in that awful struggling mass that
I always remembered--and I never expect to see such a look of fear
on a man's face again--he was a young fellow then, but now he's
thirty-five or so. Well--that was this man Brownwell. I asked him
about it the other day. How he ever got out alive, I don't know; but
the fact that he should turn up here proves that this is a small
world. Brownwell also is a writer from Writersville. You should see
the way he paints the lily in the _Banner_ every week. You remember
old Cap Lee--J. Lord Lee of the Red Legs--and Lady Lee, as they
called her when she was a sagebrush siren with the 'Army of the
Border' before the War? Well, read this clipping from the _Banner_
of this week: 'The wealth, beauty, and fashion of Minneola--fairest
village of the plain--were agog this week over the birth of a
daughter to Lord and Lady Lee, whose prominence in our social
circles makes the event one of first importance in our week's
annals. Little Beatrix, for so they have decided to christen her,
will some day be a notable addition to our refined and gracious
circles. Welcome to you, little stranger.'

"Now you know the man! You needn't be jealous of him. However, he
has frozen to the Culpeppers because they are from the South, and
clearly he thinks they are the only persons of consequence in town.
So he beaus Molly around with Jane and me to the concerts and
sociables and things. He is easily thirty-five, walks with a cane,
struts like a peacock, and Molly and Jane are having great sport
with him. Also he is the only man in town with any money. He brought
five thousand dollars in gold, real money,--his people made it on
contraband cotton contracts during the War, they say,--and he has
been the only visible means of support the town has had for three
months. But in the meantime don't worry about Molly, Bob, she's all
right, and business is business, you know, and you shouldn't let
such things interfere with it. But in another six months we'll be
out of the woods and on our way to big money."

Now another strange thing happened to John Barclay that evening, and
this time it was what he saw, not what he failed to see, that puzzled
him. For just as he sealed the letter to his friend, and thumped his
lean fist on it to blot the address on the envelope and press the
mucilage down, he looked aroun