Intuition is enough for me. Meantime the Sèvres is safe on the shelves."

Beaten from the field as Judge Roscoe must needs be when his vaunted ratiocination was no available weapon, he held stanchly nevertheless to his own opinion, helpless though he was in the domestic administration. He adopted such measures as were practicable to comport with his own view. Flattered by Ashley's interest in Baynell and recognizant of the frequency of his visits, never dreaming that a glimpse of Mrs. Gwynn was their ultimate object, he took occasion to offer him such slight courtesies as opportunity presented.

One day when they were descending the stairs Judge Roscoe chanced to comment on the fine bouquet of a certain choice old wine. He still hoarded a few costly bottles of an ancient importation, and with a sudden thought he insisted on pausing in the library to take a glass and finish a discussion happily begun by the invalid's bedside. The room was vacant, as the colonel's keen glance swiftly assured him, and the judge's order for wine was inaugurated through the bell-cord, which jangling summons old Ephraim answered somewhat procrastinatingly. The expression of surprise in the old darkey's eyes, even admonitory dissuasion, as he hearkened to the demand, very definitely nettled the judge and secretly amused Ashley, who divined the old servitor's doubts as to gaining the permission of "de widder 'oman." The host was more relieved than he cared to acknowledge to himself when the factotum presently reappeared, bearing a tray, with the old-fashioned red-and-white Bohemian wine-glasses and decanter which contained the rare vintage, and he felt with a sigh that he was still supreme in his own house, despite the sway of Mrs. Gwynn. He recognized the more gratefully, however, her influence in the perfection of the service and the solemnly careful, preternaturally watchful step of old Ephraim, as he bore about the delicate glass with all the effect of treading on eggs,—finally depositing it on the table and withdrawing at his habitual plunging gait.

Although Ashley dawdled as he listened and sipped his wine languorously, no rustle of draperies rewarded his attentive ear, no graceful presence gladdened his expectant eye. And when at last he could linger no longer, he took up his hope even as he had laid it down, in the expectation of a luckier day.

"Come again, my dear sir, whenever you can. I am always glad to see you, and your presence cheers Captain Baynell. His father was my dearest friend. I felt his death as if he had been a brother. I have grown greatly attached to his son, who closely resembles him. Anything you can do for Captain Baynell I appreciate as a personal favor. Come again! Come again soon!"

Perhaps if Colonel Ashley had not been so bereft of the normal interests of life, in this interval of inactivity, his curiosity as to that fleeting glimpse of a beautiful woman might not have maintained its whetted edge. Perhaps constantly recurrent disappointment roused his persistence. He came again and yet again, and still he saw no member of the family save Judge Roscoe. Even the surgeon commented. "There is a considerable feminine garrison up there," he said one day; "I often hear mention of the ladies, but they never make a sally. I suspect the old judge is more of a fire-eater than he shows nowadays, for his womenfolks are evidently straight-out 'Secesh'!"

CHAPTER III

Captain Baynell himself, throughout his illness, saw naught of the feminine inmates of the house, but the first day of convalescence that he was able to be out of his room and to descend the stairs, unsteadily enough and holding to the balustrade all the way, he was very civilly greeted by Mrs. Gwynn when he suddenly appeared at the library door.

She glanced up with obvious surprise, then advanced with the light, airy elegance that was naturally appurtenant to her slight figure, and seemed no more a conscious pose or gait than the buoyancy of a bird or a butterfly. She shook hands with him, hoped he was better, congratulated him on the happy termination of so serious an illness, cautioned him against exposure to the chilly uncertain weather, drew a great arm-chair nearer to the fire, and as he seated himself she piled up some old numbers of Blackwood's Magazine and the Edinburgh Review on a little table close to his elbow.

Her regard for his comfort—casual, even official, so to speak, though it was, the attentive, considerate expression of her beautiful eyes, the kindly tones of her dulcet, drawling voice—affected him like a benediction. He was still feeble, tremulous, and his heart throbbed with sudden surges of emotion. He was grateful, recognizant, flattered, although the provision for his mental entertainment bore also the interpretation that he need not trouble himself to talk.

Therefore he affected to read, and she sat apparently oblivious of his presence, crocheting a fichu-like garment, called a "sontag" in those days, destined for a friend, evidently, not for her own sombre wear. The material was of an ultramarine blue zephyr, with a border of flecked black and white. She was making no great speed, for often the long, white bone needle fell from her listless grasp, and with her beautiful eyes on the fire, her face no longer a cold, impassive mask, but all unconscious, soft, wistful, sweet, showing her real identity, she would lose herself in revery till some interruption—Judge Roscoe's entrance, the "ladies" and their demands, old Ephraim seeking orders—would rouse her with a start as from a veritable dream.

As the days went thus slowly by it soon came to pass that Baynell could not be silent. Her presence here flattered him, but he did not reflect that the library was the gathering-place of all the family; it held, too, the only fire, except his own, in the house, a fact which he, forgetful of the scarcity of fuel which the army had occasioned, did not appreciate. She could hardly withdraw, and, with her work in her hand, she could not ignore her uncle's guest.

Sometimes he caught himself covertly studying her expression, marvelling at its complete absorption;—at the strange fact that so slight a token of such deep introspection showed on the surface. It was like some expanse of still, clear waters—one can only know that here are unmeasured fathoms, abysses of unexplored depths. Her meditation, her obvious brooding thought, seemed significant; yet sometimes he was prone to deem this merely the cast of her noble, reflective features, her expansive brow, the comprehensive intelligence of her limpid eyes,—all so beautiful, yet endowed with something far beyond mere beauty. Now and again he read aloud a passage which specially struck his attention, and occasionally her comments jarred on his preconceived opinion of her, or, rather, of what a woman so young, so favored, so graciously endowed, ought to feel and think. One day, particularly, he was much impressed by this. Some benignant philosopher, reaching out both hands to the happy time of the millennium, had given voice to the theory that man's inhumanity to man, particularly in the more cultured circles, was the result of scant mutual knowledge—if we but knew the sorrows of others, how hate would be metamorphosed to pity, the bruised reed unbroken! This sentiment mightily pleased Captain Baynell, and he read it aloud.

It seemed potently to arrest her attention. She laid her work down on her knee and gazed steadily at him.

"If we could know the secret heartache—the blighted aspiration—the denied longing—the bruised pride of others?"

As he signified assent, she