irit of wickedness lay hold of him; he would do likewise. He
knew well where the house of Daniel Peyton stood, having been in it many
times before the war, but he chose a course toward it that bent like the
curve of a semicircle, and the innocent woman beside him took no notice.

The night was dark and frosty, with a wind out of the northwest that
moaned among the housetops, but Prescott, with a beautiful woman by his
side, was warm and cozy in the phaeton. With her dark wrap and the dark
of the night around them she was almost invisible save her face, in
which her eyes, with the lurking green shadows yet in them, shone when
she looked up at him.

Ben Butler was a capable pony and he paid habitual deference to the
wishes of his mistress--the result of long training. As he progressed at
a gentle walk Prescott scarcely needed one hand for his guidance. It was
this lack of occupation that caused the other to wander into dangerous
proximity to the neat and well-gloved fingers of Mrs. Markham, which
were not far away in the first place.

"You should not do that," she said, removing her hand, but Prescott was
not sorry--he did not forget the thrill given him by the pleasant
contact, and he was neither apologetic nor humble. The lady was not too
angry, but there appeared to Prescott a reproachful shadow--that of
another woman, taller and nobler of face and manner, and despite his
manhood years he blushed in the darkness. A period of constraint
followed; and he was so silent, so undemonstrative that the lady gave
him a glance of surprise. Her hand strayed back to its former place of
easy approach, but Prescott was busy with Ben Butler, and he yielded
only when she placed her hand upon his arm, being forced by a sudden
jolt of the phaeton to lean more closely against him. But, fortunately
or unfortunately, they were now in front of the Peyton house, and lights
were shining from every window.

Prescott stepped out of the phaeton and tied Ben Butler to the
hitching-post. Then he assisted Mrs. Markham to the ground and together
the two entered the portico.

"We are late," said Prescott, and he felt annoyance because of it.

"It does not matter," she said lightly, feeling no annoyance at all.

He knew that their late entrance would attract marked notice to them,
and now he felt a desire to avoid such attention; but she would make of
it a special event, a function. Despite Prescott's efforts, she
marshaled himself and herself