or spoken of as an especially good girl.  Hoydenish in early girlhood, leading the young Southern gallants a chase in later years, ever full of frolic and mischief, as fond of the dance as a bird of flying, she was liked by every one, but the graver members of the community were accustomed to shake their heads and remark, “She is a case; perhaps she’ll sober down some day.”  She had hailed the war with enthusiasm, knowing little of its meaning, and sharing abundantly in rural Virginia’s contempt for the North.  She had proved even a better recruiting officer than her stately sister, and no young fellow dared to approach her until be had donned the gray.  When the war came she met it with her own laughing philosophy and unconquerable buoyancy, going wild over Southern victories and shrugging her plump shoulders over defeats, crying:  “Better luck next time.  The Yankees probably had a hundred to one.  It won’t take long for Southerners to teach Northern abolitionists the difference between us.”  But now she had seen Northern soldiers in conflict, had witnessed the utmost degree of bravery on her side, but had seen it confronted by equal courage, inspired by a leader who appeared irresistible.

This Northern officer, whose eyes had flashed like his sabre in battle, whose wit had penetrated and used for his own purpose the scheme of the enemy, and whose chivalric treatment of women plotting against him had been knightly,—­this man who had won her respect by storm, as it were, had followed her simple, natural course during the past week, and had metaphorically bowed his knee to her in homage.  What did it mean?  What had she done?  Only made the best of things, and shown a little humanity toward some poor fellows whose sufferings ought to soften hearts of flint.

Thus the girl reasoned and wondered.  She did not belong to that class who keep an inventory of all their good traits and rate them high.  Moulded in character by surrounding influences and circumstances, her natural, unperverted womanhood and her simple faith in God found unconscious expression in the sweet and gracious acts which Lane had recognized at their true worth.  The most exquisite music is but a little sound; the loveliest and most fragrant flower is but organized matter.  True, she had been engaged in homely acts,—­blessing her enemies as the Bible commanded and her woman’s heart dictated,—­but how were those acts performed?  In her unaffected manner and spirit consisted the charm which won the rough men’s adoration and Lane’s homage.  That which is simple, sincere, spontaneous, ever attains results beyond all art and calculation.

“Missy S’wanee” couldn’t understand it.  She had always thought of herself as “that child,”, that hoyden, that frivolous girl who couldn’t help giggling even at a funeral, and now here comes a Northern man, defeats and captures her most ardent admirer, and bows down to her as if she were a saint!

“I wish I were what he thinks me to be,” she laughed to herself.  “What kind of girls have they in the North, anyway, that he goes on so?  I declare, I’ve half a mind to try to be good, just for the novelty of the thing.  But what’s the use?  It wouldn’t last with me till the dew was off the grass in the morning.