experience enough in the early part of the night to show him the
unsettled state of affairs still existing in the country under negro
domination.

There were no lights at Westmoreland, but he knew which was Alice's
room, and in the shadow of a tree he stopped and looked long at the
window. Oh, to tear down the barriers which separated him from her! To
see her once more--she the beautiful and true--her hair--her eyes, and
to place again the kiss of a new betrothal on her lips, the memory of
which, in all his sorrows and afflictions, had never left him. And now
they told him she was more beautiful than ever. Twelve years--twelve
years out of his life--years of forgetfulness--and yet it seemed but a
few months since he had bade Alice good-bye--here--here under the
crepe-myrtle tree where he now stood. He knelt and kissed the holy sod.
A wave of triumphant happiness came over him. He arose and threw
passionate kisses toward her window. Then he mounted and rode off.

At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly. He imagined he saw the old
Colonel, his grandfather, sitting in his accustomed place on the front
porch, his feet propped on the balcony, his favorite hound by his side.
Long he gazed, looking at every familiar place of his youth. He knew now
that every foot of it would be his. He had no bitterness in his heart.
Not he, for in the love and constancy of Alice Westmore all such things
seemed unspeakable insignificance to the glory of that.

In the old family cemetery, which lay hid among the cedars on the hill,
he stood bare-headed before the grave of his grandsire and silently the
tears fell:

"My noble old grandsire," he murmured, "if the spirits of the dead
look down on the living, tell me I have not proved unworthy. It was
his flag--my father's, and he lies by you wrapped in it. Tell me I
have not been unworthy the same, for I have suffered."

And from the silent stars, as he looked up, there fell on him a
benediction of peace.

Then he drew himself up proudly and gave each grave a military
salute, mounted and rode away.

CHAPTER XIV

THE JOY OF THE MORNING

All the week, since the scene at Maggie's deathbed, Alice Westmore
had remained at home, while strange, bitter feelings, such as she had
never felt before, surged in her heart. Her brother was away, and
this gave her more freedom to do as she wished--to remain in her
room--and her mother's presence now was not altogether the solace her
heart