“What is it, Hayne?” asked Waldron, with kindly interest, leaning out of his carriage.

“They will be back to-night, sir.  Here is a telegram that has just reached me.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am not to be here to welcome them; but Mrs. Waldron will be delighted, and she will come to call the moment you let her know.  Keep them till I get back, if you possibly can.”

“Ay, ay, sir.  Good-by.”

“Good-by, Hayne.  God bless you, and—­good luck!”

A little later that afternoon Mrs. Rayner had occasion to go into her sister’s room.  It was almost sunset, and Nellie had been summoned down-stairs to see visitors.  Both the ladies were busy with their packing,—­Mrs. Rayner, as became an invalid, superintending, and Miss Travers, as became the junior, doing all the work.  It was rather trying to pack all the trunks and receive visitors of both sexes at odd hours.  Some of her garrison acquaintances would have been glad to come and help, but those whom she would have welcomed were not agreeable to the lady of the house, and those the lady of the house would have chosen were not agreeable to her.  The relations between the sisters were somewhat strained and unnatural, and had been growing more and more so for several days past.  Mrs. Rayner’s desk was already packed away.  She wanted to send a note, and bethought her of her sister’s portfolio.  Opening it, she drew out some paper and envelopes, and with the latter came an envelope sealed and directed.  One glance at its superscription sent the blood to her cheek and fire to her eye.  Was it possible?  Was it credible?  Her pet, her baby sister, her pride and delight,—­until she found her stronger in will,—­her proud-spirited, truthful Nell, was beyond question corresponding with Lieutenant Hayne!  Here was a note addressed to him.  How many more might not have been exchanged?  Ruthlessly now she explored the desk, searching for something from him, but her scrutiny was vain.  Oh, what could she say, what could she do, to convey to her erring sister an adequate sense of the extent of her displeasure?  How could she bring her to realize the shame, the guilt, the scandal, of her course?  She, Nellie Travers, the betrothed wife of Steven Van Antwerp, corresponding secretly with this—­this scoundrel, whose past, crime-laden as it had been, was as nothing compared to the present with its degradation of vice?  Ah! she had it!  What would ever move her as that could and must?

When the trumpets rang out their sunset call and the boom of the evening gun shook the windows in Fort Warrener and Nellie Travers came running up-stairs again to her room, she started at the sight that met her eyes.  There stood Mrs. Rayner, like Juno in wrath inflexible, glaring at her from the commanding height of which she was so proud, and pointing in speechless indignation at the little note that lay upon the open portfolio.

For a moment neither spoke.  Then Miss Travers, who had turned very white, but whose blue eyes never flinched and whose lips were set and whose little foot was tapping the carpet ominously, thus began: