At no period in her life had Olivia Berkeley felt herself so thoroughly on exhibition as then. Her figure, her air--both of which were singularly graceful and refined--her gown which was Paris-made--all were minutely examined by hundreds of eyes that had not seen her since, as a pretty, half-grown girl, she went to church and paid visits under the charge of a demure governess. After they had crossed the white track, they were greeted by numerous gentlemen who sauntered back and forth about the quarter-stretch. Colonel Berkeley was elaborately gracious, and Olivia was by nature affable--to all except the Hibbses. But when they passed that inoffending family, the Colonel stalked on pointedly oblivious, and Olivia’s slight bow was not warming or cheering. People moved up to shake hands with them--girls of Olivia’s age, soft voiced, matronly women, elderly men, a little shaky and broken, as all the old men looked after the war--and young men with something of the camp hanging to them still. Olivia was all grace, kindness, and tact. She had forgotten nobody. Meanwhile Petrarch, who had followed them, managed to edge up to her and whisper: “Miss ’Livy, ain’t dat ar Marse French Pembroke an’ he b’rer Miles? Look a-yander by de aige o’ de bench.” Olivia glanced that way, and a slight wave of color swept over her face--and at that moment “Marse French’s b’rer Miles” turned his full face toward her. He was a mere lad, of eighteen at the utmost. One side of his face, as she had first seen his profile, was of the purest Greek beauty. But on the other side, a shot had done dreadful work. One eye was drawn out of place. A horrid gash in the cheek remained, and one side of the mouth was painfully disfigured. On the same side, an arm was missing. A torrent of pity almost overwhelmed Olivia as she looked at the boy--her little playmate in years gone by. And then the elder brother caught her eye, and bowed and smiled. He did not possess the beauty that had once belonged to Miles. He was dark and tanned, and his features had a manly irregularity. But he stood up straight and tall, and had the figure of a soldier. In a moment or two Olivia was shaking hands with Miles, looking straight and boldly into his face, as if there was nothing remarkable there. But just as she touched French Pembroke’s hand, the blonde woman in the victoria came within her line of vision. Olivia threw up her head, and greeted Pembroke with a kind of chilling sweetness. But this all dissolved toward Miles. “How delightful to see you again,” she said. “I suppose I shall have to say Mr. Miles now, although I never can think of you as anything but a dear little tormenting boy.” The ghost of a smile--his smile was a mere contortion--came into Miles’ face--and while he talked, he thrust his one hand into his trousers pocket with a gesture of boyish shyness. Olivia thought she heard the tell-tale rattle of marbles in the pocket.