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I had not. Her driver gathered the reins and I drew back.

Once more we were in the by-road which had brought us westward parallel with the highway. The prisoner drove. Aunt Martha sat beside him, slim, dark, black-eyed, stately, her silver-gray hair rolled high à la Pompadour. With a magnanimity rare in those bitter days she incited him to talk, first of New Orleans, where he had spent a month in camp on one of the public squares, and then of his far northern home, and of loved ones there, mother, wife and child. The nieces, too, gave a generous attention. Only I, riding beside the hind wheels, held solemnly aloof.

"That's a lie," he pleasantly remarked, and lay back, enjoying my silent wrath. "Send him, General," he added, "he's your man."

"Ned Ferry! What does Ned Ferry know about my fitness?"

"Mis-ter Smith! you wrote that?--to-day! Wh'--who is she?"

"Yes," I said, and handed her, as I dismounted, the General's gift, the pass.

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