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

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

The ladies smiled; I glowered. "Take those horses by their heads and turn them to me!"

At the door the Colonel gave me a last look. "Good-night, Legs."

"Maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes! Turn away thine eyes ere my bosom burn,

The note of patriotism righted me and I looked a third time. The one art of dress worth knowing in '63 was to slight its fashions without offending them, and this pretty gift I had marked all day in the Harpers. But never have I seen it half so successful as in the veiled horsewoman illumined by the side-lights of those burning fence-rails. The white apparition at the veranda's edge gleamed in my mind, yet swiftly faded out, and a new fascination, more sudden than worthy heaved at my heart. Then the fire was behind us and we were in the deep night.

"I don't believe you! I don't believe you ever had cause for one!" She laid a hand again upon mine.

It was the envelope which had contained Coralie Rothvelt's pass. Its four flaps were spread open, and on the inside was scrawled in a large black writing the following:

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