Thus it was that Miss Mildred Fisher, accompanied by Lieutenant Seymour and one of her father's ancient friends, Colonel Monette, himself attended by a very smart orderly, riding out of Roanoke City down the long turnpike road, saw naught that might indicate active hostilities. The picturesque tents in the distance about the town, the outline of the forts against the blue sky, and afar off a gunboat in the river, were all still, all silent, all as suave as the painted incident of a picture on the wall. The turnpike itself bore heavy tokens of the war in the deeply worn holes and wheel tracks of the great wagon and artillery trains, wrought during the wet weather of the winter. It was hard going on the horses, and precluded that brisk pace and easy motion which are essential to the pleasure of the equestrian. Mildred Fisher, indeed, delighted in a breakneck speed, and it may be doubted whether it was altogether a happy animal which had the honor of bearing her light weight. As they reached a "cut off," where a "dirt road" had been recently repaired and put into fine condition to obviate the obstacles of the main travelled way, Miss Fisher proposed that they should "let the horses out" along this detour for a bit. Then she challenged the two officers for a race. They could but accede, and indeed it would have been difficult to deny her aught. The elder looked at her with an almost paternal pride, the other with a sort of surly adoration, tempered by many a grievance and many a realized imperfection in his idol, and a spirit of revolt against the sunny whims and again the cold caprice which he and others sustained at her hands. Seymour had little to complain of just now; yet, if she smiled on him and his heart warmed to the sunshine of her eyes, the next moment he was saying to himself that it meant nothing, it was not for his sake; for she was smiling with the same degree of brightness on that whiskerando, the elderly colonel. Her face was exquisitely fair, and in horseback exercise--the luxury she loved--she tolerated no veil to protect the perfection of her complexion. Her fluffy red hair had a sheen rather like gold, because of the contrast with her damson-tinted cloth riding-habit. The hat was of the low-crowned style then worn with a feather, and this was a long ostrich plume of the same damson tint, curling down over her hair, and shading to a lighter purple. Her hazel eyes were full of joy like a child's. Her mouth was not closed for a moment,--its red lips emitting disconnected exclamations, laughter, gay banter, and sometimes just held apart, silently taking the swift rush of the air, showing the rows of even white teeth and a glimpse of the deeper red of the interior, like the heart of a crimson flower.