Both Ronayne and his betrothed were too quick of apprehension not to perceive, under this light gaiety, a deep interest, and a desire to convey to them both, that, if unhappily, there did not exist a cordial understanding between her husband and the former, in matters purely military, and in relation to subjects which should have no influence over private life, she was by no means, a party to the disunion.

“Not very difficult to choose between the handsomest and the cleverest of the unmarried officers of the garrison of Chicago,” replied Maria Heywood with an effort at cheerfulness; “therefore, Mr. Ronayne, I advise you not to be too much elated by Mrs. Headley’s compliment.  After that caution, I think you may be trusted with her.”

“What a noble creature, and what a pity she has so cold and pompous a husband,” remarked Lieutenant Elmsley, as Mrs. Headley disappeared from the door-way.  “I never knew her so well as this morning, and upon my word, Margaret, were both he and you out of the way, I should be greatly tempted to fall in love with her.”

“You would act wisely if you did, George; I have always thought most highly of her.  She is, it is true, a little reserved in manner, but that I am sure comes wholly from a certain restraint, imposed upon her by her husband’s formality of character.  I say I am sure of this, for there have been occasions when I have seen her exhibit a warmth of address, as different from her general demeanor, as light is from shadow.”

“Perhaps Headley has systematically drilled her into the particular bearing that ought to be assumed by the wife of the commandant of a garrison.”

“Nay, George! that is not generous, but I know you are not serious in what you say.  You judge Mrs. Headley better, and that she is not a woman to be so drilled.  She has too much good sense, despite all her partiality for her husband, to allow herself to be improperly influenced, where her judgment condemns; and although, as his wife, she must necessarily act in concert with him, it by no means follows that she approves unreservedly, all that he does.”

“You are a dear, noble creature yourself!” exclaimed the gratified Elmsley, as he fondly embraced his wife.  “There is nothing I love so much as to see one woman warm in the defence of another—­one so seldom meets with that sort of thing.  What, Maria, tears?”

“Yes—­tears of pleasure!” she answered earnestly, as she held her handkerchief to her eyes—­“tears of joy to see so much generosity of feeling among those whom I have so much reason to esteem and admire.  You are right,” she pursued, addressing Mrs. Elmsley, “she is indeed a noble woman.  Perhaps I may justly be accused of a little partiality, for I never can forget the frank and cordial proffers of friendship with which she received me on the first night of my appearance here.”

“Ha!  Von Vottenberg to the rescue!” exclaimed Elmsley, with sudden animation, as the stout figure of the former shaded the door-way.  “Well, doctor, have you passed away in the evaporation produced by fright, the violent head-ache you were suffering from this morning?  If not, try that claret.  It is capital stuff, and a tumbler of it will make up for the breakfast you have lost.”