During these two years Joyce’s heart had been true to her raider lover. He had said that he would come when the war was over, that the thunder of the last cannon would hardly have ceased to reverberate through the land before he would be by her side. It was two months since Lee had surrendered yet he had not come. That he had been untrue she would not admit; if such a thought came to her, she dismissed it as unworthy. No! Like his general, he was lying in a soldier’s grave; or he might be sick, wounded, unable to come. This June evening, as she stood looking down the road, her thoughts were in the past. Once more, in imagination, Morgan’s raiders came riding by; she beheld the country terror-stricken; men, women, and children fleeing from—they hardly knew what. Once more she heard the sound of distant battle, then down the road that little cloud of dust which grew larger and larger, until the horse with its stricken rider came to view. How vividly she remembered it all, how real it seemed to her! She actually held her breath and listened to catch the sound of battle; she strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust. [Illustration: SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF BATTLE] No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as she could see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; why she could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise from that road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Now she could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly, and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to her bosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps. Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, and with the cry of “Joyce! Joyce!” had her in his arms, kissing her hair, her brow, her lips. For a minute she lay at rest in his arms; then, with burning brow and cheek and neck, she disengaged herself from his embrace, and stood looking at him with lovelit eyes. Could this be he whom, two years before, she had taken in wounded nigh unto death? How manly he had grown! How well his citizen suit became him! “Were you watching for me, Joyce?” asked Calhoun. “I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began to think you had forgotten—no, not that, I feared you had been slain,” she exclaimed, in a trembling voice. “Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle your image was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened the bitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but it has brought me to you—to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothing to separate us, is there, Joyce?”