They walked on in silence a few paces, and Kate continued:  “I don’t know how you feel, Mr. Sprague, but I am wretched here.  I feel like a traitor, receiving such kindness, treated with such guileless confidence, and yet my heart is filled with everything they abhor.  It is not so hard for you, because you and Vincent have been close friends.  He has made your house his home, but I certainly feel that Wesley and I should go elsewhere, now that he is able to be about.”

“Does Wesley feel this—­this embarrassment?”

“Passionately.  He said, last night, he felt like a sneak.  He would fly in an instant, if he could see any possible way to our lines.”

“Pray, Miss Boone, tell him to be very circumspect.  I know the Southern nature.  When they give you their heart they give entirely.  But the least sign of—­of—­distrust will turn them into something worse than indifference.  We may see our way out soon.  Caution Wesley against any act—­any act”—­he emphasized the words—­“that may lead these kind people to think that he doesn’t trust them, or that he would take advantage of servile insurrection to gain his liberty.  Of course, they know that we are all restive here; that we shall be even more impatient when Vincent goes—­but they could not understand any surreptitious movement on our part, to enable us to get away.”

He hoped that, if she were in Wesley’s confidence, she would understand his meaning.  But she gave no sign.  She assented with an affirmative movement of the head, and they walked through the fragrant paths, plucking a rose now and then that seemed more tempting than its fellows.  At the end of the field of roses a Cherokee hedge grew so thick and high that it formed a screen and rampart between the house land and a dense grove of pines which was itself bordered by a stream that here and there spread out into tiny lakelets.  On the larger of these there were rude “dug-outs,” made by the darkies to cut off the long walk from their quarters to the tobacco and corn fields.

“Was there ever an Eden more perfect than this delicious place?” Kate cried, as the flaming sun sent banners of gold, mingled in a rainbow baldric with the blooming parterres of roses.

“I don’t know much about Eden, and the little I do know doesn’t give me a sympathetic reminiscence of the place; but I agree with you that Rosedale is about as near a paradise as one can come to on this earth,” Jack qualifiedly replied.

“And yet we want to fly from it?”

“Ah, yes; because the tree of our life, the volume of our knowledge, or, in plain prose, our hearts, are not here, and scenic beauty is a poor substitute for that.  Duty, I am convinced, is the key of the best life.  There are hearts here, noble ones—­duties here, inspiring ones.  But they do not satisfy us:  they are become a torment to me.  I feel like a soldier brought from duty; a priest fallen into the ways of the flesh.”