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"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

Even in the character of the goods there was eloquence, and not a drollery in the scene, not even an ugliness, but was touched, was rife, with the woe of a war whose burning walls were falling in on us. And outward, too, upon others; a few up-ended cottonbales leaned against each other ragged and idle, while women and babes starved for want of them in far-away Lancaster.

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

I was in the sweetest consternation. With the end of her braid once more in my fingers I made her promise to keep the dark secret, and so recited them.

"Who don't belong to Ferry's scouts at all," I still more sweetly added.

She became frigid. "Do you know who and what Charlotte Oliver is?--No? Well, to begin with, she's a married woman--but pshaw! you believe nothing till it's proved. If I tell you who and what I am will you do what I've asked you; will you promise not to stop at Lucius Oliver's house?" She softly reached for my hand and pressed and stroked it. "Don't stop there, dear. Oh, say you will not!"

The sound we had heard was only some stir of nature in her sleep. "I must go," I said.

I waved a pleasant refusal and rode toward the house.

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