red and sixty-one--to the war! to the war!"

The dance springs out! Gray jackets and white trousers; tarlatan,
flowers, and fans; here and there a touch of powder or rouge; some black
broadcloth and much wrinkled doeskin. Jeff-Jack and Fannie move hand in
hand, and despite the bassoon's contemptuous "pooh! pooh! poo-poo-pooh!"
the fiddles declare, with petulant vehemence, that--

"In eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-one, the Yankees _they_ the war _begun_,
but we'll all! get! blind! drunk! when Johnnie comes marching home."

"You see we play the national--oh! no, I believe that's not one--but we
do play them!" said a native.

John didn't march home, although when some one wanted a window open
which had been decorated to stay shut, neither he nor his committee
could be found. He came in, warm and anxious, just in time to claim
Fannie for their schottische. At ten they walked out on the veranda and
took seats at its dark end. She was radiant, and without a sign of the
mild dismay that was in her bosom. When she said, "Now, tell me, John,
why you're so sad," there was no way for him to see that she was
secretly charging herself not to lie and not to cry.

"Miss Fannie," he replied, "you're breaking my heart."

"Aw, now, John, are you going to spoil our friendship this way?"

"Friendship!--Oh, Fannie!"

"Miss Fannie, if you please, Mister John."

"Ah! has it come to that? And do you hide that face?"--For Fannie had
omitted to charge herself not to smile at the wrong time--"Have you
forgotten the day we parted here five years ago?"

"Why, no. I don't remember what day of the week it was, but I--I
remember it. Was it Friday? What day was it?"

"Fannie, you mock me! Ah! you thought me but a boy, then, but I loved
you with a love beyond my years; and now as a man, I----"

"Oh! a man! Mr. March, there's an end to this bench. No! John, I don't
mock you; I honor you; I've always been proud of you--Now--now, John,
let go my hand! John, if you don't let go my hand I'll leave you; you
naughty boy!--No, I won't answer a thing till you let me go! John March,
let go my hand this instant! Now I shall sit here. You'll keep the
bench, please. Yes, I do remember it all, and regret it!" She turned
away in real dejection, saying, in her heart, "But I shall do no better
till I die--or--or get married!"

She faced John again. "Oh, if I'd thought you'd remember it
forty days it shouldn't have occurred! I saw in you just a brave,
pure-he