But the sun sank next day from a sky that was aflame with rebel victories.  It rose on a day rosy with rebel hopes, and the prophetic coolness of autumn was in the early morning air when Margaret in her phaeton moved through the front pasture on her way to town—­alone.  She was in high spirits and her head was lifted proudly.  Dan’s boast had come true.  Kirby Smith had risen swiftly from Tennessee, had struck the Federal Army on the edge of the Bluegrass the day before and sent it helter-skelter to the four winds.  Only that morning she had seen a regiment of the hated Yankees move along the turnpike in flight for the Ohio.  It was the Fourth Ohio Cavalry, and Harry and one whose name never passed her lips were among those dusty cavalrymen; but she was glad, and she ran down o the stile and, from the fence, waved the Stars and Bars at them as they passed—­which was very foolish, but which brought her deep content.  Now the rebels did hold Lexington.  Morgan’s Men were coming that day and she was going into town to see Dan and Colonel Hunt and General Morgan and be fearlessly happy and triumphant.  At the Major’s gate, whom should she see coming out but the dear old fellow himself, and, when he got off his horse and came to her, she leaned forward and kissed him, because he looked so thin and pale from confinement, and because she was so glad to see him.  Morgan’s Men were really coming, that very day, the Major said, and he told her much thrilling news.  Jackson had obliterated Pope at the second battle of Manassas.  Eleven thousand prisoners had been taken at Harper’s Ferry and Lee had gone on into Maryland on the flank of Washington.  Recruits were coming into the Confederacy by the thousands.  Bragg had fifty-five thousand men and an impregnable stronghold in front of Buell, who had but few men more—­not enough to count a minute, the Major said.

“Lee has routed ’em out of Virginia,” cried the old fellow, “and Buell is doomed.  I tell you, little girl, the fight is almost won.”

Jerome Conners rode to the gate and called to the Major in a tone that arrested the girl’s attention.  She hated that man and she had noted a queer change in his bearing since the war began.  She looked for a flash of anger from the Major, but none came, and she began to wonder what hold the overseer could have on his old master.

She drove on, puzzled, wondering, and disturbed; but her cheeks were flushed—­the South was going to win, the Yankees were gone, and she must get to town in time to see the triumphant coming of Morgan’s Men.  They were coming in when she reached the Yankee head-quarters, which, she saw, had changed flags—­thank God—­coming proudly in, amid the waving of the Stars and Bars and frenzied shouts of welcome.  Where were the Bluegrass Yankees now?  The Stars and Stripes that had fluttered from their windows had been drawn in and they were keeping very quiet, indeed—­Oh! it was joy!  There was gallant Morgan himself swinging from Black