ch his hands; his bosom heaved and his lips quivered.
'Not for the world!' he exclaimed; 'oh, not for the world!'

"'I can't tell her that,' said I. 'Nor I,' sobbed Fanny, covering her
face with her hands. 'Oh, it will kill her!'

"Major Perdue turned to me, his eyes wet. 'Do you know why he doesn't
want her to see him?' I could only give an affirmative nod. 'Do you
know, Fanny?' She could only say, 'Yes, yes!' between her sobs. 'It is
for her sake alone; we all see that,' declared Major Perdue. 'Now,
then,' he went on, touching me on the arm, 'I want you to see how hard a
hard man can be. Show me where the poor child is.'

"I led him to the parlour door. He stood aside for me to enter first,
but I shook my head and leaned against the door for support. 'This is
Miss Gaither?' he said, as he entered alone. 'My name is Perdue--Tomlin
Perdue. We are very sorry, but no one is permitted to see Pulaski,
except those who are nursing him.' 'That is what I am here for,' she
said, 'and no one has a better right. I am to be his wife; we are to be
married next month.' 'It is not a matter of right, Miss Gaither. Are you
prepared to sustain a very severe shock?' 'Why, what--what is the
trouble?' 'Can you not conceive a reason why you should not see him
now--at this time, and for many days to come?' 'I cannot,' she replied
haughtily. 'That, Miss Gaither, is precisely the reason why you are not
to see him now,' said Major Perdue. His tone was at once humble and
tender. 'I don't understand you at all,' she exclaimed almost violently.
'I tell you I will see him; I'll beat upon the wall; I'll lie across the
door, and compel you to open it. Oh, why am I treated so and by his
friends!' She flung herself upon a sofa, weeping wildly; and there I
found her, when, a moment later, I entered the room in response to a
gesture from Major Perdue.

"Whether she glanced up and saw me, or whether she divined my presence,
I could never guess," Gabriel's grandmother went on, "but without
raising her face, she began to speak to me. 'This is your house, Miss
Lucy,' she said--she always called me Miss Lucy--'and why can't I, his
future wife, go in and speak to Pulaski; or, at the very least, hold his
hand, and help you and Fanny minister to his wants?' I made her no
answer, for I could not trust myself to speak; I simply sat on the edge
of the sofa by her, and stroked her hair, trying in this mute way to
demonstrate my sympathy. She seemed to take some c