utmost degree of bravery on her side, but had seen it confronted by equal courage, inspired by a leader who appeared irresistible. This Northern officer, whose eyes had flashed like his sabre in battle, whose wit had penetrated and used for his own purpose the scheme of the enemy, and whose chivalric treatment of women plotting against him had been knightly,--this man who had won her respect by storm, as it were, had followed her simple, natural course during the past week, and had metaphorically bowed his knee to her in homage. What did it mean? What had she done? Only made the best of things, and shown a little humanity toward some poor fellows whose sufferings ought to soften hearts of flint. Thus the girl reasoned and wondered. She did not belong to that class who keep an inventory of all their good traits and rate them high. Moulded in character by surrounding influences and circumstances, her natural, unperverted womanhood and her simple faith in God found unconscious expression in the sweet and gracious acts which Lane had recognized at their true worth. The most exquisite music is but a little sound; the loveliest and most fragrant flower is but organized matter. True, she had been engaged in homely acts,--blessing her enemies as the Bible commanded and her woman's heart dictated,--but how were those acts performed? In her unaffected manner and spirit consisted the charm which won the rough men's adoration and Lane's homage. That which is simple, sincere, spontaneous, ever attains results beyond all art and calculation. "Missy S'wanee" couldn't understand it. She had always thought of herself as "that child,", that hoyden, that frivolous girl who couldn't help giggling even at a funeral, and now here comes a Northern man, defeats and captures her most ardent admirer, and bows down to her as if she were a saint! "I wish I were what he thinks me to be," she laughed to herself. "What kind of girls have they in the North, anyway, that he goes on so? I declare, I've half a mind to try to be good, just for the novelty of the thing. But what's the use? It wouldn't last with me till the dew was off the grass in the morning. "Heigho! I suppose Major Denham is thinking of me and pining in prison, and I haven't thought so very much about him. That shows what kind of an 'angel' I am. Now if there were only a chance of getting him out by tricking his jailers and pulling the wool over the eyes of some pompous old official, I'd take as great a risk as any Southern--'Reverence,' indeed! Captain Lane must be cured of his reverence, whatever becomes of his wound." CHAPTER XXXIX. THE CURE OF CAPTAIN LANE. A DAINTIER bouquet than usual was placed on Lane's table next morning, and the piece of chicken sent to his breakfast was broiled to the nicest turn of brown. The old colored cook was friendly to the "Linkum ossifer," and soon discovered that "Missy S'wanee" was not averse to a little extra painstaking.