“I thank you for coming to me,” she said finally. “I shall understand it all better, comprehend your motive better, for this brief talk. Whatever you may think of me in the future,” and she held out her hand with something of the old frankness in the gesture, “do not hold me as ungrateful for a single kindness you have shown me. I have not fully understood you, Captain Wayne; indeed, I doubt if I do even now, yet I am under great obligations which I hope some day to be able to requite, at least in part.” “A thousand times they are already paid,” I exclaimed eagerly, forgetting for the moment the presence of her silent chaperon. “You have given me that which is more than life--” “Do not, Captain Wayne,” she interrupted, her cheeks aflame. “I would rather forget. Please do not; I did not send to you for that, only to tell you I knew and understood. We must part now. Will you say goodbye?” “If you bid me, yes, I will say good-bye,” I answered, my own self-control brought back instantly by her words and manner, “but I retain that which I do not mean to forget--your gracious words of invitation to the North.” She stood with parted lips, as though she struggled to force back that which should not be uttered. Then she whispered swiftly: “It is not my wish that you should.” Was there ever such another paradox of a woman? I knew not how to read her aright, for I scarce ever found her twice the same. Which represented the truth of her character--her cool dignity, her impetuous pride, or that gentle tenderness which befitted her so well? Which was the armor, which the heart of this fair lady of the North? As we rode down the path to the eastward, a snowy handkerchief fluttered for an instant at the library window. I raised my hat in silent greeting, and we were gone. CHAPTER XXXVIII THE FURLING OF THE FLAGS The close of the long and bitter struggle had come; to those who had cast their fortunes with the South it seemed almost as the end of the world. I had thought to write of those last sad days, to picture them in all their contrasting light and shadow, but now I cannot. There are thoughts too deep for human utterance, memories too sacred for the pen. I rejoice that I was a part of it; that to the lowering of the last tattered battle-flag I remained constant to the best traditions of my house. I cannot sit here now, beneath the protecting shadow of a flag for which my son fought and died, and write that I regret the ending, for years of peace have taught us of the South lessons no less valuable than did the war; yet do I rejoice to-day that, having once donned the gray, I wore it until the last shotted gun voiced its grim message to the North.