n the possession of a substantial
reward for her services.

"You're not sayin' much to-night," said Ben to his sweetheart, as they
walked along under the trees.

Graciella did not respond.

"You're not sayin' much to-night," he repeated.

"Yes," returned Graciella abstractedly, "it was a lovely party!"

Ben said no more. The house warming had also given him food for
thought. He had noticed the colonel's attentions to Graciella, and had
heard them remarked upon. Colonel French was more than old enough to
be Graciella's father; but he was rich. Graciella was poor and
ambitious. Ben's only assets were youth and hope, and priority in the
field his only claim.

Miss Laura and Catherine had gone in, and when the young people came
to the gate, the light still shone through the open door.

"Graciella," he said, taking her hand in his as they stood a moment,
"will you marry me?"

"Still harping on the same old string," she said, withdrawing her
hand. "I'm tired now, Ben, too tired to talk foolishness."

"Very well, I'll save it for next time. Good night, sweetheart."

She had closed the gate between them. He leaned over it to kiss her,
but she evaded his caress and ran lightly up the steps.

"Good night, Ben," she called.

"Good night, sweetheart," he replied, with a pang of foreboding.

In after years, when the colonel looked back upon his residence in
Clarendon, this seemed to him the golden moment. There were other
times that stirred deeper emotions--the lust of battle, the joy of
victory, the chagrin of defeat--moments that tried his soul with tests
almost too hard. But, thus far, his new career in Clarendon had been
one of pleasant experiences only, and this unclouded hour was its
fitting crown.

_Twelve_

Whenever the colonel visited the cemetery, or took a walk in that
pleasant quarter of the town, he had to cross the bridge from which
was visible the site of the old Eureka cotton mill of his boyhood, and
it was not difficult to recall that it had been, before the War, a
busy hive of industry. On a narrow and obscure street, little more
than an alley, behind the cemetery, there were still several crumbling
tenements, built for the mill operatives, but now occupied by a
handful of abjectly poor whites, who kept body and soul together
through the doubtful mercy of God and a small weekly dole from the
poormaster. The mill pond, while not wide-spreading, had extended back
some distance between the