Colonel Eastworth, left alone, sank down into his chair and fell into the moody meditation so frequent with him of late. Born of an old historical family, whose names were identified with the chronicles of the country; whose men were all brave, whose women were all pure; nurtured in the highest principles of truth and justice; tried and proved in the legislative halls of his native State and on the battle plains of Mexico, up to within a few months past Colonel Eastworth was a man of stainless honor and glorious fame. But he believed in the absolute sovereignty of each single State in our Federal Union; in the absolute right of each State to secede at will from the Union, and in his own allegiance due solely to his native State. Thus, warped by the doctrine of States’ Rights and tempted by the fiend Ambition, he had been won over to the cause of the Southern Confederacy. Not, however, without a severe struggle did he win his own consent to abandon the old flag that had been the idol of his boyish worship, for which in his bright and blameless youth he had shed his blood and risked his life, under which he had gained a nation’s gratitude and a hero’s crown. This struggle over, all the rest was easy enough—easy as “the descent to hell” is said to be. The doctrine of States’ Rights admitted, the other doctrines of Expediency naturally followed as an excuse for all manner of dishonorable action. This Expediency led him to lend the powerful aid of his astute intellect and military experience to the bands who were planning the capture of the city and the seizure of the President-elect. After some minutes of moody thought Colonel Eastworth arose, went downstairs to seek Erminie. He found her in the drawing-room, toning down the gas which had just been lighted, and putting those last delicate finishing touches on the artistic arrangement of the room of which only the young mistress’ hand seemed capable. “I am happy to find you alone, sweet love,” he said, gliding to her side. “And I am very happy to be alone to receive you,” answered his betrothed, with confiding frankness. “I love my friends very dearly; but, oh! indeed I am not so very sorry that the company is gone for the present. We could not have a word apart while they were here, could we, Eastworth?” “No, sweetest girl, we could not! we could not. And did you miss our _tête-à-têtes_ so much, mine own?” he asked, seating himself in a large resting-chair, and drawing her toward him, much, very much, as a father might draw a daughter to sit upon his knees. But the Lutheran minister’s child was very delicately shy, and that beautiful shyness was one of her most bewitching charms. Softly and gently, and without offence, she evaded his motion, and passed in behind his chair and bent playfully over him. “Oh, yes, yes! I missed our _tête-à-têtes_ so much! I missed you every day and every hour in the day!”