d Prescott in a light tone. "You are Mrs. Elias Gardner, the
wife of a most staid and worthy farmer, of strong Southern proclivities,
living twenty miles out on the Baltimore road."

"And who are you?" she asked, the flicker of humour reappearing in her
eye.

"I am Mr. Elias Gardner, your husband, and, as I have just said, a most
honest and worthy man, but, unfortunately, somewhat addicted to the use
of strong liquors, especially on a night as cold as this."

If Prescott's attention had not been demanded then by the horses he
would have seen a rosy glow appear on her face. But it passed in a
moment, and she remained silent.

Then he told her of the whole lucky chance, his use of it, and how the
way now lay clear before them.

"We shall take Mr. Gardner back home," he said, "and save him the
trouble of driving. It will be one of the easiest and most comfortable
journeys that he ever took, and not a particle of harm will come to him
from it."

"But you? How will you get back into Richmond?"

She looked at him anxiously as she spoke.

"How do you know that I want to return?"

"I am speaking seriously."

"I am sure it will not be a difficult matter," he said. "A man alone can
pass the fortifications of any city without much trouble. It is not a
matter that I worry about at all. But please remember that you are Mrs.
Elias Gardner, my wife, as questions may be asked of you before this
night's journey ends."

The flush stole over her cheeks again, but she said nothing.

Prescott picked up the long whip, called a "black snake," which was
lying on the seat and cracked it over the horses, a fine, sturdy pair,
as he had noticed already. They stepped briskly along, as if anxious to
warm themselves after their long wait in the cold, and Prescott, who
was a good driver, felt the glorious sensation of triumph over
difficulties glowing within him.

"Ho, for a fine ride, Mrs. Gardner!" he said gaily to the girl.

His high spirits were infectious and she smiled back at him.

"With such an accomplished driver holding the lines, and so fine a
chariot as this, it ought to be," she replied.

The horses blew the steam from their nostrils, the dry snow crunched
under their heels, and the real Elias Gardner slumbered peacefully under
his own chicken crates as they approached the earthworks.

As before, when they had walked instead of coming in their own private
carriage, they soon saw the sentinel, half frozen but vigilant,