t her eyes idly upon it as she walked on
toward the house. The woman came slowly and hesitatingly toward the
yard. When she drew nearer, Margaret could see that she wore homespun,
home-made shoes, and a poke-bonnet. On her hands were yarn half-mits,
and, as she walked, she pushed her bonnet from her eyes with one hand,
first to one side, then to the other--looking at the locusts planted
along the avenue, the cedars in the yard, the sweep of lawn overspread
with springing bluegrass. At the yard gate she stopped, leaning over
it--her eyes fixed on the stately white house, with its mighty pillars.
Margaret was standing on the steps now, motionless and waiting, and,
knowing that she was seen, the woman opened the gate and walked up the
gravelled path--never taking her eyes from the figure on the porch.
Straight she walked to the foot of the steps, and there she stopped,
and, pushing her bonnet back, she said, simply:

"Are you Mar-ga-ret?" pronouncing the name slowly and with great
distinctness.

Margaret started.

"Yes," she said.

The girl merely looked at her--long and hard. Once her lips moved:

"Mar-ga-ret," and still she looked. "Do you know whar Chad is?"

Margaret flushed.

"Who are you?"

"Melissy."

Melissa! The two girls looked deep into each other's eyes and, for one
flashing moment, each saw the other's heart--bared and beating--and
Margaret saw, too, a strange light ebb slowly from the other's face and
a strange shadow follow slowly after.

"You mean Major Buford?"

"I mean Chad. Is he dead?"

"No, he is bringing my brother home."

"Harry?"

"No--Dan."

"Dan--here?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"As soon as my brother gets well enough to travel. He is wounded."

Melissa turned her face then. Her mouth twitched and her clasped hands
were working in and out. Then she turned again.

"I come up here from the mountains, afoot jus' to tell ye--to tell YOU
that Chad ain't no"--she stopped suddenly, seeing Margaret's quick
flush--"CHAD'S MOTHER WAS MARRIED. I jus' found it out last week. He
ain't no--"--she started fiercely again and stopped again. "But I come
here fer HIM--not fer YOU. YOU oughtn't to 'a' keered. Hit wouldn't 'a'
been his fault. He never was the same after he come back from here. Hit
worried him most to death, an' I know hit was you--YOU he was always
thinkin' about. He didn't keer 'cept fer you." Again that shadow came
and deepened. "An' you oughtn't to 'a' keered what he was--and t