Furtively into a corner fluttered rose and ribbon while the emptied hands extended a counterfeit welcome and beckoned the visitor’s aid to close the window.  As the broad sash came down, Anna’s heart, in final despair, sunk like lead, or like the despairing heart of her disowned lover in the garden, Flora’s heart the meantime rising like a recovered kite.  They moved from the window with their four hands joined, the dejected girl dissembling elation, the elated one dejection.

“I don’t see,” twittered Anna, “how I should have closed it!  How chilly it gets toward—­”

“Ah!” tremulously assented the subtler one.  “And such a dream!  I was oblige’ to escape to you!”

“And did just right!” whispered and beamed poor Anna.  “What did you dream, dear?”

“I dremp the battery was going! and going to a battle! and with the res’ my brother!  And now—­”

“Now it’s but a dream!” said her comforter.

“Anna!” the dreamer flashed a joy that seemed almost fierce.  She fondly pressed the hands she held and drew their owner toward the ill-used rose.  “Dearest, behold me! a thief, yet innocent!”

Anna smiled fondly, but her heart had stopped, her feet moved haltingly.  A mask of self-censure poorly veiled Flora’s joy, yet such as it was it was needed.  Up from the garden, barely audible to ears straining for it, yet surging through those two minds like a stifling smoke, sounded the tread of the departing horseman.

“Yes,” murmured Anna, hoping to drown the footfall, and with a double meaning though with sincere tenderness, “you are stealing now, not meaning to.”

“Now?” whispered the other, “how can that be?” though she knew.  “Ah, if I could steal now your heart al-so!  But I’ve stolen, I fear, only—­your—­confidenze!” Between the words she loosed one hand, stooped and lifted the flower.  Each tried to press it to the other’s bosom, but it was Anna who yielded.

“I’d make you take it,” she protested as Flora pinned it on, “if I hadn’t thrown it away.”

“Dearest,” cooed the other, “that would make me a thief ag-ain, and this time guilty.”

“Can’t I give a castaway rose to whom I please?”

“Not this one.  Ah, sweet, a thousand thousand pardon!”—­the speaker bent to her hearer’s ear—­“I saw you when you kiss’ it—­and before.”

Anna’s face went into her hands, and face and hands to Flora’s shoulder; but in the next breath she clutched the shoulder and threw up her head, while the far strain of a bugle faintly called, “Head of column to the right.”

The cadence died.  “Flora! your dream is true and that’s the battery!  It’s going, Flora.  It’s gone!  Your brother’s gone!  Your brother, Flora, your brother!  Charlie! he’s gone.”  So crying Anna sprang to the window and with unconscious ease threw it up.

The pair stood in it.  With a bound like the girl’s own, clear day had come.  Palely the river purpled and silvered.  No sound was anywhere, no human sign on vacant camp ground, levee, or highroad.  “Ah!”—­Flora made a well pretended gesture of discovery and distress—­“’tis true!  That bugl’ muz’ have meant us good-by.”