with
her people of the North. Rubbish! She had a sneaking admiration for Ned
because he had dared her displeasure in making his choice. There must be
something perverse in her somewhere. She could see it now. It must be so
or the evil in John Vaughan's character would not have drawn her as a
magnet from the first. She hadn't a doubt now that all the stories about
his fast life and his contempt for women were true and much more than
gossip had dreamed.

He would write a letter of apology, of course, in due season. He was too
shrewd a man of the world, too skillful an interpreter of the whims of
women to write at once. He was waiting for her to cool--waiting until
she should begin to be anxious. It was too transparent. She would give
him a surprise when his letter came. The shock would take a little of
the conceit out of him. She would return his letter unopened by the next
mail.

When four weeks passed without a word the first skirmish between love
and pride began. Perhaps she had been unreasonable after all. Was it
right to blame a man too harshly for being mad about the woman he loved?
In her heart of hearts did she desire any other sort of lover? Tears of
vexation came in spite of every effort to maintain her high position.
She had to face the plain truth. She didn't desire a cold lover. She
wished him to be strong, manly, masterful--yes, masterful, that was
it--yet infinitely tender. This man was simply a brute. And yet the
memory of his mad embrace and the blind violence of his kisses had
become each day more vivid and terrible--terrible because of their
fascination. She accepted the fact at last in a burst of bitter tears.

And then came the announcement in the _Daily Republican_ of his return
to the city and his attachment to the company of cavalry at McClellan's
headquarters. The thought of his presence sent the blood surging in
scarlet waves to her face. There was no longer any question in her mind
that she had wounded him too deeply for forgiveness. Her dismissal had
been so cold, so curt, it had been an accusation of dishonor. She could
see it clearly now. He had poured out his confession of utter love in a
torrent of mad words and clasped her in his arms without thought or
calculation, an act of instinctive resistless impulse. He had justly
resented the manner in which she had repulsed him. Yet she had simply
followed the impulse of her girlish heart, and she would die sooner than
apologize.

She accept