dness toward him, and Prescott began to
have the worst of all feelings--the one of lonesomeness and
abandonment--as if every man's hand was against him. It begot pride,
stubbornness and defiance in him, and he was in this frame of mind when
Mrs. Markham, driving her Accomack pony, which somehow had survived a
long period of war's dangers, nodded cheerily to him and threw him a
warm and ingratiating smile. It was like a shaft of sunshine on a wintry
day, and he responded so beamingly that she stopped by the sidewalk and
suggested that he get into the carriage with her. It was done with such
lightness and grace that he scarcely noticed it was an invitation, the
request seeming to come from himself.

It was a small vehicle with a narrow seat, and they were compelled to
sit so close together that he felt the softness and warmth of her body.
He was compelled, too, to confess that Mrs. Markham was as attractive by
daylight as by lamplight. A fur jacket and a dark dress, both
close-fitting, did not conceal the curves of her trim figure. Her cheeks
were glowing red with the rapid motion and the touch of a frosty
morning, and the curve of long eyelashes did not wholly hide a pair of
eyes that with tempting glances could draw on the suspecting and the
unsuspecting alike. Mrs. Markham never looked better, never fresher,
never more seductive than on that morning, and Prescott felt, with a
sudden access of pride, that this delightful woman really liked him and
considered him worth while. That was a genuine tribute and it did not
matter why she liked him.

"May I take the reins?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she replied, giving him one more of those dazzling smiles.
"You would not rob me, would you? I fancy that I look well driving and I
also get the credit for spirit. I am going shopping. It may seem strange
to you that there is anything left in Richmond to buy or anything to buy
it with, but the article that I am in search of is a paper of pins, and
I think I have enough money to pay for it."

"I don't know about that," said Prescott. "My friend Talbot gave five
hundred dollars for a paper collar. That was last year, and paper
collars must be dearer now. So I imagine that your paper of pins will
cost at least two thousand dollars."

"I am not so foolish as to go shopping with our Confederate money. I
carry gold," she replied. With her disengaged hand she tapped a little
purse she carried in her pocket and it gave forth an opulent tink