round him. He was in her
room.

It was dainty as her own dainty self. The dressing-table, the windows,
the pretty little white bed, the broad, inviting lounge, the work-table
and basket, the very wash-stand, were all trimmed and decked
alike,--white and yellow prevailing. White lace curtains draped the
window on the west--that fateful window--and the two that opened out on
the roof of the piazza. White lace curtains draped the bed, the
dressing-table, and the wash-stand; white lace, or some equally flimsy
and feminine material, hung about her book-shelves and work-table and
over the lounge; and bows of bright yellow ribbon were everywhere,
yellow pin-cushions and wall-pockets hung about the toilet-table, soft
yellow rugs lay at the bed-and lounge-side, and a sunshiny tone was
given to the whole apartment by the shades of yellow silk that hung
close to the windows.

On the wall were some choice etchings and a few foreign photographs. On
the book-shelves were a few volumes of poetry, and the prose of George
Eliot and our own Hawthorne. Hanging on pegs in the corner of the simple
army room, covered by a curtain, were some heavy outer-garments,--an
ulster, a travelling coat and cape of English make, and one or two
dresses that were apparently too thick to be used at this season of the
year. He drew aside the curtain one moment, took a brief glance at the
garments, raised the hem of a skirt to his lips, and turned quickly
away. A door led from the room to the one behind it,--a spare bedroom,
evidently, that was lighted only from the back of the house and had no
side-window at all. Another door led to the hall, a broad, old-fashioned
affair, and crossing this he stood in the big front room occupied by the
colonel and his wife. This was furnished almost as luxuriously (from an
army point of view) as that of Miss Renwick, but not in white and
yellow. Armitage smiled to see the evidences of Mrs. Maynard's taste and
handiwork on every side. In the years he had been the old soldier's
adjutant nothing could have exceeded the simplicity with which the
colonel surrounded himself. Now it was something akin to Sybaritish
elegance, thought the captain; but all the same he made his deliberate
survey. There was the big dressing-table and bureau on which had stood
that ravished picture,--that photograph of the girl he loved which
others were able to speak of, and one man to appropriate feloniously,
while yet he had never seen it. His imp