Thought halted; was it that which, always latent within her bruised heart, stirred it eternally from its pain-weary repose—­the belief, still existing, that there was something better in Berkley, that there did remain in him something nobler than he had ever displayed to her?  For in some women there is no end to the capacity for mercy—­where they love.

Hallam, hungry to touch her, had risen and seated himself on the flat arm of the chair in which she was sitting.  Listlessly she abandoned her hand to him, listening all the time to the footsteps outside, hearing Hallam’s low murmur; heard him lightly venturing to hint of future happiness, not heeding him, attentive only to the footsteps outside.

“Private Berk—­Ormond—­” she calmly corrected herself—­“has had no supper, has he?”

“Neither have I!” laughed Hallam.  And Ailsa rose up, scarlet with annoyance, and called to a negro who was evidently bound kitchenward.

And half an hour later some supper was brought to Hallam; and the negro went out into the star-lit court to summon Berkley to the kitchen.

Ailsa, leaving Hallam to his supper, and wandering aimlessly through the rear gallery, encountered Letty coming from the kitchen.

“My trooper,” said the girl, pink and happy, “is going to have such a good supper!  You know who I mean, dear—­that Mr. Ormond——­”

“I remember him,” said Ailsa steadily.  “I thought his name was Berkley.”

“It is Ormond,” said Letty in a low voice.

“Then I misunderstood.  Is he here again?”

“Yes,” ventured Letty, smiling; “he is escort to—­your Captain.”

Ailsa’s expression was wintry.  Letty, still smiling out of her velvet eyes, looked up confidently into Ailsa’s face.

“Dear,” she said, “I wish you could ever know how nice he is. . . .  But—­I don’t believe I could explain——­”

“Nice?  Who?  Oh, your trooper!”

“You don’t mistake me, do you?” asked the girl, flushing up.  “I only call him so to you.  I knew him in New York—­and—­he is so much of a man—­so entirely good——­”

She hesitated, seeing no answering sympathy in Ailsa’s face, sighed, half turned with an unconscious glance at the closed door of the kitchen.

“What were you saying about—­him?” asked Ailsa listlessly.

“Nothing—­” said Letty timidly—­“only, isn’t it odd how matters are arranged in the army.  My poor trooper—­a gentleman born—­is being fed in the kitchen; your handsome Captain—­none the less gently born—­is at supper in Dr. West’s office. . . .  They might easily have been friends in New York. . . .  War is so strange, isn’t it?”

Ailsa forced a smile; but her eyes remained on the door, behind which was a man who had held her in his arms. . . .  And who might this girl be who came now to her with tales of Berkley’s goodness, kindness—­shy stories of the excellence of the man who had killed in her the joy of living—­had nigh killed more than that?  What did this strange, dark-eyed, dark-haired girl know about his goodness?—­a girl of whom she had never even heard until she saw her in Dr. Benton’s office!