s heart leaped at the words, as her eyes rested on the face of the
sleeping soldier.

CHAPTER VI

THE ASSASSINATION

Elsie called in the afternoon at the Camerons' lodgings, radiant with
pride, accompanied by her brother.

Captain Phil Stoneman, athletic, bronzed, a veteran of two years' service,
dressed in his full uniform, was the ideal soldier, and yet he had never
loved war. He was bubbling over with quiet joy that the end had come and
he could soon return to a rational life. Inheriting his mother's
temperament, he was generous, enterprising, quick, intelligent, modest,
and ambitious. War had seemed to him a horrible tragedy from the first. He
had early learned to respect a brave foe, and bitterness had long since
melted out of his heart.

He had laughed at his father's harsh ideas of Southern life gained as a
politician, and, while loyal to him after a boy's fashion, he took no
stock in his Radical programme.

The father, colossal egotist that he was, heard Phil's protests with mild
amusement and quiet pride in his independence, for he loved this boy with
deep tenderness.

Phil had been touched by the story of Ben's narrow escape, and was anxious
to show his mother and sister every courtesy possible in part atonement
for the wrong he felt had been done them. He was timid with girls, and yet
he wished to give Margaret a cordial greeting for Elsie's sake. He was not
prepared for the shock the first appearance of the Southern girl gave
him.

When the stately figure swept through the door to greet him, her black
eyes sparkling with welcome, her voice low and tender with genuine
feeling, he caught his breath in surprise.

Elsie noted his confusion with amusement and said:

"I must go to the hospital for a little work. Now, Phil, I'll meet you at
the door at eight o'clock."

"I'll not forget," he answered abstractedly, watching Margaret intently as
she walked with Elsie to the door.

He saw that her dress was of coarse, unbleached cotton, dyed with the
juice of walnut hulls and set with wooden hand-made buttons. The story
these things told of war and want was eloquent, yet she wore them with
unconscious dignity. She had not a pin or brooch or piece of jewellery.
Everything about her was plain and smooth, graceful and gracious. Her face
was large--the lovely oval type--and her luxuriant hair, parted in the
middle, fell downward in two great waves. Tall, stately, handsome, her
dark rare Southern bea