Miss Imogene nodded understandingly, at the same moment slipping a dainty finger inside a red velvet band she wore about her neck as if it might be a little tight. As she did this she glanced at Dorothea rather keenly and a few moments later made a gesture as if to brush back the hair from her forehead. “First of all there’s your Cousin Hal,” Miss Imogene began. “The dearest boy I know. He’s fighting, of course.” She named over half a dozen others of those who were living for the time being at the Mays. Two or three ladies “refugeeing,” or on their way to other points and breaking the journey at Washington; a number of officers in the Confederate Army, busy all day with duties of one sort or another, consisting mainly of gathering food or horses wherever they could be found. “Then there’s Val Tracy,” she went on. “You’ll like him. He’s Irish and has a gay, blarneying tongue. Compliments flow from him like water down hill. He’s in the Army, though I think it is more for the fun of fighting than for any faith he has in the cause of the South.” Miss Imogene continued with her description of the people Dorothea was soon to meet, and then quite suddenly changed the subject. “Dorothea dear,” she asked abruptly, again slipping her finger under the red band around her neck, “have you heard any mention up North of the Confederate prison at Andersonville?” “It was talked of a little, I think,” the girl answered hesitatingly. “At least I don’t remember whether that was the name, but there was something in the papers about how badly the Union soldiers were treated in the prisons here. I hope it isn’t true.” “I am afraid there is more than a little truth in what is being said,” Miss Imogene acknowledged. “It isn’t all our fault, you know. We haven’t enough to eat ourselves, so of course the prisoners suffer like the rest of us. It is very hard on them, poor souls. Many of them try to escape by coming through Georgia. But there are few who get away.” A little later as they descended the broad stairs, Dorothea heard so much talking and laughter that she concluded there must be a special cause for rejoicing, and was a little surprised to find that there was no great news, no particular occasion for merriment, other than the natural gayety of spirit that she was to find universal among these Southerners among whom she had come to live. She was introduced to the assembly one after the other, and each had a pleasant and characteristic word to say to her. Val Tracy, true to his reputation, at once paid her a compliment, but in such a bright laughing spirit that his extravagance of expression was robbed of any offense. “I have heard it is your way to say flattering things,” Dorothea answered his little speech. “And to mean them, Miss Drummond,” he returned with a bow. “Faith, the man would be dumb who could fail to have a pretty speech on his tongue’s tip when he sees so inspiring a subject.”