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"Cockerel, did you say?"

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"Good-bye." I could barely hear it.

"How long have you belonged to Ferry's scouts?" sceptically demanded their spokesman.

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

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.

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