Virginia stood out in the light fairly between the gate posts.  Too late she saw the horse rear as the rider flew back in his seat, for she had seized the bridle.  The beams from the lamp fell upon a Revolutionary horseman, with cooked hat and sword and high riding-boots.  For her his profile was in silhouette, and the bold nose and chin belonged to but one man she knew.  He was Stephen Brice.  She gave a cry of astonishment and dropped the rein in dismay.  Hot shame was surging in her face.  Her impulse was to fly, nor could she tell what force that stayed her feet.

As for Stephen, he stood high in his stirrups and stared down at the girl.  She was standing full in the light,—­her lashes fallen, her face crimson.  But no sound of surprise escaped him because it was she, nor did he wonder at her gown of a gone-by century.  Her words came first, and they were low.  She did not address him by name.

“I—­I thought that you were my cousin,” she said.  “What must you think of me!”

Stephen was calm.

“I expected it,” he answered.

She gave a step backward, and raised her frightened eyes to his.

“You expected it?” she faltered.

“I can’t say why,” he said quickly, “but it seems to me as if this had happened before.  I know that I am talking nonsense—­”

Virginia was trembling now.  And her answer was not of her own choosing.

“It has happened before,” she cried.  “But where?  And when?”

“It may have been in a dream,” he answered her, “that I saw you as you stand there by my bridle.  I even know the gown you wear.”

She put her hand to her forehead.  Had it been a dream?  And what mystery was it that sent him here this night of all nights?  She could not even have said that it was her own voice making reply.

“And I—­I have seen you, with the sword, and the powdered hair, and the blue coat and the buff waistcoat.  It is a buff waistcoat like that my great-grandfather wears in his pictures.”

“It is a buff waistcoat,” he said, all sense of strangeness gone.

The roses she held dropped on the gravel, and she put out her hand against his horse’s flank.  In an instant he had leaped from his saddle, and his arm was holding her.  She did not resist, marvelling rather at his own steadiness, nor did she then resent a tenderness in his voice.

“I hope you will forgive me—­Virginia,” he said.  “I should not have mentioned this.  And yet I could not help it.”

She looked up at him rather wildly.

“It was I who stopped you,” she said; “I was waiting for—­”

“For whom?”

The interruption brought remembrance.

“For my cousin, Mr. Colfax,” she answered, in another tone.  And as she spoke she drew away from him, up the driveway.  But she had scarcely taken five steps whey she turned again, her face burning defiance.  “They told me you were not coming,” she said almost fiercely.  “Why did you come?”