They were standing at the head of the line waiting for their turn again. Some one began to talk to her partner, giving Juliette a chance to run her eyes quickly down the room full of the Hermitage neighbors and friends. Neither Bristow nor Trevellian was there. She was not surprised, for she never expected to see Trevellian again, and Bristow had not come back since that night at the supper table when he had dropped a careless remark about Trevellian and met such a subdued but pointed rebuke that it took all of Aunt Rachael’s good nature and Juliette’s tact to prevent an open rupture. Yet, since then, in every other way had Bristow shown his attention—flowers, notes and all the lover’s resources which his shrewd nature could command. But as for Trevellian—the shock of that day had never left her. She had put him resolutely aside; and yet, often since then, in the night when alone with her thoughts, she had begun to doubt and to wonder—and then to weep. To weep. Ah, then it was she knew she loved Trevellian! But that had only been at night. In the day, never had any one carried herself with more dignity and poise. She was glad that he was not here. There was a hubbub around her. It was their time again and the General was tapping her on the arm. Again they went down the line beneath the eyes of an admiring crowd, and then he gallantly led her to a seat. “Now, Juliette,” he said, “I must leave you to a younger and handsomer beau, but while I have this chance, there is something I must tell you, because you will know of it soon enough.” He took his favorite seat. They were alone in the corner of the room, and the rough floor was shaking with the boisterous dancing of healthy and hilarious yeomanry. “You are going to New Orleans to-morrow and you will stop at Natchez a day or two to catch the boat there. We are sending you under the escort of an old friend and his wife—Captain Royston and wife—but the Captain will report for duty there. I do not know how the situation is at the front. It is possible that you may have to stop at Natchez for awhile, which brings me to the point I wish to impress upon you.” She looked up at him quickly. “The British,” he continued, “will be on us very soon.” “Not at New Orleans?” she paled. “Everybody says at Pensacola or Mobile, if at all.” “Everybody knows but little,” said the General, quietly. “My dear, I am going to have to whip them at New Orleans, and that before anybody dreams of.” “Oh, General—my mother—” “Now if I had my way,” he went on, “I would rather you stay here awhile, for the British, whom I shall have to fight, are the same that are beating Bonaparte allies in Spain, and the depredations they have committed there have been notorious. But you must, of course, go on to your mother—but for that Mrs. Jackson and I should not think of permitting you to leave us, for it will be a fight to the finish at New Orleans and—”