far out to sea. It was a point of honor to take, or to hold, Charleston, and the Confederates held it till 1865!

Fanny Glen was a privileged character, therefore, and could go anywhere and do anything, within the lines.

Under other circumstances there would have been a thorough inquiry by the careful inhabitants of the proud, strict Southern city into her family relationships; but the war was a great leveller, people were taken at their real value when trouble demonstrated it, and few questions were asked. Those that were asked about Fanny Glen were not answered. It made little difference, then.

Toward the close of 1863, however, there was an eclipse in the general hospital, for Fanny Glen fell ill.

She was not completely recovered, early in 1864, when she had the famous interview with Rhett Sempland, but there was not the slightest evidence of invalidism about her as she confronted him that afternoon in February.

Wounded pride, outraged dignity, burning indignation, supplied strength and spirit enough for a regiment of convalescents.

The difference between the two culminated in a disturbance which might aptly be called cyclonic, for Sempland on nearly the first occasion that he had been permitted to leave the hospital had repaired to Fanny Glen's house and there had repeated, standing erect and looking down upon her bended head, what he had said so often with his eyes and once at least with his lips, from his bed in the ward: that he loved her and wanted her for his wife.

Pleasant thing it was for her to hear, too, she could not but admit.

Yet if Fanny Glen had not rejected him, neither had she accepted him.

She had pleaded for time, she had hesitated, and would have been lost, had Sempland been as wise as he was brave. Perhaps he wasn't quite master of himself on account of his experience in war, and his lack of it in women, for he instantly conceived that her hesitation was due to some other cause than maidenly incertitude, and that Harry Lacy, of whom he had grown mightily jealous, was at the bottom of it.

He hated and envied Lacy. More, he despised him for his weaknesses and their consequences. The two had been great friends once, but a year or two before the outbreak of the war they had drifted apart.

Sempland did not envy Lacy any talents that he might possess, for he was quite confident that the only thing he himself lacked had been opportunity—Fate had not been kind to him, but the war was not yet over. Consequently when he jumped to the conclusion that Fanny Glen preferred Lacy, he fell into further error, and made the frightful mistake of depreciating his rival.

Assuming with masculine inconsistency that the half acceptance she had given him entitled him to decide her future, he actually referred to Lacy's well-known habits and bade her have nothing to do with him.

CHAPTER II

SHE HATES THEM BOTH

"You are," he said at last, "a lonely, unprotected young girl. Where you come from or what you have been doesn't matter to me. I know what you are. And that is why I love you. You have no father or brother to advise you. I must do it and I will, much as it pains me. If you won't take my affection, you must my counsel,"—he called it counsel, but only an expert could have distinguished it from command—"you do not know this man Lacy. He is a dissolute, abandoned—"

"Stop!" cried the girl. "To me he is always a gentleman—a hero."

"The man is brave enough, I'll admit. And he has done some fine things."

"Yes, while other men have escaped dangers by being made prisoners."

By that unkind remark she lost a large part of her advantage.

"As you say," he returned, wincing under her cruel thrust, but persistent, "but we are not discussing me now, but Lacy."

"Speaking of wickedness, you would better discuss yourself, I think, than him."

"I will not be put off in this way, Miss Fan—"

"Miss Glen, please," she interrupted, but he paid no attention.

"Lacy is well enough as a soldier. There is much to commend in him. He has the manner of a gentleman when he wishes to exhibit it, but nevertheless he is not a fit person to be entrusted with the future of a lovely, pure, innocent young girl like you."

"Shame! Shame!" cried the girl.

"You may cry 'shame' upon me," he went on calmly, "and I realize, of course, that I am censurable in speaking thus of my rival."

"You flatter yourself."

"How is that?"

"You are no rival of Major Lacy's."

"No? Well, then, as a friend."

"Of his?"

"Of yours."

"Nor are you a friend of mine."

"Well, then, as an enemy, a fool, anything! I want to tell you that nothing but unhappiness awaits you if you encourage him. I know him, I tell you. I know what sort of a man he is. Unstable as water, fickle, dissipated—"

"I'll hear no more!" cried the girl, passionately, turning her head and attempting to leave the room.

"Excuse me," said the man, coolly, preventing her by occupying the doorway. "You shall hear me! And hear this first of all. I am not saying anything about Major Lacy which is not a matter of public knowledge and which I have not said to him directly, and which I would not repeat in his presence."

"You tell me that—"

"You do not believe me?"

"No."

"I beg to assure you, Miss Glen, upon my word of honor—and it has not been questioned heretofore—that I told him these very things not longer than half an hour ago. And I informed him that I intended to tell you."

"What did he say?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her for the moment.

"He laughed. Said that the South had a present and pressing need for such as I," he replied with sturdy honesty, "but that he would take great pleasure in killing me when the war was over if we were both spared."

"Well, sir, was not that a fine reply?"

"It was. It was a gentleman's answer. I admired him for it and told him so. At the same time I told him that he must cease his attentions to you."

"By what right did you dare—" cried the girl, almost choking with sudden and indignant protest.

"No right. Unless my love for you, with a desire to serve you, greater than everything save my devotion to that flag yonder, can excuse me."

"And that cannot. Unless love be returned, it entails no rights whatsoever."

"And you do not love me?"

"Love you!" cried the girl, scornfully.

"I know you don't, but won't you?" he pleaded.

"I won't!"

"Won't you try?"

"No!"

"You do not dislike me?"

"I hate you!"

"Do you love Lacy?"

"I will not allow you to question me!"

"You must answer me!" said the man, taking her almost savagely by the arm, and in spite of herself she thrilled at his touch.

"You hurt me," said the girl.

"Nonsense! You hurt me more than I do you. Do you love this man?"

"Why not? He has his failings, his weaknesses, but he fights against them, he tries to overcome them. The whole South knows him, loves him for his deeds, pities him for his failings. And I—"

"Yes? You what?"

"You shall see. Meanwhile before you depreciate a brother soldier, why don't you do something yourself? You are not in the same class."

"I wouldn't say that, Miss Glen, if I were you," exclaimed Major Lacy, quietly entering the room through one of the long windows opening on the veranda. "Ah, Sempland, have you told your little tale?"

"'Ah, Sempland, have you told your little tale?'"