"You'll break his bones, Ben," said the General, leaning out of his
buggy, but his eyes shone as they might have shone at the sight of his
first battle.

"I hope I shall," I responded grimly, and going over to the wagon I put
my shoulder to the wheel, and began the ascent of the steep hill.
Somebody on the pavement came to my help on the other side, and we went
up slowly, with a half-drunken driver reeling at our sides and the
General following, in his buggy, a short way behind.

"I thought you were a diffident fellow, Ben," remarked the great man, as
I took my seat again by his side; "but I don't believe there's another
man in Richmond that would make such a spectacle of himself."

"I forget myself when I'm worked up," I answered, "and I forget that
anybody is looking."

"Well, somebody was," he replied slyly. "You didn't see Miss Matoaca
Bland pass you in a carriage as you were pushing that wheel?"

"No, I didn't see anybody."

"She saw you--and so did Sally Mickleborough. Why, I'd have given
something pretty in my day to make a girl's eyes blaze like that."

A week later I swallowed my pride, with an effort, and called at the old
grey house at the hour of sunset. Selim, stepping softly, conducted me
into the dimly lighted drawing-room, where a cedar log burned, with a
delicious fragrance, on a pair of high brass andirons. The red glow,
half light, half shadow, flickered over the quaint tapestried furniture,
the white-painted woodwork, and the portraits of departed Blands and
Fairfaxes that smiled gravely down, with averted eyes. In a massive gilt
frame over a rosewood spinet there was a picture of Miss Mitty and Miss
Mataoca, painted in fancy dress, with clasped hands, under a garland of
roses. My gaze was upon it, when the sound of a door opening quickly
somewhere in the rear came to my ears; and the next instant I heard Miss
Mitty's prim tones saying distinctly:--

"Tell Mr. Starr, Selim, that the ladies are not receiving."

There was a moment's silence, followed by a voice that brought my
delighted heart with a bound into my throat.

"Aunt Mitty, I _will_ see him."

"Sally, how can you receive a man who was not born a gentleman?"

"Aunt Mitty, if you don't let me see him here, I'll--I'll meet him in
the street."

The door shut sharply, there was a sound of rapid steps, and the voices
ceased. Harry Mickleborough, in his daughter, I judged, had gained the
victory; for an instant afterwards I heard he