r in
the apartment opposite the drawing-room--followed by the tones of a
man's voice.

"Thank you, General. That is my destination this afternoon, and I shall
certainly expect you to dance at my wedding."

Quick, firm steps rang on the oil-cloth-covered floor of the hall, and
Beryl rose and turned toward the door.

With a cigar in one hand, hat and riding-whip in the other, the
attorney stepped out on the colonnade, and pausing involuntarily, at
sight of the stranger, they looked at each other. A man, perhaps, more,
certainly not less than thirty years old, of powerful and impressive
physique; very tall, athletic, sinewy, without an ounce of superfluous
flesh to encumber his movements, in the professional palaestra; with a
large finely modeled head, whose crisp black hair closely cut, was
(contrary to the prevailing fashion) parted neither in the middle, nor
yet on the side, but brushed straight back from the square forehead,
thereby enhancing the massiveness of its appearance.

Something in this swart, beardless face, with its brilliant
inquisitorial dark blue eyes, handsome secretive mouth veiled by no
mustache--and boldly assertive chin deeply cleft in the
centre--affected Beryl very unpleasantly, as a perplexing disagreeable
memory; an uncanny resemblance hovering just beyond the grasp of
identification. A feeling of unaccountable repulsion made her shiver,
and she breathed more freely, when he hewed slightly, and walked on
toward his horse. Upon the attorney her extraordinary appearance
produced a profound impression, and in his brief scrutiny, no detail of
her face, figure, or apparel escaped his keen probing gaze.

Glancing back as he untied his bridle rein, his unspoken comment was:
"Superb woman; I wonder what brings her here? Evidently a
stranger--with a purpose."

He sprang into the saddle, stooped his head to avoid the yellow poplar
branches, and disappeared under the elm arches.

"Gin'l Darrington's compliments; and if your bizness is pressin' you
will have to see him in his bedcharmber, as he feels poorly to-day, and
the Doctor won't let him out. Follow me. You see, ole Marster remembers
the war by the game leg he got at Sharpshurg, and sometimes it lays him
up."

The old servant led Beryl through a long room, fitted up as a library
and armory, and pausing before an open door, waved her into the
adjoining apartment. One swift glance showed her the heavy canopied
bedstead in one corner, the arch-