it died
southward upon the road. There was shame in this, mingled with a
thankfulness that he would not meet Clarence. She hurried a few steps
toward the house, and stopped again. What should she say to Clarence now?
What could she say to him?

But Clarence was not in her head. Ringing there was her talk with Stephen
Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on. His questions and her
replies--over and over again. Each trivial incident of an encounter real
and yet unreal! His transformation in the uniform, which had seemed so
natural. Though she strove to make it so, nothing of all this was
unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of his arm about
her nor yet again his calling her by her name.

Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on,
forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at her
side,--then dread.

"I thought I should never get back," he cried breathlessly, as he threw
his reins to Sambo. "I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Did
it seem long, Jinny?"

She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. To lead
her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a sudden fear
came into his voice.

"Jinny!"

"Yes."

She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how he
stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black
figure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her own
response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.

"Jinny," he said, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you."

"Then--then you won't marry me?"

"Oh, Max," she cried, "it is no time to talk of that now. I feel to-night
as if something dreadful were to happen."

"Do you mean war?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

"But war is what we want," he cried, "what we have prayed for, what we
have both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us our
rights--"

He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he saw
her shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewilderment and
anxiety.

"You are not well, Jinny," he said.

"I am not well," she answered. "Take me into the house."

But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry.

Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit of
staying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks
(nay, not always