on to their minds, out they came, inconsequent and reasonless as
ever, to burn Gardiston. But they did not know the United States troops
were there.

There was a siege of ten minutes, two or three volleys from the
soldiers, and then a disorderly retreat; one or two wounded were left on
the battle-field (Miss Duke's flower-garden), and the dining-room
windows were broken. Beyond this there was no slaughter, and the victors
drew off their forces in good order to the camp, leaving the officers to
receive the thanks of the household--Cousin Copeland, enveloped in a
mammoth dressing-gown that had belonged to his grandfather, and Gardis,
looking distractingly pretty in a hastily donned short skirt and a
little white sack (she had no dressing-gown), with her brown hair waving
over her shoulders, and her cheeks scarlet from excitement. Roger Saxton
fell into love on the spot: hitherto he had only hovered, as it were, on
the border.

"Had you any idea she was so exquisitely beautiful?" he exclaimed, as
they left the old house in the gray light of dawn.

"Miss Duke is not exquisitely beautiful; she is not even beautiful,"
replied the slow-voiced Newell. "She has the true Southern colorless, or
rather cream-colored, complexion, and her features are quite irregular."

"Colorless! I never saw more beautiful coloring in my life than she had
to-night," exclaimed Saxton.

"To-night, yes; I grant that. But it took a good-sized riot to bring it
to the surface," replied the impassive captain.

A guard was placed around the house at night and pickets sent down the
road for some time after this occurrence. Gardis, a prey to conflicting
feelings, deserted her usual haunts and shut herself up in her own
room, thinking, thinking what she ought to do. In the mean time, beyond
a formal note of inquiry delivered daily by a wooden-faced son of Mars,
the two officers made no effort toward a further acquaintance; the
lieutenant was on fire to attempt it, but the captain held him back. "It
is her place to make the advances now," he said. It was; and Gardis knew
it.

One morning she emerged from her retreat, and with a decided step sought
Cousin Copeland in his study. The little man had been disquieted by the
night attack; it had come to him vaguely once or twice since then that
perhaps there might be other things to do in the world besides copying
family documents; but the nebula--it was not even a definite
thought--had faded, and now he was