Sometimes she had been half tempted to forsake her home and go with Edgar Sherwood. But no, she could not do that; sober thought always brought her back to reason, and she would determine again to stay by him and tend him in his old age, for she was his only child and comfort, and then before this trouble he had ever been very kind to her and undoubtedly, ere long, he would relent and give his consent to her marriage with Edgar. Such were the thoughts she consoled herself with. Imogene Lear was naturally open and frank, and the deceit which she now practiced on her father was something altogether new and foreign to her noble nature, and it troubled her exceedingly, but then her love for Edgar Sherwood was strong, and love prevailed over conscience. While continuing her walk up and down the garden path she stopped short, as if having taken some sudden resolution. “I will go--I ought to gratify him!” she muttered to herself. Sitting down upon a bench near by, and opening a folded slip of paper, she read: “DEAR IMOGENE--I have just returned from the war-path safe, and wish to see you very much. We are to have a ball at the garrison to-night. You must come--do not refuse, dearest one. If you do I shall be miserable all the evening. As soon as your father has retired for the night, hasten to our old place of meeting with your brave steed, where I shall be in waiting. Adieu, my dearest, for a few hours. E.” When she had finished reading the note, she pressed it to her lips and kissed it fervently. “No, Edgar, I will not refuse: I will go!” she murmured, and thrusting the letter into her bosom, she glided softly into the house. A few hours after sunset, and when it was dark, Imogene again stole forth into the garden. This time she was closely muffled in an ample cloak and her head was donned with a riding-hat. After proceeding a short distance she stopped and listened. Perfect stillness reigned around the cottage. Then there came a low whistle from the lower end of the garden, and she tripped along over the sanded walk to the place, on reaching which she called: “Jeff?” “Here, lady,” answered a man, stepping a little more into the light. He was her trusty servant. “All saddled?” “Yes, Miss Imogene.” “Is _he_ here?” “Out there on the road waiting.” The man assisted his mistress to mount, and the next moment, giving her steed a tap with her whip, she dashed away to meet her lover. As Edgar and Imogene met, their eyes sparkled with the thought of love, but neither gave utterance to their thoughts until their horses had borne them away from the cottage. Edgar was the first to speak. “Were you intending to ride over to the garrison to-night, Imogene?” he said. “No, not until I received your note.” “My note?” and Edgar looked puzzled. “Yes.” “Why, Imogene, I sent you no note.” “I have got it in my pocket.” “Let me see it.”