“May I hope ever to meet you again?” I asked.

“I can promise nothing as to the future,” she returned soberly.  “But I wish to speak to you now, before you go.  Sit down here, just a moment.”

I hesitated, keen as to the value of time, yet curious as to what she would say, and swayed strongly by her influence.

“You surely must understand how anxious I am to get away—­” I began, but she broke in impulsively.

“Of course I do, but you must listen to me first.”  She had risen, and was leaning forward, speaking earnestly.  “It is true we shall probably never meet again, yet I am not willing you should think me altogether a despicable character.  I wish you to know whom I am, and why deceit was necessary.”

“My dear girl,” I exclaimed, hastily crossing the room, “there is nothing to explain.  I understand the circumstances.”

“No, not entirely,” she insisted, “but it is my desire you should.  I—­I hardly know why, but—­but I would rather have you think well of me.  Listen, please; I will be very brief.  I am Willifred Gray Hardy, and it was my father whom you overheard talking with General Johnston.  Our home is south on the pike road, and was used as headquarters until a few days ago.  I have known General Johnston ever since I was a little girl, and everybody—­all my friends—­call me Billie.  Of course you thought the courier was a man—­it was only natural you should—­and it was, therefore, easy for me to keep up the deceit—­they trusted me, and I had to get those papers through.”

“Of course you did,” heartily.  “Surely you do not suppose I would think less of you for your loyalty?”

“I hoped not; nor did I mean to let you go away thinking me a fool.”

“A fool!” thrown entirely from my guard.  “How could I think that?”

“By imagining that I believe you Major Atherton of Pemberton’s staff,” with a little, nervous laugh, and quick uplifting of the eyes.  “I was glad Captain Le Gaire made the mistake, for I had no wish to see you a prisoner, but your quick pretending did not in the least deceive me, Lieutenant Galesworth.”  She paused, evidently amused at the surprise expressed in my face, yet with the lines of her lips setting firmly.  “Your questions regarding the movements of Beauregard were most ingenuous, but I was able to comprehend your purpose.”

“You mean—­”

“That you propose bearing the news direct to Federal headquarters.  That is why you are in such a desperate hurry to get away.”

I took a step backward, reading the meaning of her eyes.

“And you intend to prevent—­”

“Exactly,” her voice as quiet as ever.  “I am a Confederate still.”

She had changed her position, standing now between me and the closed door, the expression upon her face sufficient evidence of her determination.  Hers was no idle threat—­this daughter of a soldier was ready for the struggle and the sacrifice.  I recognized all this at a glance, bewildered by the swift change in attitude, unable to decide my own course of action.  Argument was useless, a resort to force repugnant.  Above all else the one overpowering feeling was admiration for the girl.  She must have read all this in my eyes, yet her own never wavered, nor changed expression.