The mother's voice dropped to a whisper: "No,--your friend Albert Sydney Johnston told me that you saved a large part of your allowance and sent it home to your mother--" The young officer's lips trembled, and he looked away for a moment: "But she sent it back to me, madam." "Yes, until you wrote that she hurt you by not keeping it--" To relieve his evident embarrassment, the mother introduced him in rapid succession to her daughters, the eldest Anne, the second Sarah Knox, the youngest Elizabeth. Richard, the handsome little boy, had introduced himself. He had liked the Lieutenant from the first. He had been so surprised by the mother's possession of one of the sweetest secrets of his schoolboy life, and had blushed so furiously over it, he had scarcely noticed the girls, merely bowing in his confusion. It was not until they were seated at the table and the dinner had fairly begun, that he became conscious of the charm of the second daughter, who sat directly opposite. Her beauty was not dazzling, but in fifteen minutes she had completely absorbed his attention. It was impossible, of course, not to look at her. She sat squarely before him. There was no embarrassment in the frank, honest curiosity with which she returned his gaze. The thing that first impressed him was the frankness of a winsome personality. He listened with keen attention to her voice. There was no simper, no affectation, no posing. She was just herself. He found himself analyzing her character. Refined--yes. Intelligent--beyond a doubt. She talked with her father in a quiet, authoritative way which left no doubt on that score. Graceful, tender, sincere, too--her tones to her impulsive brother and her younger sister proved that. And a will of her own she had. The firmly set, full lips were eloquent of character. He liked that above all things in a woman. He couldn't stand a simpering doll. "Sing for us, Sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from the table. "Certainly, Dick, if you wish it." There was no holding back for urging. No mock modesty. No foolishness in her answer. It was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted, generous--just like his own sweet little sister Polly when he had asked of her a favor. And then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy reverie. He hoped her music would not spoil the impression her personality had made. This had happened once in his life. He could never talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. The memory of it was a nightmare. He watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. The tuning finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile: "And what shall I sing, Sir Richard?" "The one I love best--'Fairy Bells.'"