mean?" asked Miss Carryl. Over her pale features a painful
tremor played.

"You know what I mean. And I am afraid you had better go at once. John
Deal is already on his way."

There was a long silence. Miss Carryl found her voice at length.

"Thank you," she said without a tremor. "Will I have any trouble in
passing the Yankee lines?"

"Here is your passport. I had prepared it."

As the Messenger bent over from the saddle to deliver the pass, somehow
her hat, with its crossed gilt sabres, fell off. She caught it in one
hand; a bright blush mantled throat and face.

The Southern woman looked up at the girl in the saddle, so dramatically
revealed for what she was under the superb accusation of her hair.

"_You?_"

"Yes--God help us both!"

The silence was terrible.

"It scarcely surprises me," murmured Miss Carryl with a steady smile. "I
saw only your eyes before, but they seemed too beautiful for a boy's."

Then she bent her delicately-molded head and studied the passport. The
Messenger, still blushing, drew her hat firmly over her forehead and
fastened a loosened braid. Presently she took up her bridle.

"I will ask Colonel Gay's protection for Waycross House," she said in a
low voice. "I am so dreadfully sorry that this has happened."

"You need not be; I have only tried to do for my people what you are
doing for yours--but I should be glad of a guard for Waycross. _His_
grave is in the orchard there." And with a quiet inclination of the head
she turned away into the oak-bordered avenue, walking slowly toward the
house which, in a few moments, she must leave forever.

In the late sunshine her bees flashed by, seeking the fragrant
home-hives; long, ruddy bars of sunlight lay across grass and tree
trunk; on the lawn the old servant still chopped at the unkempt grass,
and the music of his sickle sounded pleasantly under the trees.

On these things the fair-haired Southern woman looked, and if her eye
dimmed and her pale lip quivered there was nobody to see. And after a
little while she went into the house, slowly, head held high, black
skirt lifted, just clearing the threshold of her ancestors.

Then the Special Messenger, head hanging, wheeled her horse and rode
slowly back to Osage Court House.

She passed the Colonel, who was dismounting just outside his tent, and
saluted him without enthusiasm:

"The leak is stopped, sir. Miss Carryl is going to Sandy River; John
Deal is on his way. They won't co