She rose.  “Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried.  And yet her honesty was as great as Anne’s.  She would not have it thought that she came for other reasons.  “My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be paroled.  She thinks it is a—­” Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious tongue.  “She does not believe it.”

Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made.  He understood the girl, and admired her.  He also understood Mrs. Colfax.

“I’ll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny,” he answered.  “I know Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly.”

“You will do nothing of the kind, sir,” said Virginia, with emphasis.”  Had I known this—­about John, I should not have come.”

He checked her with a gesture.  What a gentleman of the old school he was, with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye kindling with charity.

“My dear,” he answered, “Nicodemus is waiting.  I was just going myself to ask Captain Lyon about John.”  Virginia’s further objections were cut short by the violent clanging of the door-bell, and the entrance of a tall, energetic gentleman, whom Virginia had introduced to her as Major Sherman, late of the army, and now president of the Fifth Street Railroad.  The Major bowed and shook hands.  He then proceeded, as was evidently his habit, directly to the business on which he was come.

“Mr. Brinsmade,” he said, “I heard, accidentally, half an hour ago that you were seeking news of your son.  I regret to say, sir, that the news I have will not lead to a knowledge of his whereabouts.  But in justice to a young gentleman of this city I think I ought to tell you what happened at Camp Jackson.”

“I shall be most grateful, Major.  Sit down, sir.”

But the Major did not sit down.  He stood in the middle of the room.  With some gesticulation which added greatly to the force of the story, he gave a most terse and vivid account of Mr. John’s arrival at the embankment by the grove—­of his charging a whole regiment of Union volunteers.  Here was honesty again.  Mr. Sherman did not believe in mincing matters even to a father and sister.

“And, sir,” said he, “you may thank the young man who lives next door to you—­Mr. Brice, I believe—­for saving your son’s life.”

“Stephen Brice!” exclaimed Mr, Brinsmade, in astonishment.

Virginia felt Anne’s hand tighten But her own was limp.  A hot wave swept over her, Was she never to hear the end of this man.

“Yes, sir, Stephen Brice,” answered Mr. Sherman.  “And I never in my life saw a finer thing done, in the Mexican War or out of it.”

Mr. Brinsmade grew a little excited.  “Are you sure that you know him?”

“As sure as I know you,” said the Major, with excessive conviction.

“But,” said Mr. Brinsmade, “I was in there last night, I knew the young man had been at the camp.  I asked him if he had seen Jack.  He told me that he had, by the embankment.  But he never mentioned a word about saving his life.”