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

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"That will do. Now, beyond Fayette, about seven miles north, there's a place--"

"Wh'--who is that?" responded a musical voice. "Why, is that Mr. Smith?" as if I were the last person in the world one should have expected to see there. The like of those moments I had never known. I saw her eyes note the perfect fit of my uniform, though neither of us mentioned it. I tried to tell her that Lieutenant Durand was Ned Ferry and that I was now one of his scouts, but she had already heard both facts, and would not tell me what her father had said about me, it was so good. Standing at the veranda's edge a trifle above me, with her cheek against one of the posts and her gaze on her slipper, she asked if I was glad I was going with Ned Ferry, and I had no more sense than to say I was; but she would neither say she was glad nor tell why she was not.

"Yes,"--she put away gaiety--"your orders are plain; and they're as cruel as they are plain!"

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