like a leaf. Tell me, Joyce, what is it?"

"My father!" she whispered, "Oh, I fear--I fear!"

"Fear what, darling?"

"That he will drive you from me; that he will forbid me seeing you!"

"For what?"

"Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan's
men."

"What would he do? Hang me, if he could?" asked Calhoun, bitterly.

"No, no, but--oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he sees
you it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to New
Lisbon; but they will be at home presently."

With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he and
Joyce enjoyed an hour's sweet converse before her father and aunt
returned.

When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said:
"Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville,
Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He has
come to thank us for the kindness shown him."

Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, "Mr.
Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long since
been forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor us
by remaining and partaking of the repast with us."

Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcome
guest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope for
the best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulously
polite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talk
and appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was glad
when the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawford
said: "Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversation
with Mr. Pennington." Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew that
what was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of a
flaming cannon.

The first question asked nearly took Calhoun's breath away, it was so
sudden and unexpected. It was, "Young man, why am I honored with this
visit?"

"As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while an
enforced guest in your house," answered Calhoun, and then he mentally
cursed himself for his cowardice.

"Guests who leave as unceremoniously as you did do not generally return to
express their thanks," answered Mr. Crawford, dryly. "It was a poor return
you gave my daughter for her kindness."

"What do you mean?" asked Cal