rd the
brightly colored portrait of her remained in his eye,--the simple linen
gown of pink or white, the brown hair shining in the sunlight, the
graceful poise of the head. And the background of flowers--flowers
everywhere, far from the field of war.

Sometimes, when she brought his breakfast on a tray in the morning,
there was laughter in her eyes. In the days gone by they had been all
laughter.

They were engaged. She was to be his wife. He said it over to himself
many, many times in the day. He would sit for a space, feasting his eyes
upon her until she lifted her look to his, and the rich color flooded
her face. He was not a lover to sit quietly by, was Clarence. And yet,
as the winged days flew on, that is what he did, It was not that she
did not respond to his advances, he did not make them. Nor could he have
told why. Was it the chivalry inherited from a long life of Colfaxes who
were gentlemen? Not wholly. Something of awe had crept into his feeling
for her.

As the month wore on, and the time drew near for him to go back to the
war, a state that was not quite estrangement, and yet something very
like it, set in. Poor Clarence. Doubts bothered him, and he dared not
give them voice. By night he would plan his speeches,--impassioned,
imploring. To see her in her marvellous severity was to strike him dumb.
Horrible thought! Whether she loved him, whether she did not love
him, she would not give him up. Through the long years of their lives
together, he would never know. He was not a weak man now, was Clarence
Colfax. He was merely a man possessed of a devil, enchained by the power
of self-repression come upon her whom he loved.

And day by day that power seemed to grow more intense,--invulnerable.
Among her friends and in the little household it had raised Virginia to
heights which she herself did not seem to realize. She was become the
mistress of Bellegarde. Mrs. Colfax was under its sway, and doubly
miserable because Clarence would listen to her tirades no more.

"When are you to be married?" she had ventured to ask him once. Nor had
she taken pains to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

His answer, bringing with it her remembrance of her husband at certain
times when it was not safe to question him, had silenced her. Addison
Colfax had not been a quiet man. When he was quiet he was dangerous.

"Whenever Virginia is ready, mother," he had replied. Whenever Virginia
was ready! He knew in his heart that if he