"Never mind," said Garnet, in retort, "we've restored public credit and cut the rottenness out of our government." The Northerners nodded approvingly, and the crowd packed close. "Garnet," replied the general, with that superior smile which Garnet so hated, "States, like apples--and like men--have two sorts of rottenness. One begins at the surface and shows from the start; the other starts from the core, and doesn't show till the whole thing is rotten." For some secret reason, Garnet reddened fiercely for an instant, and then, with a forced laugh, addressed his words to one of the guests. Another of the strangers was interested in the severe attention a strong-eyed Rosemont boy seemed to give to Halliday's speech. But it was only John March, who was saying, in his heart: "She's got a perfect right to take me or throw me, but she's no right to do both!" Only the Northerners enjoyed Halliday. The Suez men turned away in disdain. The music struck a quadrille, sweetly whining and hooting twice over before starting into doubtful history, "In eighteen hundred and sixty-one--to the war! to the war!" The dance springs out! Gray jackets and white trousers; tarlatan, flowers, and fans; here and there a touch of powder or rouge; some black broadcloth and much wrinkled doeskin. Jeff-Jack and Fannie move hand in hand, and despite the bassoon's contemptuous "pooh! pooh! poo-poo-pooh!" the fiddles declare, with petulant vehemence, that-- "In eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-one, the Yankees _they_ the war _begun_, but we'll all! get! blind! drunk! when Johnnie comes marching home." "You see we play the national--oh! no, I believe that's not one--but we do play them!" said a native. John didn't march home, although when some one wanted a window open which had been decorated to stay shut, neither he nor his committee could be found. He came in, warm and anxious, just in time to claim Fannie for their schottische. At ten they walked out on the veranda and took seats at its dark end. She was radiant, and without a sign of the mild dismay that was in her bosom. When she said, "Now, tell me, John, why you're so sad," there was no way for him to see that she was secretly charging herself not to lie and not to cry. "Miss Fannie," he replied, "you're breaking my heart." "Aw, now, John, are you going to spoil our friendship this way?" "Friendship!--Oh, Fannie!" "Miss Fannie, if you please, Mister John." "Ah! has it come to that? And do you hide that face?"--For Fannie had omitted to charge herself not to smile at the wrong time--"Have you forgotten the day we parted here five years ago?" "Why, no. I don't remember what day of the week it was, but I--I remember it. Was it Friday? What day was it?" "Fannie, you mock me! Ah! you thought me but a boy, then, but I loved you with a love beyond my years; and now as a man, I----"