“‘Charles Falconer.’  Who is he?”

[Illustration:  “‘HE IS A—­AN ACQUAINTANCE.’”]

“No matter,” she said quickly, and made to snatch the book away.  “He is a—­an acquaintance.  He is quartered in the house, in fact—­a British officer.”

“An acquaintance?  But why do you turn red?  Why look so confused?  Why try to take the book away from me?  Oh, my God, it is true! it is true!” He dropped the volume, sank back upon a chair, and regarded her with indescribable grief.

“Why,” she blundered, “a gentleman may lend a lady a novel—­”

“Oh, the lending is nothing!  ’Twas your look and action when I read his name.  ’Tis your look now, your look of guilt.  Oh, to see that flush of discovered shame on your face!  You care for this man, I can see that!”

“Well, what if I do?”

“Then you confess it?  Oh, can it be you that say this?—­you that stand there with eyes that drop before mine for shame—­nay, eyes that you raise with defiance!  Brazen—­oh, my God, my God, tell me ’tis all a mistake!  Tell me I wrong you, dear; that you are still mine, my Margaret, my Madge—­little Madge, that found me a home that day I came to New York; my pretty Madge, that cried when I was going to leave on Ned’s account; that I loved the first moment I saw her, and—­always—­”

He broke down at this, and leaned forward upon the table, covering his face with his hands.  When he next looked up, with haggard countenance, he saw her lips twitching and tears in her eyes.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, with a flash of hope, and half rose to go to her.

“No, no!  Let me alone!” she cried, escaping narrowly from that surrender to her feelings which would have meant forfeiting the fruits of her long planning.

His mood changed.

“I’ll not endure this,” he cried, rising and pacing the floor.  “You’ll find I’m no such weakling, though I can weep for my wife when I lose her love. He shall find it so, too!  I understand now what you meant by ‘to-night of all nights.’  He was to meet you to-night.  He’s quartered in the house, you say.  He was to slink up, no doubt, when all were out of the way—­your father divines little of this, I’ll warrant.  Well, he may come—­but he shall find me waiting at my wife’s door!”

“You’ll wait in vain, then.  He is very far from here to-night.”

“I’ll believe that when it’s proven.  I find ’tis well that I, ’of all men,’ came here to-night.”

“Nay, you’re mistaken.  You had been more like to find him to-night where you came from, than where you’ve come to.”

How true it is that a woman may always be relied on to say a word too much—­whether for the sake of a taunt, or the mere necessity of giving an apt answer, I presume not to decide.

“What can that mean?” said he, arrested by the peculiarity of her tone and look.  “Find him where I came from?  Why, that’s our camp.  What does he do there, ‘to-night of all nights?’ Explain yourself.”