t the
nine peaches and wet pits meant to John Deal that nine bees were to be
expected--eager home-comers, which he had sent to his mistress and
which, as she required their services, she released, certain that they
would find their old hives on John Deal's farm and carry to him the
messages she sent.

And they came at last--the sixth, seventh--then after a long interval
the eighth--and, finally, the ninth bee whizzed up to the hive and fell,
scrambling, its movements embarrassed by the tiny, tissue cylinders.

The Messenger waited another hour; there were no more messengers among
the bees that arrived.

Then she opened every hive door, rose, walked over to the closed hive
that stood apart and opened the door of that.

A _black_ honeybee crawled out, rose into the air, and started due
south; another followed, then three, then a dozen; and then the hive
vomited a swarm of _black_ bees which sped southward.

Sandy River lay due south; also, the home-hive from which they had been
taken and confined as prisoners; also, a certain famous officer lingered
at Sandy River--one, General J. E. B. Stuart, very much interested in
the beehives belonging to a friend of his, a Mr. Enderly.

When she had relieved each messenger-bee of its tissue-paper dispatch,
she had taken the precaution to number each tiny cylinder, in order of
its arrival, from one to nine. Now she counted them, looked over each
message, laid them carefully away between the leaves of a pocket
notebook, slipped it into the breast of her jacket, and, rising, walked
over to John Deal.

"Here is the key to those handcuffs," she said, hanging it around his
neck by the bit of cord on which it was dangling. "Somebody at Sandy
River will unlock them for you. But it would be better, Mr. Deal, if you
remained outside our lines until this war is ended. I don't blame
you--I'm sorry for you--and for your mistress."

She set toe to stirrup, mounted easily, fastened her cloak around her.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "I hope nobody will injure your pretty
farm. Good-by."

Miss Carryl was standing at the end of the beautiful, oak-shaded avenue
when the Messenger, arriving at full speed, drew bridle and whirled her
horse.

Looking straight into the pretty Southern woman's eyes, she said
gravely:

"Miss Carryl, your bees have double stings. I am very sorry for
you--very, very sorry. I hope your property will he respected while you
are at Sandy River."

"What do you