“Fie for shame!” said I, pleased to see her merry; and then I went on to tell her the sad story of Andre, but not of what he told me concerning Arthur. The tears came to her eyes, although of course it was no new tale, and she went white again, so that I would have turned the talk aside, but she stopped me, and, hesitating a little, said: “Did that miserable treachery begin when Mr. Arnold was in the town?” I said it was thought to have done so. For my own part, I believed it began here, but just when I could not say. “But why do you ask?” I added, being for a reason curious. For a little she sat still, her hands, in delicate white lace mittens, on her lap. Then she spoke, at first not looking up, “Men are strange to me, Mr. Wynne. I suppose in war they must do things which in peace would be shameful.” I said yes, and began to wonder if she had divined that Arthur had been deep in that wretched plot. I do not know to this day. She kept her counsel if she did. Women see through us at times as if we were glass, and then again are caught by a man-trap that one would think must be perfectly visible. “And was poor Peggy Shippen in it?” “Oh, no! no!” I replied. “I am glad of that; but had I been she, I would never have seen him again--never! never! To think of life with one who is as black a creature as that man!” “But, after all, he is her husband.” I wanted to see what she would say. “Her husband! Yes. But a husband without honour! No! no! I should have to respect the man I loved, or love would be dead--dead! Let us talk of something else. Poor Peggy! Must you go?” she added, as I rose. “This horrid war! We may never meet again.” And then quickly, “How is Captain Blushes, and shall we see him too?” I thought not. Already the army was making for Chester, and so toward the Head of Elk. “No; I must go.” On this she rose. “Is it the same, Darthea, and am I to go away with no more hope than the years have brought me?” “Why,” she said, colouring, “do you make it so hard for me--your friend?” “Do I make it hard?” “Yes. I used to say no to men, and think no more of the thing or of them, but I am troubled; and this awful war! I am grown older, and to hurt a man--a man like you--gives me pain as it did not use to do.” “But you have not said no,” said I; “and I am an obstinate man.” “Why will you force me to say no? Why should I? You know well enough what I think and feel. Why insist that I put it in words? It were kinder--not to urge me.” It seemed a strange speech. I said I did not understand her. “Then you had better go. I am engaged to Mr. Arthur Wynne, sir. I have had no word of him for a year, and can get no letter to him.” I might have given her Miss Franks’s letter, and poured out to her the story of his treachery and baseness. I may have been wrong, but something in me forbade it, and I preferred to wait yet longer. “Shall I get you a letter through the lines? I can.”