to convince the North that the Confederacy was unconquerable!  And what might not happen during those momentous months?  Perhaps Jack’s death?—­and then they would be divided as by fire—­or, if the conflict resulted victoriously for the South, as he knew it must, he foresaw that the soldier of the conquering army would not be received as a wooer in the family of the defeated.  He knew her so well!  She would, in the very pride of outraged patriotism, give her love to one of the defeated, rather than add to the triumphs of the hated South.  She had strong convictions on the war.  She hated slavery, and she could not be made to see that the South was warring for liberty, not to sustain slavery.  These thoughts ran through Vincent’s troubled mind as his mother directed the preparations for the fete of the President.

Kate, Jack, and Dick were pressed into the service of decorating the apartments.  Olympia left the room with her mother to advise and assist in making ready for the journey North; and Vincent, aiding his mother with a sadly divided mind, kept furtive watch on the hallway.  She held him hours in suspense, he thought, almost wrathfully, of deliberate purpose; for she must have read in his eyes that he wanted to talk with her.  The artless Dick finally gave him a chance.

“I say, Vint, get Polly to show you the roses needed for the tables; I’ll be with you by-and-by to cut the ferns.  Do you think you could make yourself of that much use?  You’re not worth a straw here”

“Send for Miss Polly and I’ll do my best,” Vincent said, with a gulp, to conceal his joy.  She appeared presently; and, as they were passing out of the door, Rosa cried, imperiously: 

“Oh, yes, Vint, we need ever so much honeysuckle; you know where it hangs thickest—­in the Owl’s Glen.  Olympia will like to see that—­the haunt of her favorite bird”; and the busy little maid laughed cheerily, like a disordered goddess, intoxicated by the exhaling odors of the floral chaos.

“En route for Roumelia, then,” Vincent cried in military cadence, as the florists set out.  Roumelia was the name Jack had given the rose-lands near the stream, in fanciful allusion to the Turkish province of flowers.  Halting at the gardener’s cottage, Vincent procured an immense pair of shears, like a double rapier in size, and, bidding the man follow to gather the blossoms, he pushed into the blooming vineyard.

“With such an instrument I should say it was the golden fleece you were after,” Olympia cried, as he reached her side, “though I believe Jason didn’t do the shearing.”

“No, the powers of air worked for him, and he found his quest ready to his hand.”

“I’m sure the powers of air have not denied you; look at those radiant ranks of blossoms bending to be gathered.”

“Ah, yes, beauty stoops sometimes to welcome the trembling hand of the suitor.”

“Your hand is rather unsteady—­infirm of purpose; give me the blades.”  She took them laughingly, and snipped the green stems rapidly and dexterously.