Perhaps the prospect of food gave the man hope but, whatever the reason, he spoke in a stronger voice and in the unmistakable accents of a gentleman. Evidently he was an officer, and Dorothea peered down in the darkness trying to catch a glimpse of his features, but it was too dark to see more than a darker shadow crouched against the wall. “Listen,” she elaborated her plans as she talked, “as soon as my maid comes back I shall put out the candle and go down stairs. My aunt has sent for me and if I don’t appear shortly she or my cousins will come after me. When the light is out you can slip into the room, and for some hours you will be safe here. I shall not come back till the dance is over, which I suppose will be nearly morning. Can you manage this, do you think?” “Easily,” came the quiet answer. “You couldn’t have arranged it better. With a little more strength I can get on, now that the dogs are off the trail. “Tell me,” he added, “which of the rooms with windows opening on this roof belong to men?” “The one at the very end,” Dorothea answered. “That’s Hal May’s room.” “That will do very well, thank you,” came the whispered answer. “I shall make that my resting place so you’ll have no cause to worry about coming back to your room whenever you want to. I will take the food, then be off. Thank you a thousand times.” “Is there nothing else I can do for you?” Dorothea asked hurriedly. Somehow she had grown to have something of a personal interest in this man on the roof. She hadn’t seen his face, and she was by no means sympathetic with his cause. But he was wounded and in danger of going back to Andersonville Prison, which she had heard Southerners themselves acknowledge was far from a cheerful place. She would do what she could to help him escape. “No, not a thing,” he answered back. “Very well then,” she went on. “I shall leave some handkerchiefs on the washstand for your wound. That’s the best linen I have. You can come in and warm up by the fire, where I’ll put the sandwiches and wine. I hope you get—” She did not finish the sentence, for again a knock came at the door and Lucy’s voice reached her. “Miss Dee, please—” She ran across the room and, opening the door a crack, took the plate and glass out of the astonished girl’s hands. “Wait for me on the stairs,” Dorothea ordered. “I shall be going down in a moment.” She saw Lucy’s eyes widen with surprise, but there was no time to invent excuses. She knew that if she did not shortly make an appearance some of the family would be up looking for her, so she hurried back to the hearth and placed the plate and wine in the fire-light. Then, tiptoeing to the window, she opened it full. “I’m going,” she whispered; and the next moment she had blown out the candle and closed the door behind her with some little noise.