en who _did_ know had pledged one another not to speak of it."

"I wonder why?" said the other thoughtfully.

"Oh, undoubtedly out of regard for the girl. I've always thought it so
decent of them! If there was a girl in the case, her position must have
been unpleasant enough, if she was not actually heart-broken. Imagine
the poor thing, knowing that wherever she went, people would be saying:
'She's the one they fought the duel over! Look at her!' If she grieved,
they'd say she'd been crazy in love with Sassoon, and point out the dark
circles under her eyes, and wonder if she'd ever get over it. If she
didn't mope, they'd say she was in love with Valiant and was glad it was
Sassoon who was shot. If she shut herself up, they'd say she had no
pride; if she didn't, they'd say she had no heart. It was far better to
cover the story up and let it die."

But the subject was too fascinating for her morning visitor to abandon.
"She probably loved one of them," she said. "I wonder which it was. I'll
ask the major when I see him. _I'm_ not afraid. He can't eat me!
Wouldn't it be _curious_," she continued, "if it should be somebody who
lives here now--whom we've always known! I can't think who it could have
been, though. There's Jenny Quarles--she's eight years older than we
are, if she's a day--she was a nice little thing, but you couldn't
_dream_ of anybody ever fighting a duel over her. There's Polly
Pendleton, and Berenice Garland--they must have been about the right
age, and they never married--but no, it _couldn't_ have been either of
them. The only other spinster I can think of is Miss Mattie Sue, and she
was as poor as Job's turkey and teaching school. Besides, she must have
been years and years too old. Hush! There's Major Bristow at the gate
now. And the doctor's just coming out again."

The major wore a suit of white linen, with a broad-brimmed straw hat,
and a pink was in his button-hole, but to the observing, his step might
have seemed to lack an accustomed jauntiness. As he came up the path
the doctor opened his office door. Standing on the threshold, his legs
wide apart and his hands under his coat-tails, he nodded grimly across
the marigolds. "How do you feel this morning, Major."

"Feel?" rumbled the major; "the way any gentleman ought to feel this
time of the morning, sah. Like hell, sah."

The doctor bent his gaze on the hilarious blossom in the other's lapel.
"If I were you, Bristow," he said scathingly, "I