not deny me the pleasure of paying my respects to your father
and mother?" Stephen asked.

She murmured something as he let go her hand. Stephen thought she had
said, "I had hoped that you would come."

"Tomorrow?" he ventured.

"I shall be pleased to have you sup with us," she smiled as she made the
soft reply.

"Tomorrow then it shall be."

They rose to take their part in the next dance.

III

As the evening wore on Peggy, wearied of the dance, sought a secluded
corner of the great room to compose herself. She had been disappointed
in her lottery, for she detested the thought of being a favor for a
French officer and had taken care to so express herself at home long
before. She could not rejoice at Marjorie's good fortune as she thought
it, and found little of interest and less of pleasure in the evening's
doings.

She was aroused from her solitude and made radiant on the instant at
sight of the Military Governor, limping his way across the hall in her
direction. He had seen her seated alone, and his heart urged him to her
side. With the lowest bow of which he was then capable, he sought the
pleasure of her company. Her color heightened, she smiled graciously
with her gray-blue eyes, and accepted his hand. He led the way to the
banquet room and thence to the balcony, where they might hear the music
and view the dancing, for his lameness made dancing impossible.

"I hesitate to condemn a young lady to a prison seat, when the stately
minuet sends a summons," he said as he led her to a chair a little to
one side of the balcony.

"You should have thought of that before you made us cast lots," she
replied quickly. "I was wearying of the rounds of pleasure."

"Is the company, then, all too gay?"

"No, rather extravagant."

"You insisted on the Mischienza ladies being present."

"And can you not distinguish them? Do they not appear to better
advantage than the others? Their gowns are superior, they give evidence
of more usage in society, their head-dress is higher and of the latest
fashion."

"And their hearts, their hopes, their sympathies! Where are they?"

"You know where mine lay," she adroitly replied.

"True, you did wear a French cockade," he laughed.

"Please do not call it 'French.' I scorn all things 'French.'"

"They are our allies now, you must know."

"For which I am most sorry. I expect no mercy from that scheming Papist
country," she replied bitterly.

"But they have lent us much