re she enters. Evidently his coming is a shock for
which she is unprepared. She comes in with swiftly changing color and
lips that tremble despite the unflinching courage of her eyes.

"This is indeed a surprise," she says, as she gives him her hand.
"Why--when did you come, and how did you come, and how well you look for
a man who has had so much suffering--I mean from your wounds," she
finishes, hurriedly. It is all said nervously and with evident purpose
of simply talking to gain time and think. "Won't you sit down? You must
be so fatigued. Take this chair, it's so much more comfortable than that
one you are getting. Have you seen mamma! No? Why? Does she know you are
here? Oh, true; she did speak of a headache before I went out. Mrs.
Laight and I have been to dinner at the Farnham's and have just
returned. Why didn't you come round there--they'd have been so delighted
to see you? You know you are quite a hero now."

He lets her run on, sitting in silence himself, and watching her. She
continues her rapid, nervous talk a moment more, her color coming and
going all the time, and then she stops as suddenly. "Of course you can
answer no questions when I keep chattering like a magpie."

She is seated now on the sofa facing him, as he leans back in one of
those old-fashioned easy-chairs that used to find their way into some
parlors in the _ante-bellum_ days. When silence is fully established,
and she is apparently ready to listen, he speaks:

"I came to-night, Viva, and to see _you_. Did you get my letter?"

"Your last one, from Washington? Yes. It came yesterday."

"I have come to see the letters."

"What letters?"

"Those which you must have received or been shown in order to make you
believe me disloyal to you."

"I have no such letters."

"Did you send them to me, Viva?"

"No."

"What did you do with them?"

She hesitates, and colors painfully; then seeks to parry.

"How do you know I ever saw any letters?

"Because nothing less could explain your action; nor does this justify
it. Still, I am not here to blame you. I want to get at the truth. What
did you do with them?"

"They--went back."

"When? Before or after you got my letter?"

No answer for a moment, then:

"Why do you ask that? What possible difference can it make? They were
shown me in strict confidence. I had long believed you cared more for
another girl than you did for me, and these letters proved it."

"I do not admit that, Viva,