love had led him into a
ridiculous compliment. "What an idiot she will think me to say anything
so silly!" he reflected; while Francesca was thinking, "He has ceased
to love me, or he would not resort to flattery. It is well!" but the
pang that shot through her heart belied the closing thought, and,
glancing at him, the first was denied by the unconscious expression of
his eyes. Seeing that, she directly took alarm, and commenced to talk
upon a score of indifferent themes.

He had never seen her in such a mood: gay, witty, brilliant,--full of a
restless sparkle and fire; she would not speak an earnest word, nor hear
one. She flung about bonmots, and chatted airy persiflage till his heart
ached. At another time, in another condition, he would have been
delighted, dazzled, at this strange display; but not now.

In some careless fashion the war had been alluded to, and she spoke of
Chancellorsville. "It was there you were last wounded?"

"Yes," he answered, not even looking down at the empty sleeve.

"It was there you lost your arm?"

"Yes," he answered again, "I am sorry it was my sword-arm."

"It was frightful,"--holding her breath. "Do you know you were reported
mortally wounded? worse?"

"I have heard that I was sent up with the slain," he replied,
half-smiling.

"It is true. I looked for your name in the columns of 'wounded' and
'missing,' and read it at last in the list of 'killed.'"

"For the sake of old times, I trust you were a little sorry to so read
it," he said, sadly, for the tone hurt him.

"Sorry? yes, I was sorry. Who, indeed, of your friends would not be?"

"Who, indeed?" he repeated: "I am afraid the one whose regret I should
most desire would sorrow the least."

"It is very like," she answered, with seeming
carelessness,--"disappointment is the rule of life."

This would not do. He was getting upon dangerous ground. He would change
the theme, and prevent any farther speech till he was better master of
it. He begged for some music. She sat down at once and played for him;
then sang at his desire. Rich as she was in the gifts of nature, her
voice was the chief,--thrilling, flexible, with a sympathetic quality
that in singing pathetic music brought tears, though the hearer
understood not a word of the language in which she sang. In the old time
he had never wearied listening, and now he besought her to repeat for
him some of the dear, familiar songs. If these held for her any
associations,