Virginia drew away, and the one searching glance she gave him he did not see.  He was staring far beyond; tears started in her eyes, and she turned from him to look out over the Arsenal grounds, still wet and heavy with the night’s storm.  The day itself was dark and damp.  She thought of the supper cooking at home.  It would not be eaten now.

And yet, in that moment of bitterness Virginia loved him.  Such are the ways of women, even of the proudest, who love their country too.  It was but right that he should not think of her when the honor of the South was at stake; and the anger that rose within her was against those nine hundred and ninety-nine who had weakly accepted the parole.

“Why did Uncle Comyn not come?” asked Clarence.

“He has gone to Jefferson City, to see the Governor..”

“And you came alone?”

“No, Mr. Brinsmade brought me.”

“And mother?”

She was waiting for that question.  What a relief that should have come among the first.

“Aunt Lillian feels very badly.  She was in her room when I left.  She was afraid,” (Virginia had to smile), “she was afraid the Yankees would kill you.”

“They have behaved very well for Yankees,” replied he, “No luxury, and they will not hear of my having a servant.  They are used to doing their own work.  But they have treated me much better since I refused to take their abominable oath.”

“And you will be honored for it when the news reaches town.”

“Do you think so, Jinny?” Clarence asked eagerly, “I reckon they will think me a fool!”

“I should like to hear any one say so,” she flashed out.

“No,” said Virginia, “our friends will force them to release you.  I do not know much about law.  But you have done nothing to be imprisoned for.”

Clarence did not answer at once.  Finally he said.  “I do not want to be released.”

“You do not want to be released,” she repeated.

“No,” he said.  “They can exchange me.  If I remain a prisoner, it will have a greater effect—­for the South.”

She smiled again, this time at the boyish touch of heroics.  Experience, responsibility, and he would get over that.  She remembered once, long ago, when his mother had shut him up in his room for a punishment, and he had tortured her by remaining there for two whole days.

It was well on in the afternoon when she drove back to the city with Mr. Brinsmade.  Neither of them had eaten since morning, nor had they even thought of hunger.  Mr. Brinsmade was silent, leaning back in the corner of the carriage, and Virginia absorbed in her own thoughts.  Drawing near the city, that dreaded sound, the rumble of drums, roused them.  A shot rang out, and they were jerked violently by the starting of the horses.  As they dashed across Walnut at Seventh came the fusillade.  Virginia leaned out of the window.  Down the vista of the street was a mass of blue uniforms, and a film of white smoke hanging about the columns of the old Presbyterian Church Mr. Brinsmade quietly drew her back into the carriage.