she strained her eyes to
catch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust.

[Illustration: SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF
BATTLE]

No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as she
could see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; why
she could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise from
that road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Now
she could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly,
and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to her
bosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, and
with the cry of "Joyce! Joyce!" had her in his arms, kissing her hair, her
brow, her lips. For a minute she lay at rest in his arms; then, with
burning brow and cheek and neck, she disengaged herself from his embrace,
and stood looking at him with lovelit eyes. Could this be he whom, two
years before, she had taken in wounded nigh unto death? How manly he had
grown! How well his citizen suit became him!

"Were you watching for me, Joyce?" asked Calhoun.

"I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began to
think you had forgotten--no, not that, I feared you had been slain," she
exclaimed, in a trembling voice.

"Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle your
image was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened the
bitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but it
has brought me to you--to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothing
to separate us, is there, Joyce?"

She grew as pale as death. She had not thought of her father before--he
believed that the South had been treated too leniently, that treason
should be punished. All that the South had suffered he believed to be a
just punishment for her manifold sins. If the Rebels' lives were spared,
they should be thankful, and ask nothing more. Joyce knew how her father
felt. Not a word had ever passed between them relative to Calhoun since
his escape; but the father knew much more than Joyce thought. He had kept
still, thinking that time would cure his daughter of her infatuation, for
he considered it nothing else.

Calhoun saw the change in Joyce, how she drew from him, how pale she had
grown, and he asked, "What is it, Joyce? Why, you shrink from me, and
tremble