have
you no word--of course, you know, the North's a mighty sizable place,
and still it's just possible I might chance some day to meet up
with--eh--eh--however, it's aft' all so utterly improbable, that,
really--well, good-by!"

A while later Johanna stopped at that familiar point which overlooked
the valley of the Swanee and the slopes about Rosemont. The sun had
nearly set, but she realized her hope. Far down on the gray turnpike she
saw the diminished figure of John March speeding townward across the
battle-field. At the culvert he drew rein, faced about, and stood gazing
upon Widewood's hills. She could but just be sure it was he, yet her
tender spirit felt the swelling of his heart, and the tears rose in her
eyes, that were not in his only because a man--mustn't.

While she wondered wistfully if he could see her, his arm went slowly up
and waved a wide farewell to the scene. She snatched out her
handkerchief, flaunted it, and saw him start gratefully at sight of her
and reply with his own. Then he wheeled and sped on.

"Go," she cried, "go; and de Lawd be wid you, Mr. Jawn Mahch,
Gen'lemun!--O Lawd, Lawd! Mr. Jawn Mahch, I wisht I knowed a nigger like
you!"

LXIX.

IN YANKEE LAND

It was still early May when Barbara Garnet had been six weeks in
college. The institution stood in one of New England's oldest towns, a
place of unfenced greenswards, among which the streets wound and
loitered, hunting for historic gambrel-roofed houses, many of which had
given room to other sorts less picturesque and homelike. In the same
search great elms followed them down into river meadows or up among
flowery hills, casting off their dainty blossoms, putting on their
leaves, and waving majestic greetings to the sower as he strode across
his stony fields.

Yet for all the sudden beauty of the land and season Miss Garnet was
able to retain enough of her "nostalgia" to comfort her Southern
conscience. She had arrived in March and caught Dame Nature in the midst
of her spring cleaning, scolding her patient children; and at any rate
her loyalty to Dixie forbade her to be quite satisfied with these tardy
blandishments. Let the cold Connecticut turn as blue as heaven, by so
much the more was it not the green Swanee? She had made more than one
warm friendship among her fellow-students, but the well-trimmed lamp of
her home feeling waxed not dim. It only smoked a trifle even in Boston,
that maze of allurements into which n