They had a grim reproof from Judge Whipple in the morning.

“So you too, gentlemen, took opium last night,” was all he said.

The dreaded possibility of Mr. Lincoln’s election did not interfere with the gayeties.  The week after the Fair Mr. Clarence Colfax gave a great dance at Bellegarde, in honor of his cousin, Virginia, to which Mr. Stephen Brice was not invited.  A majority of Company A was there.  Virginia would have liked to have had them in uniform.

It was at this time that Anne Brinsmade took the notion of having a ball in costume.  Virginia, on hearing the news, rode over from Bellegarde, and flinging her reins to Nicodemus ran up to Anne’s little dressing-room.

“Whom have you invited, Anne?” she demanded.

Anne ran over the long list of their acquaintance, but there was one name she omitted.

“Are you sure that that is all?” asked Virginia, searchingly, when she had finished.

Anne looked mystified.

“I have invited Stephen Brice, Jinny,” she said.  But!—­”

“But!” cried Virginia.  “I knew it.  Am I to be confronted with that Yankee everywhere I go?  It is always ‘Stephen Brice’, and he is ushered in with a but.”

Anne was quite overcome by this outburst.  She had dignity, however, and plenty of it.  And she was a loyal friend.

“You have no right to criticise my guests, Virginia.”

Virginia, seated on the arm of a chair, tapped her foot on the floor.

“Why couldn’t things remain as they were?” she said.  “We were so happy before these Yankees came.  And they are not content in trying to deprive us of our rights.  They must spoil our pleasure, too.”

“Stephen Brice is a gentleman,” answered Anne.  “He spoils no one’s pleasure, and goes no place that he is not asked.”

“He has not behaved according to my idea of a gentleman, the few times that I have been unfortunate enough to encounter him,” Virginia retorted.

“You are the only one who says so, then.”  Here the feminine got the better of Anne’s prudence, and she added.  “I saw you waltz with him once, Jinny Carvel, and I am sure you never enjoyed a dance as much in your life.”

Virginia blushed purple.

“Anne Brinsmade!” she cried.  “You may have your ball, and your Yankees, all of them you want.  But I shan’t come.  How I wish I had never seen that horrid Stephen Brice!  Then you would never have insulted me.”

Virginia rose and snatched her riding-whip.  This was too much for Anne.  She threw her arms around her friend without more ado.

“Don’t quarrel with me, Jinny,” she said tearfully.  “I couldn’t bear it.  He—­Mr. Brice is not coming, I am sure.”

Virginia disengaged herself.

“He is not coming?”

“No,” said Anne.  “You asked me if he was invited.  And I was going on to tell you that he could not come.”

She stopped, and stared at Virginia in bewilderment.  That young lady, instead of beaming, had turned her back.  She stood flicking her whip at the window, gazing out over the trees, down the slope to the river.  Miss Russell might have interpreted these things.  Simple Anne!