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"Madam,"--my cap went higher, my head lower--"I never bet."

"Yet what?" I snapped out, with horse eyes.

Old Dismukes rose. "Good-night. Shall I send this boy that Yankee's horse?"

Foolish, idle cry, and meant for no more, by a heart on fire with temptations of which I knew nothing. But then and there my poor adolescent soul found out that the preceptive stuff of which it had built its treasure-house and citadel was not fire-proof.

The reply came slowly. "No; her husband is quite another man; this man's wife has been dead for years. No, Charlotte Oliver lives in--hark!"

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