at last, and showed that
he was ready to fight. He spoke so positively, and with such easy
assurance, that the man was afraid of him.

"Why, Marcy, sure, hope to die I never----"

"Yes, you have. You have been persecuting us systematically, and there's
the proof of it right there," exclaimed Marcy, pointing to the ruins of
Beardsley's home. "If you had quit that business two months ago, you
would have a house to live in now, and so would Colonel Shelby. I
believe I could have sent you to prison by telling Captain Benton a few
scraps of your history, but I wasn't mean enough to do it."

"No, you couldn't," declared Beardsley, who had had time to recover a
little of his courage. "I never was in the Confederate service; and even
if I was, I can't be pestered for it now, kase the Yankees done let me
go with the rest of the prisoners."

"You have been a smuggler, haven't you?"

"S'pose I have? I can't be hurt for that now."

"I almost wish I had tested the matter by speaking to Captain Benton
about it. If I had, I don't think you would have been turned over to the
army to be paroled with the other prisoners. I could have told him about
the _Hattie_, couldn't I?"

"Great smoke!" exclaimed Beardsley. "I never thought of her, and there
she is in the creek, where they could have picked her up as easy as you
please. It was good of you not to say anything about her, and if I ever
get a chance I'll show you that you and your maw have been thinking hard
of me without a cause."

Beardsley turned away as if he had nothing further to say to Marcy, and
the latter wheeled his horse and rode on toward Nashville, wondering if
he had made a mistake in talking so plainly to his old commander.

"If I have it is too late to be sorry for it now," was his reflection.
"But I don't think he can say worse things about me now than he could
before. Beardsley is nobody's fool, though he does look like it, and he
has known all along how mother and I feel toward him."

When Marcy reached the village he found the streets almost deserted; but
he knew there was a talkative crowd in the post-office, for every time
the door was opened loud and angry voices came through it. Tom Allison,
Mark Goodwin, and their friends were not at hand to have the first talk
with him, as Marcy thought they would be, but he found them in the
office listening to an excited harangue from a paroled soldier, who had
discarded his coat and hat and pushed up his sleeves, a