“Since love—­since love is blissful sorrow,
     Then bid the lad—­then bid the lad—­
     Then bid the lad a fair good morrow!”

flowed in soprano from the parlour.

Colonel Churchill laid down his pipe and lifted his burly figure from the great chair.  “I forgot,” he remarked to Jacqueline, “to tell your Aunt Nancy that Charles Carter is going to marry Miss Lewis,” and he left the porch.  The rose in the sky turned to pearl, the fireflies grew brilliant, and the wind brought the murmur of streams and the louder rustling of the poplar leaves.  “It is too dark to see the cards,” said Major Edward.  “I’ll go read what the Gazette has to say of Burr and the Massachusetts secession fools.  Don’t move, Cary!” He deftly gathered up the cards, and went indoors.

     “When I was green in years, and every month was May”—­sang Unity.

     “With Phyllis and with Chloe made I holiday!”

“It is dark night,” said Jacqueline.  “Shall we not go in?”

Cary put out an appealing hand.  “Don’t rise!  May we not stay like this a little longer?—­Miss Churchill, there is something that I ardently wish to say to you.”

“Yes, Mr. Cary?”

“It is too soon to speak, I know,—­it must seem too soon to you.  But to-day I said, ‘The spring is flying—­I’ll put my fortune to the touch!’ I think that you must guess the thing I wish to say—­”

“Yes, I know.  I wish that you would leave it unsaid.”

“I love you.  On the day, three months ago, when I saw you after my return and found the lovely child I remembered changed into the loveliest of all women, I loved you.  If then, what now, when I have seen you, day by day?—­I love you, and I shall never cease to love you.”

“Oh, with all my heart I wish that you did not!”

“I ask you to be my wife.  I beg you to let me prove throughout my life the depth of my love, of my solicitude for your happiness—­”

“Ah, happiness!” cried Jacqueline sharply.  “I do not see it in my life.  The best that you can do is to forget me quite.”

“I will remember you when I draw my dying breath.  And if we remember after death, I will remember you then.  With all my strength I love you.”

“I am sorry—­I am sorry!” she cried.  “Oh, I hoped ’twas but a fancy, and that you would not speak!  I do not love you—­”

“Let me wait,” said Cary, after a pause.  “I said that I was speaking too soon.  Let me wait—­let me prove to you.  Your heart may turn.”

She shook her head.  “It will not change.”

“Is there,” asked Cary, in a low voice, “is there another before me?”

She looked at him strangely.  “You have no right to question me.  I do not think that I shall ever marry.  For you, you will live long and be happy.  You deserve happiness.  If I have wounded you, may it soon heal!  Forget this night, and me.”

“Forget!” said Cary.  “I am not so lightly made!  But neither will I despair.  I will wait.  If there is no man before me, I will win you yet!  There is little reason, God knows, why you should care for me, but I shall strive to make that reason greater!”