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"We're going to get married, mamma, mamma;

The General looked at me between puffs of his cigar. "I hear you've ridden over fifty miles to-day."

"About an hour and a quarter."

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?"

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

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