e sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall.
But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its
youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the
Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.

There was a cavalry trooper's uniform in one bag; she undressed
hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak,
turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head,
pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of
gilt and its yellow braid.

It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel's tent and went
cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre
flopping.

There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the
Carryl home, and John Deal's farm as well as she knew her own home in
Sandy River.

The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and
bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the
sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy
sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and
martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant
vapor rose from earth and shrub.

Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of
splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special
Messenger's eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.

Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee
roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow
the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the
blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at
the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special
Messenger's horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman,
dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as
though waiting.

The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped
down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch
hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger's eyes without
recognition.

Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed--blonder for the dull
contrast of the mourning she wore--and her voice was as colorless as her
skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.

All she could see of this cloaked cavalryman was two dark, youthful eyes
above the upturned collar of th