behind the clustering hydrangeas, Peggy accepted the fervent suit of the
Military Governor and gave him her promise to become his bride. A few
days later the world was informed of the betrothal and nodded its head
in astonishment, and opening its lips, sought relief in many words.

The wheels of destiny began to turn.

PART TWO

CHAPTER I

I

It was a hot October day.

A torrid wave generated somewhere in the far west, and aided by the
prevailing trade winds had swept relentlessly across the country,
reaching the city at a most unusual time. It had not come unheralded,
however, for the sun of yesterday had gone down a blazing red,
illuminating the sky like rays from a mighty furnace, and tinging the
evening landscape with the reddish and purplish hues of an Indian
summer. And what a blanket of humidity accompanied it! Like a cloak it
settled down upon the land, making breathing laborious and driving every
living creature out of doors.

Jim Cadwalader and his wife sat on the lawn, if the patch of brown grass
to the side of their little house could be termed a lawn, and awaited
the close of the day. Three huge elms, motionless in the still sunshine
and, like all motionless things, adding to the stillness, afforded a
canopy against the burning rays of the sun. What mattered it that the
cool shaded air was infested with mosquitoes and house-flies or that the
coarse grass was uneven and unkempt, from the low mounds which ran all
over it or, from the profusion of leaves which had here and there
fluttered down from the great trees. For it must be confessed that
neither Jim nor his wife had found the time for the proper care of the
premises, or if perchance, they had found the time the inclination
itself had been wanting.

"Sumthins got t' turn up in sum way 'r other b'fore long. I ain't seen
the sight o' work here in nigh two year."

"Guess you won't see it fur a while," responded the wife, from her
straight-backed chair, her arms folded, her body erect.

"Like as not a man 'd starve t' death in these here times, with nuthin'
t' do."

Jim sat with his elbows resting upon his yellow buckskin breeches, his
rough stubby fingers interlocked, his small fiery eyes piercing the
distance beyond the fields.

"If this business o' war was through with, things 'd git right agin."

"But it ain't goin' t' be over, let me tell you that."

They became silent.

Sad as was their plight, it was no sadder tha