oubt. One needed not to speculate on
unexplained possibilities of electrical currents, and resultant thrills
of light. It only epitomized and materialized the kindling of the fires
of hate.

It was Odalie's little home; much that she valued still remained
there--left to be quietly fetched to the fort next day. Their flitting
had taken place at dusk, with but a load of wearing apparel, and it was
supposed that the rest was quite safe, as the Cherokees were not
presumed to be apprised of their absence. The spinning-wheel and the
loom; her laborious treasures of home-woven linen for bed and table; the
fine curtains on which the birds flickered for the last time; the beds
and pillows, adding pounds on pounds of dry balsam needles to the fire;
the flaunting, disguised tabourets, showing themselves now at their true
value, and burning stolidly like the chunks of wood they were; the
unsteady tables and puncheon benches; all the uncouth, forlorn little
makeshifts of her humble housekeeping, that her embellishing touch had
rendered so pretty, added their fuel to the flames which cast
long-glancing lines of light up and down the silvery reaches of the
river she had loved.

Captain Stuart and Captain Demere, who had gone instantly to the tower
in the block-house by the gate, on the report of a strange, distant
light, saw her as they came down, and both paused, Demere wincing a
trifle, preferring not to meet her. She was standing beside one of the
great guns and had been looking out through the embrasure. The moon was
directly overhead above the parade, and the shadows of the palisades
fell outward. The officers could not avoid her; their way led them down
near at hand and they needs must pass her. She turned, and as she stood
with one hand on the big cannon, her white dress richly a-gleam in the
moonlight, she looked at them with a smile, something of the saddest, in
her eyes.

"If I wanted to scream, Mrs. MacLeod, I should scream," exclaimed
Demere, impulsively.

She laughed a little, realizing how he would have upbraided the futility
of tears had she shed them--he was always so ready with his staid, kind,
undeniably reasonable rebukes.

"No," she said, "I am trying to remember that home is not in a house,
but in the heart."

"I think you are trying to show us the mettle of a soldier," said
Demere, admiringly.

"Mrs. MacLeod would like the king's commission!" cried Stuart, breaking
the tension with his bluff raillery, s