Miss Carryl lifted a big, blue china bowl full of superb, white, rare-ripe peaches, and, coming to the veranda's edge, motioned the Messenger to open the saddlebags. Into it she poured a number of peaches. "They are perfectly ripe," she said; "I hope you will like them." "Thank'y, ma'am." "And, Soldier," she turned to add with careless grace, "if you would be kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting." "Yes'm; I will----" "How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?" "Plenty, ma'am; you gave me seven, ma'am." "Seven? Take two more--I insist--that makes nine, I think. Good day; and thank you." But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting to occupy her mind--a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit trees at the eastern end of the house. From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The bee was a yellow one. Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she spurred, putting her horse to a dead run. Passing the inner lines, she halted to give and receive the password, then tossed a bunch of letters to the corporal, and spurred forward. Halted by the outer pickets, she exchanged amenities again, rid herself of the remainder of the mail, and rode forward, loosening the revolver in her holster. Then she ate her first peach. It was delicious--a delicate, dripping, snow-white pulp, stained with pink where the pit rested. There was nothing suspicious about that pit, or any of the others when she broke the fragrant fruit in halves and carefully investigated. Then she tore off the seal and opened the bag and examined each of the twenty dry pits within. Not one had been tampered with. Her horse had been walking along the moist, fragrant road; a few moments later she passed the last cavalry picket, and at the same moment she caught sight of John Deal's farm. The house was neat and white and small; orchards stretched in every direction; a few beehives stood under the fruit trees near a well. A big, good-humored looking man came out into the path as the Messenger drew bridle, greeted the horse with a caress and its rider with a pleasant salute. "I'm very much obliged to you," he said, taking the sack of pits. "I reckon we're bound to have more fine weather. What's this--some peach pits from Miss Carryl?" "Nine," nodded the Messenger. "Nine! I'll have nine fine young trees this time three years, I reckon. Thank you, suh. How's things over to the Co't House?" "Troops arriving all the while," said the Messenger carelessly. "Comin' _in_?" "Lots." "Sho! I heard they was sendin' 'em East."