“Indeed!  You are tantalizing; you cannot expect me to be devoid of curiosity.”

“Of course not,” turning her face toward me, “neither can you expect me to gratify it.”

“You mean you could not trust me?”

“Rather that you would not believe me, if I did.  The reason for this trip is so simple and commonplace that if I were to confess its purpose to you, you would suppose I were attempting deceit.  Oh, yes, you would, so I might just as well remain still.  Besides it can make no difference anyway.  When we reach Jonesboro this morning you will go back to your army, and I shall meet friends.  There is scarcely one chance in a thousand we shall ever see each other again.  We are the merest strangers—­enemies, indeed, for I am a Rebel clear through.  We don’t even know each others’ names.”

“Do you care to know mine?”

She hesitated, and I thought her eyes dropped.

“I—­I hardly know,” doubtfully.  “Yet you have been very kind, and, perhaps, sometime I might serve you.  Yes, you may tell me.”

“Robert Galesworth.”

“Of what rank?”

“Lieutenant, Ninth Illinois Cavalry, but detailed for special service.”

“Thank you.  I—­I am rather glad you told me.”

“And you,” I insisted, determined this confidence should be mutual.  “May I not, in return, be told your name?”

“I am Willifred Gray,” she said quietly.  “That is all—­just Willifred Gray.”

There was something about the manner in which she said this which held me silent.  I should have liked to ask more, a second question trembling on my lips, but the words would not come.  It was altogether new to me, this fear of offending a woman, so new it almost angered, and yet something about her positively held me as though in bonds.  To this day I do not know the secret of it, but I sat there silently staring out into the night.

I could see a little now, becoming aware that dawn was approaching, the sky shading to a dull gray in the east, and casting a weird light over the landscape.  It was a gloomy scene of desolation, the road a mere ribbon, overgrown with grass and weeds, a soggy marsh on one side, and a line of sand-hills on the other, sparsely covered by some stunted growth.  Far away, across the level, my eyes caught a glimmer of water, locating the river, but in no direction was there any sign of a house, or curl of smoke.  The unproductive land—­barren and swampy—­sufficiently accounted for lack of inhabitants, and told why it had been avoided by the foragers of both armies.  Seeking safety the girl had chosen her course wisely—­here was desolation so complete as to mock even at the ravages of war.  The gray in the east changed to pink, delicately tinting the whole upper sky, objects taking clearer form, a light breeze rustling the long grass.  Tirelessly the pony trotted, his head down, the lines lying loose.  I turned to gaze at my companion, and our eyes met.  Hers were either