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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

I said one might respect religion even if he did not--

"Why, yo' name is Smith, to be sho'! I thought you was jest a-tryin' to chaw me. Why, Major Harper alludened to you not mo'n a half-ow ago. Why, Miz Wall! oh, Miz Wall!"

Breathe, O! breathe to me, as these love-languid skies To yon twilight star breathe, Return, return!

I failed to catch her reply. She spoke in a tone of pain and sunk her face in her hand. "Head ache?" I asked. "No." She straightened, and from under her coquettish hat bent upon me such a look as I had never seen. In her eyes, in her tightened lips, and in the lift of her head, was a whole history of hope, pride, pain, resolve, strife, bafflement and defiance. She could not have chosen to betray so much; she must have counted too fully on the shade of her hat-brim. The beautiful frown relaxed into a smile. "No," she repeated, "only an aching conscience. Ever have one?"

"Good-morning, Smith, who is your prisoner?"

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