Glancing at her, he surprised a sparkle of amusement in her eyes.  Then she laughed openly.

“Why do you suppose that you were sent to Springfield?” she asked.

“With an important communication for Mr. Lincoln,” he answered.

“And that most important communication was—­your self.  There, now, I have told you,” said Virginia.

“Was myself?  I don’t understand.”

Virginia puckered her lips.

“Then you haven’t the sense I thought you had,” she replied impatiently.  “Do you know what was in that note?  No?  Well, a year ago last June this Black Republican lawyer whom you are all talking of made a speech before a convention in Illinois.  Judge Whipple has been crazy on the subject ever since—­he talks of Lincoln in his sleep; he went to Springfield and spent two days with him, and now he can’t rest until you have seen and known and heard him.  So he writes a note to Lincoln and asks him to take you to the debate—­”

She paused again to laugh at his amazement.

“But he told me to go to Springfield!” he exclaimed.

“He told you to find Lincoln.  He knew that you would obey his orders, I suppose.”

“But I didn’t know—­” Stephen began, trying to come pass within an instant the memory of his year’s experience with Mr. Whipple.

“You didn’t know that he thought anything about you,” said Virginia.  “That is his way, Mr. Brice.  He has more private charities on his list than any man in the city except Mr. Brinsmade.  Very few know it.  He thinks a great deal of you.  But there,” she added, suddenly blushing crimson, “I am sorry I told you.”

“Why?” he asked.

She did not answer, but sat tapping the seat with her fingers.  And when she ventured to look at him, he had fallen into thought.

“I think it must be time for dinner,” said Virginia, “if you really wish to catch the train.”

The coldness in her voice, rather than her words, aroused him.  He rose, took one lingering look at the river, and followed her to the house.

At dinner, when not talking about his mare, the Colonel was trying to persuade Stephen to remain.  Virginia did not join in this, and her father thought the young man’s refusal sprang from her lack of cordiality.  Colonel Carvel himself drove to the station.

When he returned, he found his daughter sitting idly on the porch.

“I like that young man, if he is a Yankee,” he declared.

“I don’t,” said Virginia, promptly.

“My dear,” said her father, voicing the hospitality of the Carvels, “I am surprised at you.  One should never show one’s feelings toward a guest.  As mistress of this house it was your duty to press him to stay.”

“He did not want to stay.”

“Do you know why he went, my dear,” asked the Colonel.

“No,” said Virginia.

“I asked him,” said the Colonel.

“Pa!  I did not think it of you!” she cried.  And then, “What was it?” she demanded.