I bent my head to keep the westering sun from my eyes, and breathing the thick red dust, I trudged steadily forward. Suddenly there sounded behind me the thud of hoofs, while I heard a merry peal of laughter, accompanied by gay exchange of words. I drew aside, leading my horse into a small thicket beside the road to permit the cavalcade to pass. It was a group of perhaps a dozen,--three or four Federal officers, the remainder ladies, whose bright dresses and smiling faces made a most winsome sight. They glanced curiously aside at me as they galloped past. But none paused, and I merely glanced at them with vague interest, my thoughts elsewhere. Suddenly a horse seemed to draw back from out the centre of the fast disappearing party. “Ah, but really, you know, we cannot spare you,” a man's voice protested. “But you must. No, Colonel, this chances to be a case where I prefer being alone,” was the quiet reply. “Do not wait, please; I will either rejoin you shortly or ride directly to the camp.” I had led my limping horse out into the road once more to resume my journey, paying scarcely the slightest attention to what was taking place, for my head was again throbbing to the hot pulse of the sun. The party of strangers rode slowly away into the enveloping dust cloud, and I had forgotten them, when a low, sweet voice spoke close beside me: “Captain Wayne, I know you cannot have forgotten me.” She was leaning down from the saddle, and as I glanced eagerly up into her dear eyes they were swimming with tears. “Forgotten! Never for one moment,” I exclaimed; “yet I failed to perceive your presence until you spoke.” “You appeared deeply buried in thought as we rode by, but I could not leave you without a word when I knew you must feel so bad. I have thought of you so often, and am more glad than I can tell to know you have survived the terrible fighting of these last few weeks. But you look so worn and haggard.” “I am wearied--yes,” I admitted. “But that will pass away. My meeting again with you will be a memory of good cheer; and I found no little encouragement from a conversation just held with Lieutenant Caton.” She looked at me frankly, her eyes cleared of the mist. “Were you indeed thinking hopefully just now? You appeared so grave I feared it was despair.” “It was a mixture of both, Mrs. Brennan. My own known condition furnishes sufficient despair, while Caton's excessive happiness yields a goodly measure of joy, which I have not yet entirely lost. Nothing glorifies life, even in its darkest hour, as the success of love.” She glanced at my face shyly. “Undoubtedly the Lieutenant is in the seventh heaven at present,” she admitted slowly. “His Celia has led him a merry chase these many months, before she made full surrender; but that merely makes final victory the sweeter.” “She retains the disposition of a child.” “But the heart of a woman is back of all her playfulness. You are upon your way home?”