Major Luttrel performed his part quite as bravely, and much more successfully. He observed neither too many things nor too few; he neither presumed upon his success, nor mistrusted it. Having on his side received no prohibition from Richard, he resumed his visits at the farm, trusting that, with the return of reason, his young friend might feel disposed to renew that anomalous alliance in which, on the hapless evening of Captain Severn's farewell, he had taken refuge against his despair. In the long, languid hours of his early convalescence, Richard had found time to survey his position, to summon back piece by piece the immediate past, and to frame a general scheme for the future. But more vividly than anything else, there had finally disengaged itself from his meditations a profound aversion to James Luttrel. It was in this humor that the Major found him; and as he looked at the young man's gaunt shoulders, supported by pillows, at his face, so livid and aquiline, at his great dark eyes, luminous with triumphant life, it seemed to him that an invincible spirit had been sent from a better world to breathe confusion upon his hopes. If Richard hated the Major, the reader may guess whether the Major loved Richard. Luttrel was amazed at his first remark. "I suppose you're engaged by this time," Richard said, calmly enough. "Not quite," answered the Major. "There's a chance for you yet." To this Richard made no rejoinder. Then, suddenly, "Have you had any news of Captain Severn?" he asked. For a moment the Major was perplexed at his question. He had assumed that the news of Severn's death had come to Richard's ears, and he had been half curious, half apprehensive as to its effect. But an instant's reflection now assured him that the young man's estrangement from his neighbors had kept him hitherto and might still keep him in ignorance of the truth. Hastily, therefore, and inconsiderately, the Major determined to confirm this ignorance. "No," said he; "I've had no news. Severn and I are not on such terms as to correspond." The next time Luttrel came to the farm, he found the master sitting up in a great, cushioned, chintz-covered arm-chair which Gertrude had sent him the day before out of her own dressing-room. "Are you engaged yet?" asked Richard. There was a strain as if of defiance in his tone. The Major was irritated. "Yes," said he, "we _are_ engaged now." The young man's face betrayed no emotion. "Are you reconciled to it?" asked Luttrel. "Yes, practically I am." "What do you mean by practically? Explain yourself." "A man in my state can't explain himself. I mean that, however I feel about it, I shall accept Gertrude's marriage." "You're a wise man, my boy," said the Major, kindly. "I'm growing wise. I feel like Solomon on his throne in this chair. But I confess, sir, I don't see how she could have you." "Well, there's no accounting for tastes," said the Major, good-humoredly.