As though in answer there comes springing through the dim light the hulking, slouching, round-shouldered figure of a big man. He is across the street and at her side in a few vigorous leaps, and away as quick as he came. No word has been interchanged, no sign on his part. He has handed her a small white parcel. She has placed in his hand a dark roll of something that he eagerly seizes and makes off with. It all happens before Abbot has time to realize what is going on, then she scurries up the stone steps and rings the bell. His first impulse is to go and open the door himself, but that will produce confusion. She will have no time to dispose of that packet, and Major Abbot will not take advantage of what he has inadvertently seen. He hears the old butler shuffling along the marble hallway, and his deferential announcement. "Mr. Abbot is in the parlor, Miss Winthrop." And then he steps forward under the chandelier to meet her. It is a moment before 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?