the village. Everybody did the same; the
houses were emptied of their dwellers. The whole village came together
to see the body of the boy-officer lifted out and carried into the inn.
Allison was dead.

The buttons on his uniform gleamed as they bore him in, and his white
hands hung lifelessly down. He had fought like a tiger, they said, and
had led his men on with the most intrepid, daring courage to the very
last. It seemed that they had fallen into an ambuscade, and had
accomplished nothing. Singularly enough, the young lieutenant was the
only one killed; Royce was sure that he had seen one of the outlaws
deliberately single him out and fire--a dark, haggard-looking fellow.

Stephen took Honor up to Adelaide's parlor. Adelaide was there wringing
her hands. She had fastened the boy's collar for him at two o'clock the
night before, when he had rather absurdly pretended that he could not
make it stay buttoned; and she had tapped him on the cheek reprovingly
for his sentimental looks. "This ball has spoiled you, foolish boy," she
had said; "march off into the mountains and get rid of this nonsense."
Ah, well, he was well rid of it now!

Honor stood as if transfixed, listening. Presently the door opened, and
Royce came in. "Let me get somewhere where I am not ashamed to cry," he
said; and, sinking down, he laid his head upon his arms on the table
and cried like a child. Honor went out of the room hastily; she hardly
noticed that Stephen was with her. When she reached the ravine, she,
too, sank down on the grass, out of sight of the house, and sobbed as
though her heart would break. Stephen looked at her irresolutely, then
moved away some paces, and, sitting down on a stump, waited. Honor had
danced with Allison: could it be--but no; it was only the sudden horror
of the thing.

Allison was buried in the little village churchyard; the whole
country-side came to the funeral. The old Episcopal rector read the
burial-service, and his voice shook a little as the young head was laid
low in the deep grave. Brother Bethuel had come down from the mountains
on Marcher, and had asked permission to lead the singing; he stood by
the grave, and, with uncovered head and uplifted eyes, sang with
marvelous sweetness and power an old Methodist hymn, in which all the
throng soon joined. The young girls who had danced at the ball sobbed
aloud. Honor alone stood tearless; but she had brought her choicest
roses to lay over the dead boy's f