em,
too, and if the person who holds the pen for me pays heed to the
letter's contents, is it my fault?"

"I understand," said the woman, entrapped, and she dipped the quill
into the ink.

"The letter," began Peyton, slowly, hesitating for ideas, and glancing
at the clock, yet not retaining a sense of where the hands were, "is
to Mr. Bryan Fairfax--"

"What?" she interrupted. "Kinsman to Lord Fairfax, of Virginia?"

"There's but one Mr. Bryan Fairfax," said Peyton, acquiring confidence
from his preliminary expedient to overcome prejudice, "and, though
he's on the side of King George in feeling, yet he's my friend,--a
circumstance that should convince even you I'm not scum o' the earth,
rebel though you call me. He's the friend of Washington, too."

"Poh! Who is your Washington? My aunt Mary rejected him, and married
his rival in this very room!"

"And a good thing Washington didn't marry her!" said Peyton,
gallantly. "She'd have tried to turn him Tory, and the ladies of this
family are not to be resisted."

"Go on with your letter," said Elizabeth, chillingly.

"'Mr. Bryan Fairfax,'" dictated Peyton, steadying his voice with an
effort, "'Towlston Hall, Fairfax County, Virginia. My dear Fairfax: If
ever these reach you, 'twill be from out a captivity destined,
probably, to end soon in that which all dread, yet to which all must
come; a captivity, nevertheless, sweetened by the divinest presence
that ever bore the name of woman--'"

Elizabeth stopped writing, and looked up, with an astonishment so
all-possessing that it left no room even for indignation.

Peyton, his eyes astray in the preoccupation of composition, did not
notice her look, but, as if moved by enthusiasm, rose on his right leg
and stood, his hands placed on the back of the light chair by the
sofa, the chair's front being turned from him. He went on, with an
affectation of repressed rapture: "''Twere worth even death to be for
a short hour the prisoner of so superb--'"

"Sir, what are you saying?" And Elizabeth dropped the pen, and stood
up, regarding him with freezing resentment.

"My thoughts, madam," said he, humbly, meeting her gaze.

"How dare you jest with me?" said she.

"Jest? Does a man jest in the face of his own death?"

"'Twas a jest to bid me write such lies!"

"Lies? 'Fore gad, the mirror yonder will not call them lies!" He
indicated the oblong glass set in above the mantel. "If there is
lying, 'tis my eyes that lie! 'Tis