In the autumn of ’59, through the kindness of Mr. Brinsmade, Stephen had gone on a steamboat up the river to a great convention in Iowa.  On this excursion was much of St. Louis’s bluest blood.  He widened his circle of acquaintances, and spent much of his time walking the guards between Miss Anne Brinsmade and Miss Puss Russell.  Perhaps it is unfair to these young ladies to repeat what they said about Stephen in the privacy of their staterooms, gentle Anne remonstrating that they should not gossip, and listening eagerly the while, and laughing at Miss Puss, whose mimicry of Stephen’s severe ways brought tears to her eyes.

Mr. Clarence Colfax was likewise on the boat, and passing Stephen on the guards, bowed distantly.  But once, on the return trip, when Stephen had a writing pad on his knee, the young Southerner came up to him in his frankest manner and with an expression of the gray eyes which was not to be withstood.

“Making a case, Brice?” he said.  “I hear you are the kind that cannot be idle even on a holiday.”

“Not as bad as all that,” replied Stephen, smiling at him.

“Reckon you keep a diary, then,” said Clarence, leaning against the rail.  He made a remarkably graceful figure, Stephen thought.  He was tall, and his movements had what might be called a commanding indolence.  Stephen, while he smiled, could not but admire the tone and gesture with which Colfax bade a passing negro to get him a handkerchief from his cabin.  The alacrity of the black to do the errand was amusing enough.  Stephen well knew it had not been such if he wanted a handkerchief.

Stephen said it was not a diary.  Mr. Colfax was too well bred to inquire further; so he never found out that Mr. Brice was writing an account of the Convention and the speechmaking for the Missouri Democrat.

“Brice,” said the Southerner, “I want to apologize for things I’ve done to you and said about you.  I hated you for a long time after you beat me out of Hester, and—­” he hesitated.

Stephen looked up.  For the first time he actually liked Colfax.  He had been long enough among Colfax’s people to understand how difficult it was for him to say the thing he wished.

“You may remember a night at my uncle’s, Colonel Carvel’s, on the occasion of my cousin’s birthday?”

“Yes,” said Stephen, in surprise.

“Well,” blurted Clarence, boyishly, “I was rude to you in my uncle’s house, and I have since been sorry.”

“He held out his hand, and Stephen took it warmly.

“I was younger then, Mr. Colfax,” he said, “and I didn’t understand your point of view as well as I do now.  Not that I have changed my ideas,” he added quickly, “but the notion of the girl’s going South angered me.  I was bidding against the dealer rather than against you.  Had I then known Miss Carvel—­” he stopped abruptly.

The winning expression died from the face of the other.