, I was
troubled--I am always troubled when I think of Fontenoy. But it is over
now--and indeed I wanted to hear Uncle Edward's letter." She
straightened herself and turned to him a smiling face. "And now tell me
of yourself! You are looking worn. Men work too hard in Richmond. Oh,
for the Albemarle air! The snow will be white to-morrow on my fir tree,
and Deb will have to throw crumbs for the birds. I have learned a new
song. When next you come, I will sing it to you."

"Will you not," asked Cary,--"will you not sing it to me now?"

She shook her head. "Not now. How the branches strike against the roof
to-night!"

As she spoke she moved restlessly, and Cary saw the amethysts stir
again. A thought flashed through his mind. It had to do with Lewis Rand,
of whom he often thought, sometimes with melancholy envy, sometimes with
strong dislike, sometimes with unwilling admiration, and always with
painful curiosity. Now, the substance of Major Churchill's letter
strongly in mind, with senses rendered more acute and emotions
heightened as they always were in the presence of the woman he had not
ceased to love, troubled, too, by something in her demeanor, intangibly
different from her usual frank welcome, he suddenly and vividly recalled
a much-applauded speech that Rand had made three days before in a public
gathering. It had included a noteworthy display of minute information of
western conditions, extending to the physical features of the country
and to every degree of its complex population. One sentence among many
had caught Cary's attention, had perplexed him, and had remained in his
memory to be considered afterwards, closely and thoughtfully. There was
one possible meaning--

Cary crumpled the letter in his hand. Rand's speech perplexed him no
longer. That was it--that was it! His breath came quickly. He had
builded better--he had builded better than he knew, when he wrote that
paper signed "Aurelius"!

With fingers that were not quite steady he smoothed and refolded Major
Churchill's letter He was saying to himself, "What does she know She
grew pale Thou suspicious fool! That was for thought of home He will
have told her nothing--nothing! Her soul is clear."

He pocketed his letter and, rising, spoke to her with a chivalrous
gentleness "I will go now Do not let the thought of Fontenoy distress
you Do you remember the snow man we made there once, wreathing his head
with holly? But I'll tell you a strange thing,--