have shot the
man who saved his life. To the day of his death neither Mr. Brinsmade nor
his wife knew this. But while Mr. Brinsmade and Anne had gone upstairs to
the sickbed, these were the tidings the Major told Virginia, who kept it
in her heart. The reason he told her was because she had guessed a part
of it.

Nevertheless Mr. Brinsmade drove to the Arsenal with her that Saturday,
in his own carriage. Forgetful of his own grief, long habit came to him
to talk cheerily with her. He told her many little anecdotes of his
travel, but not one of them did she hear. Again, at the moment when she
thought her belief in Clarence and her love for him at last secure, she
found herself drawing searching comparisons between him and the quieter
young Bostonian. In spite of herself she had to admit that Stephen's deed
was splendid. Was this disloyal? She flushed at the thought. Clarence had
been capable of the deed,--even to the rescue of an enemy. But--alas,
that she should carry it out to a remorseless end--would Clarence have
been equal to keeping silence when Mr. Brinsmade came to him? Stephen
Brice had not even told his mother, so Mr. Brinsmade believed.

As if to aggravate her torture, Mr. Brinsmade's talk drifted to the
subject of young Mr. Brice. This was but natural. He told her of the
brave struggle Stephen had made, and how he had earned luxuries, and
often necessities, for his mother by writing for the newspapers.

"Often," said Mr. Brinsmade, "often I have been unable to sleep, and have
seen the light in Stephen's room until the small hours of the morning."

"Oh, Mr. Brinsmade," cried Virginia. "Can't you tell me something bad
about him? Just once."

The good gentleman started, and looked searchingly at the girl by his
side, flushed and confused. Perhaps he thought--but how can we tell what
he thought? How can we guess that our teachers laugh at our pranks after
they have caned us for them? We do not remember that our parents have
once been young themselves, and that some word or look of our own brings
a part of their past vividly before them. Mr. Brinsmade was silent, but
he looked out of the carriage window, away from Virginia. And presently,
as they splashed through the mud near the Arsenal, they met a knot of
gentlemen in state uniforms on their way to the city. Nicodemus stopped
at his master's signal. Here was George Catherwood, and his father was
with him.

"They have released us on parole," said George. "Y