The slight flush that came to Brant’s cheek quickly passed.  And there was only the unmistakable sparkle of renewed youth in his frank eyes as he said—­

“Let me go to the front again, Mr. President, and I care not how.”

The President smiled, and, laying his heavy hand on Brant’s shoulder, pushed him gently towards the door of the inner room.

“I was only about to say,” he added, as he opened the door, “that it would be necessary for you to rejoin your promoted commander as a major-general.  And,” he continued, lifting his voice, as he gently pushed his guest into the room, “he hasn’t even thanked me for it, Miss Faulkner!”

The door closed behind him, and he stood for a moment dazed, and still hearing the distant voice of the President, in the room he had just quitted, now welcoming a new visitor.  But the room before him, opening into a conservatory, was empty, save for a single figure that turned, half timidly, half mischievously, towards him.  The same quick, sympathetic glance was in both their faces; the same timid, happy look in both their eyes.  He moved quickly to her side.

“Then you knew that—­that—­woman was my wife?” he said, hurriedly, as he grasped her hand.

She cast a half-appealing look at his face—­a half-frightened one around the room and at the open door beyond.

“Let us,” she said faintly, “go into the conservatory.”

*****

It is but a few years ago that the veracious chronicler of these pages moved with a wondering crowd of sightseers in the gardens of the White House.  The war cloud had long since lifted and vanished; the Potomac flowed peacefully by and on to where once lay the broad plantation of a great Confederate leader—­now a national cemetery that had gathered the soldier dead of both sections side by side in equal rest and honor—­and the great goddess once more looked down serenely from the dome of the white Capitol.  The chronicler’s attention was attracted by an erect, handsome soldierly-looking man, with a beard and moustache slightly streaked with gray, pointing out the various objects of interest to a boy of twelve or fourteen at his side.

“Yes; although, as I told you, this house belongs only to the President of the United States and his family,” said the gentleman, smilingly, “in that little conservatory I proposed to your mother.”

“Oh!  Clarence, how can you!” said the lady, reprovingly, “you know it was long after that!”