Sometimes, when she brought his breakfast on a tray in the morning, there was laughter in her eyes.  In the days gone by they had been all laughter.

They were engaged.  She was to be his wife.  He said it over to himself many, many times in the day.  He would sit for a space, feasting his eyes upon her until she lifted her look to his, and the rich color flooded her face.  He was not a lover to sit quietly by, was Clarence.  And yet, as the winged days flew on, that is what he did, It was not that she did not respond to his advances, he did not make them.  Nor could he have told why.  Was it the chivalry inherited from a long life of Colfaxes who were gentlemen?  Not wholly.  Something of awe had crept into his feeling for her.

As the month wore on, and the time drew near for him to go back to the war, a state that was not quite estrangement, and yet something very like it, set in.  Poor Clarence.  Doubts bothered him, and he dared not give them voice.  By night he would plan his speeches,—­impassioned, imploring.  To see her in her marvellous severity was to strike him dumb.  Horrible thought!  Whether she loved him, whether she did not love him, she would not give him up.  Through the long years of their lives together, he would never know.  He was not a weak man now, was Clarence Colfax.  He was merely a man possessed of a devil, enchained by the power of self-repression come upon her whom he loved.

And day by day that power seemed to grow more intense,—­invulnerable.  Among her friends and in the little household it had raised Virginia to heights which she herself did not seem to realize.  She was become the mistress of Bellegarde.  Mrs. Colfax was under its sway, and doubly miserable because Clarence would listen to her tirades no more.

“When are you to be married?” she had ventured to ask him once.  Nor had she taken pains to hide the sarcasm in her voice.

His answer, bringing with it her remembrance of her husband at certain times when it was not safe to question him, had silenced her.  Addison Colfax had not been a quiet man.  When he was quiet he was dangerous.

“Whenever Virginia is ready, mother,” he had replied.  Whenever Virginia was ready!  He knew in his heart that if he were to ask her permission to send for Dr, Posthelwaite to-morrow that she would say yes.  Tomorrow came,—­and with it a great envelope, an official, answer to Clarence’s report that he was fit for duty once more.  He had been exchanged.  He was to proceed to Cairo, there to await the arrival of the transport Indianapolis, which was to carry five hundred officers and men from Sandusky Prison, who were going back to fight once more for the Confederacy.  O that they might have seen the North, all those brave men who made that sacrifice.  That they might have realized the numbers and the resources and the wealth arrayed against them!