe." He addressed some gallant words to Judithe, and then turned to Monroe.

"Mr. Loring has been inquiring for you, Captain Monroe. You understand, of course, that you are somewhat of a lion and one we cannot afford to have hidden. He is waiting to introduce you to some of our Carolina friends, who appreciate you, sir, for the protection shown a daughter of the South, and from your magnanimous care of a Carolina boy this past month—oh, your fame has preceded you, and I assure you, sir, you have earned for yourself a hearty welcome."

Evilena joined them, followed by Delaven, who asked for a dance and was flouted because he did not wear a uniform. She did present him with a scarlet flower from her boquet, with the remark that if decked with something bright he might be a little less suggestive of funerals, and, attaching herself to Monroe, she left to look up Matthew Loring.

Delaven looked ruefully at the scarlet flower.

"It's a poor substitute for herself," he decided, "but, tell me now, Marquise, if you were fathoms deep in love, as I am this minute, and had so much of encouragement as a flower flung at you, what would you advise as the next move in Cupid's game?"

She assumed a droll air of serious contemplation for an instant, and then replied, in one word:

"Propose."

"I'll do it," he decided; "ah, you are a jewel of a woman to give a man courage! I'll lay siege to her before I'm an hour older. Judge, isn't it you would lend a boy a hand in a love affair? I'm bewitched by one of the fair daughters of the South you are so proud of; I find I am madly jealous of every other lad who leads her onto the dancing floor this night, but every one of them has dollars where I have dimes," and he sighed like a furnace and glanced from one to the other with a comical look of distress; "so is it any wonder I need all the bracing up my friends can give me?"

"My dear sir," said the Judge, genially, "our girls are not mercenary. You are a gentleman, so need fear comparison with none! You have an active brain, a high degree of intelligence, a profession through which you may win both wealth and honors for the lady in question—so why procrastinate?"

"Judge, you are a trump! With you to back me up with that list of advantages, I'll dare the fates."

"I am your obedient servant, sir. I like your enthusiasm—your determination to put the question to the test. I approve of early marriages, myself; procrastination and long engagements are a mistake, sir—a mistake!"

"They are," agreed Delaven, with a decision suggestive of long experience in such matters. "Faith, you two are life preservers to me. I feel light as a cork with one of you on each side—though it was doleful enough I was ten minutes ago! You see, Judge, the lady who is to decide my fate has valued your friendship and advice so long that I count on you—I really do, now, and if you'd just say a good word to her—"

"A word! My dear sir, my entire vocabulary is at your service in an affair of the heart." The Judge beamed on Delaven and bowed to Madame Caron as though including her in the circle where Love's sceptre is ever potent.

"Faith, when America becomes a monarchy, I'll vote for you to be king," and Delaven grasped the hand of the Judge and shook it heartily; "and if you can only convince Mrs. McVeigh that I am all your fancy has pictured me, I'll be the happiest man in Carolina tonight."

"What!" Judge Clarkson dropped his hand as though it had burned him, and fairly glared at the self-confessed lover.

"I would that!—the happiest man in Carolina, barring none," said the reckless Irishman, so alive with his own hopes that he failed to perceive the consternation in the face of the Judge; but Judithe saw it, and, divining the cause, laughed softly, while Delaven continued: "You see, Judge, Mrs. McVeigh will listen to you and—"

"Young man!" began Clarkson, austerely, but at that moment the lady in question appeared on the veranda and waved her fan to Delaven.

"Doctor, as a dancing man your presence in the house would be most welcome," she said, coming slowly down the steps towards them.

"Madame, both my feet and my heart are at your disposal," he said, hastening to meet her, and passing on to find some unpartnered damsels she suggested.

"What a charming young man he is," remarked their hostess, "and exceedingly skillful in his profession for so young a physician. Don't you consider him very bright, Judge?"

"I, Madame—I?" and Judithe retired, convulsed at the situation; "on my word, I wouldn't trust him to doctor a sick cat!" Mrs. McVeigh looked astonished at the intensity of his words and was fairly puzzled to see Judithe laughing on the seat under the tree.

"Why, Judge! I'm actually surprised! He is most highly esteemed professionally, and in Paris—"

"Pardon me, but I presume his hair was the same color in Paris that it is here," said the Judge, coldly, "and I have never in my life known a red-headed man who had any sense, or—"

"Oh!" Mrs. McVeigh glanced slowly from the Judge to Judithe and then smiled; "I remember one exception, Judge, for before your hair became white it was—well, auburn, at least."

The Judge ran his fingers through the bushy curls referred to. The man usually so eloquent and ready of speech, was checkmated. He could only stammer something about exceptions to rules, and finally said:

"You will probably remember, however, that my hair was very dark—a dark red, in fact, a—a—brown red."

Judithe, to hide her amusement, had moved around to the other side of the tree circled by the rustic seat. Her hostess turned one appealing glance towards her, unseen by the Judge, who had forgotten all but the one woman before him.

"No matter if he had hair all colors of the rainbow he is not worthy of you, Madame," he blurted out, and Mrs. McVeigh took a step away from him in dismay; in all her knowledge of Judge Clarkson, she had never seen him show quite so intense a dislike for any one.

"Why, Judge! What is the matter tonight?" she asked, in despair. "You mean Dr. Delaven; not worthy of me?"

"He aspires to your hand," blurted out the Judge, angrily. "Such an ambition is a worthy one; it is one I myself have cherished for years, but you must confess I had the courage to ask your hand in person."

"Yes, Judge; but—"

"This fellow, on the contrary, has had the affrontery to come to me—to me! with the request that I use my influence in negotiating a matrimonial alliance with you!"

Mrs. McVeigh stared at him a moment, and then frankly laughed; she suspected it was some joke planned by Evilena. But the indignation of the Judge was no joke.

"Well, Judge, when I contemplate a matrimonial alliance, I can assure you that no one's influence would have quite so much weight as your own;" she had ascended the steps and was laughing; at the top she leaned over and added, "no matter who you employ your eloquence for, Judge;" and with that parting shot she disappeared into the hall, leaving him in puzzled doubt as to her meaning. But the question did not require much consideration. The remembrance of the smile helped clear it up wonderfully. He clasped his hands under his coat tails, threw back his shoulders, walked the length of the veranda and back with head very erect. He was a very fine figure of a man.

"The Irishman's case is quashed," he said, nodding emphatically and confidentially to the oleander bush; "the fact that a woman, and that woman a widow, remembers the color of the plaintiff's hair for twenty years, should convince the said plaintiff if he is a man possessed of a legal mind, that his case is still on the calendar. I'll go and ask for the next dance."

He had scarcely reached the steps when Judithe saw a flutter of white where the shadows were heaviest under the dense green shrubbery. She glanced about her; no one was in hearing. The veranda, for the instant, was deserted, and past the windows the dancers were moving. The music of stringed instruments and of laughter floated out to her. She saw Masterson in the hallway; he was watching Monroe. She saw Kenneth McVeigh speaking to his mother and glancing around inquiringly; was he looking for her? She realized that her moments alone now would be brief, and she moved swiftly under the trees to where the signal had been made. A man had been lying there flat to the ground. He arose as she approached, and she saw he was dressed in Confederate uniform, and that he wore no beard—it was Pierson.

"Why did you leave the place without seeing me again?" she demanded. "This suspense seems to me entirely unnecessary."

"It was the best I could do, Madame," he answered, hurriedly. "Masterson, unknown to the McVeighs, had spies within hearing of every word between us, and to write was too great a risk. His man followed me beyond the second fortification."

"And you eluded him?"

"No; I left him," answered Pierson, grimly. "I wore his uniform back—he did not need it."

Judithe drew a deep, shuddering breath, but made no comment. "Give me the contents of the destroyed despatch," was all she said.

"McVeigh received official notification of promotion today. Important instructions were included as to the movements of his brigade. These instructions must be received by us tonight in order to learn their plans for this wing of the army."

"And you depend on me?"

"No other way to secure them quickly, but some of our men have been landed north of Beaufort. They are under cover in the swamp and cane brakes awaiting your commands—so if it can't be done quietly there is another way—a raid for any purpose you may suggest, and incidentally these instructions would be among the souvenirs from this especial plantation."

"Colonel McVeigh only remains over tomorrow night. Suppose I succeed, how shall I communicate with you or with the detachment of Federals?"

"I will return tonight after the house is quiet. I shall be in sight of the balcony. You could drop them from there; or, if you have any better plan of your own I will act on it."

She could see Kenneth on the veranda, and knew he was looking for her. The moments were precious now; she had to think quick.

"It may not be possible to secure them tonight; the time is so short; and if not I can only suggest that the commander of the landed troops send a detachment tomorrow, capture Colonel McVeigh and Captain Masterson, and get the papers at the same time. There are also official documents in McVeigh's possession relating to the English commissions for additions to the Confederate Navy. I must go; they are looking for me. You can trust a black man here called Pluto—but do not forget that a detachment of Confederates came today to the fortifications below here, don't let our men clash with them; good bye; make no mistake."

She moved away as she spoke, and the man dropped back unseen into the shadows as she went smilingly forward to meet the lover, whose downfall she was debating with such cool judgment.

And the lover came to meet her with ardent blue eyes aglow.

"Have you fled to the shadows to avoid us all?" he demanded, and then as he slipped her hand through his arm and looked down in her face, he asked, more tenderly, "or may I think you only left the crowd to think over my audacity."

She gave him one fleeting, upward glance, half inviting, half reproving—it would help concentrate his attention until the man in the shadows was beyond all danger of discovery.

"You make use of every pretext to avoid me," he continued, "but it won't serve you; no matter what cool things you say now, I can only hear through your words the meaning of those Fontainbleau days, and that one day in Paris when you loved me and dared to say it. Judithe, give me my answer. I thought I could wait until tomorrow, but I can't; you must tell me tonight; you must!"

"Must?" She drew away from him and leaned against a tall garden vase overrun with clustering vines. They were in the full blaze of light from the windows; she felt safer there where they were likely to be interrupted every minute; the man surely dared not be wildly sentimental in full view of the crowd—which conclusion showed that she was not yet fully aware of what Kenneth McVeigh would dare do where a woman—or the woman was in question.

"An hour ago you said: 'Will you?' Now it is: 'You must!'" she said, with a fine little smile. "How quick you are to assume the tone of master, Monsieur."

"If you said slave, the picture would have been more complete," he answered. "I will obey you in all things except when you tell me to leave you;" he had possessed himself of her hand, under cover of the vines; "it's no use, Judithe, you belong to me. I can't let you go from me again; I won't!"