Dan shouted and came down to meet him, and Harry hurried to the door, followed by Mrs. Dean.  Margaret was not to be seen, and Chad was glad—­he would have a little more time for self-control.  She did not appear even when they were seated in the porch until Dan shouted for her toward the garden; and then looking toward the gate Chad saw her coming up the garden walk bare-headed, dressed in white, with flowers in her hand; and walking by her side, looking into her face and talking earnestly, was Richard Hunt.  The sight of him nerved Chad at once to steel.  Margaret did not lift her face until she was half-way to the porch, and then she stopped suddenly.

“Why, there’s Major Buford,” Chad heard her say, and she came on ahead, walking rapidly.  Chad felt the blood in his face again, and as he watched Margaret nearing him—­pale, sweet, frank, gracious, unconscious—­it seemed that he was living over again another scene in his life when he had come from the mountains to live with old Major Buford; and, with a sudden prayer that his past might now be wiped as clean as it was then, he turned from Margaret’s hand-clasp to look into the brave, searching eyes of Richard Hunt and feel his sinewy fingers in a grip that in all frankness told Chad plainly that between them, at least, one war was not quite over yet.

“I am glad to meet you, Major Buford, in these piping times of peace.”

“And I am glad to meet you, General Hunt—­only in times of peace,” Chad said, smiling.

The two measured each other swiftly, calmly.  Chad had a mighty admiration for Richard Hunt.  Here was a man who knew no fight but to the finish, who would die as gamely in a drawing-room as on a battle-field.  To think of him—­a brigadier-general at twenty-seven, as undaunted, as unbeaten as when he heard the first bullet of the war whistle, and, at that moment, as good an American as Chadwick Buford or any Unionist who had given his life for his cause!  Such a foe thrilled Chad, and somehow he felt that Margaret was measuring them as they were measuring each other.  Against such a man what chance had he?

He would have been comforted could he have known Richard Hunt’s thoughts, for that gentleman had gone back to the picture of a ragged mountain boy in old Major Buford’s carriage, one court day long ago, and now he was looking that same lad over from the visor of his cap down his superb length to the heels of his riding-boots.  His eyes rested long on Chad’s face.  The change was incredible, but blood had told.  The face was highly bred, clean, frank, nobly handsome; it had strength and dignity, and the scar on his cheek told a story that was as well known to foe as to friend.

“I have been wanting to thank you, not only for trying to keep us out of that infernal prison after the Ohio raid, but for trying to get us out.  Harry here told me.  That was generous.”

“That was nothing,” said Chad.  “You forget, you could have killed me once and—­and you didn’t.”  Margaret was listening eagerly.