She did not fire up as I expected. “You think that I may poison you?” she said, making no attempt to evade the point. “Well, you told me,” I replied, somewhat taken back, “that you were prepared to do it again, you know?” She sighed. “If I meant it then, I do not mean it now,” she said. “I have done all that I can. I leave the rest to God!” Certainly she said the most singular things! However, what surprise I felt I hid, and I tried to meet her on her new ground. “That being so,” I said smoothly, “why should we not bury what is past—for the time? I have to live for a month under your roof, Miss Wilmer. We must see one another, we must meet hourly and daily whether we will or not. Cannot you forget for a month that I am an enemy?” “No,” she answered with the utmost directness, “You are an enemy. Why should I pretend that you are not? We are rebels and we are proud of the name. You are of those who are paid to reduce us, to make war on us”—her color rose, her eyes dilated as she spoke—“to burn our towns, to waste our fields, to render our old homeless and our children motherless! And why? Because you are false to your traditions, false to your liberties, false to that freedom for which your forefathers died, and for which we are dying to-day!” The spirit, the tone, the brooding fire in her eyes filled me with admiration. But I was wise enough to let no trace of this escape me. “I cannot admit that,” I said, “naturally.” “No,” she replied swiftly. “Because you are paid to see it otherwise.” “At any rate you are frank, Miss Wilmer,” I said. “And you really do see in me the mercenary of a cruel tyrant?” I smiled as I said it, and I flattered myself that the jest pierced her armor. At any rate she lost countenance a little. “And I suppose I ought to see in you a rebel,” I continued. “But it may be that I do not in my heart think much worse of you for being a rebel. And it is possible that you do not think so very badly of me for being—paid!” “It does not sound well,” she said with disdain. “No,” I replied. “Beside romance, duty sounds poorly, and makes a dull show.” “The tea duty does!” she exclaimed viciously—and saw before the words were well said that her wit had betrayed her into familiarity. She colored with annoyance. I seized the chance. “And what of it?” I said. “Tolls and taxes and the like! What are they to us here? If I admit that a tax, which has turned thirteen loyal colonies into what we see, was an unwise one, surely, if I admit that, you may admit that it is hard for a proud nation to retrace its steps.” “I am not concerned to admit anything,” she answered haughtily. “Still if that is all that is between us?” “It is not!” she exclaimed. “It is not!” For a moment she stood a prey to strong agitation. Then she muttered again, “It is not all!” and she went deliberately away from me. But she went like one under a heavy burden or the weight of a distressing thought.