ever, Berthe was given to see the utter loneliness of
an orphaned girl in one who for all the rest of the world was the
disdainfully independent little aristocrat, who had met the proffered
intimacy of the French empress with a sneer, who was the cold princess
when among princesses of the Blood. The loyal child of simple Breton
folk sprang impulsively to the arm of the rocker, and was herself
clasped no less impulsively.

"But there," said Jacqueline, laughing rather brokenly, "we're
forgetting the flies."

A belt over the fireplace caught her eye, and she unexpectedly
discovered that her breath had quickened. She stared fascinated at the
letters on the buckle. "C. S. A.," she murmured. Then her startled gaze
roved hurriedly over the walls. It became even frightened before a faded
gray cape-coat of the Confederate cavalry and a battered white gauntlet
sticking from the pocket. Involuntarily, trembling foolishly, she looked
to see if there might not be an old cob pipe also. There was not, but
the other familiar objects made her imagination leap fearfully to what
might be. Both hope and dread will always override common sense, and
convoy imagination perforce. If _he_ did live here--if they should
meet! Could such a coincidence happen, could it, outside the neat
ordering of a book or play?

She sprang to her feet and began investigating. She went awesomely as
one would tiptoe over a haunted house. In the next room she came upon
what was an odd treasure trove for an isolated bamboo cabin tucked far
away under the Tropic of Cancer. It was a printer's shop, after a
fashion. The case was a block of stone, in whose surface the little
compartments had been chiseled. They were sparsely accoutred with type
and plentifully with cigar ashes. As for a press, there was none. But a
form had been made up on a slab of marble, and near by were a tiny
hillock of ink, a roller and a mallet. The mysterious printer could at
least take proofs. There was one now on a file. Jacqueline pulled it
off, and contemplated a miniature American newspaper, of one sheet,
printed on one side only, and no larger than a magazine cover. At the
top she read the legend, in German caps: "_The Cordova
Colonist_--_Weekly Independent_."

"Is that a pun?" she wondered.

But now at least she could identify the ghostly company of the valley,
though not its scribe. That word "Cordova" gave the clue. A year ago one
thousand hardy men had ridden into the capital fr