and Prescott willingly adopted his plan. Together
the two strolled on through the fields.

"I have a tale to tell," began the Secretary, "and there are
preliminaries and exordiums, but first of all there is a question.
Frankly, Captain Prescott, what kind of a man do you think I am?"

Prescott hesitated.

"I see you do not wish to speak," continued the Secretary, "because the
portrait you would paint is unflattering, but I will paint it for
you--at least, the one that you have in your mind's eye. You think me
sly and intriguing, eaten up by ambition, and caring for nobody in the
world but myself. A true portrait, perhaps, so far as the external
phases go, and the light in which I often wish to appear to the world,
but not true in reality."

Prescott waited in silence to hear what the other might have to say, and
whatever it was he was sure that it would be of interest.

"That I am ambitious is true," continued the Secretary; "there are few
men not old who are not so, and I think it better to have ambition than
to be without it. But if I have ambition I also have other qualities. I
like my friends--I like you and would continue to like you, Captain
Prescott, if you would let me. It is said here that I am not a true
Southerner, whatever may be my birth, as my coldness, craft and
foresight are not Southern characteristics. That may be true, but at
least I am Southern in another character--I have strong, even violent
emotions, and I love a woman. I am willing to sacrifice much for her."

The Secretary's hand was still resting lightly on Prescott's arm, and
the young Captain, feeling it tremble, knew that his companion told the
truth.

"Yes," resumed Mr. Sefton, "I love a woman, and with all the greater
fire because I am naturally undemonstrative and self-centred. The stream
comes with an increased rush when it has to break through the ice. I
love a woman, I say, and I am determined to have her. You know well who
it is!"

"Helen Harley," said Prescott.

"I love Helen Harley," continued the Secretary, "and there are two men
of whom I am jealous, but I shall speak first of one--the one whom I
have feared the longer and the more. He is a soldier, a young man
commended often by his superiors for gallantry and skill--deservedly so,
too--I do not seek to deny it. He is here in Richmond now, and he has
known Helen Harley all his life. They were boy and girl together. But he
has become mixed in an intrigue here. There is