“A bare trifle, but I’ll not further rob ye, lad, till I get to the end of my purse.

“Do not fear to take from me, sir.  A major’s pay is very different from a cornet’s.  ’T will make me feel easier, and, in fact, ’t will be safer with you than with me,” Phil said, as he forced a rouleau of coin into the squire’s palm.  Then, not waiting for Mr. Meredith’s protests or thanks, he crossed to where Janice was talking with three of the staff and broke in upon their conversation:  “Janice, a soldier goes or stays not as he pleases, but as the bugle orders, and there is more work cut out for us, but this evening I am free.  Wilt come and stroll along the river-bank for an hour?”

“Dash your impudence, Hennion!” protested one of the group.  “Do you think you fellows of the cavalry can plunder everything?  Pay no heed to him, Miss Meredith, I beg of you.”

“Ay,” echoed another, ’t is the artillery the major should belong to, for he’d do to repair the brass cannon.”

The girl stood irresolute for a breath, then, though she coloured, she said steadily, “Certainly, if you wish it, Philemon.”

While they were passing the rows of camp-fires and tents, the major was silent, but once these were behind them he said:—­

“’T would be idle, Janice, to make any pretence of why I wished to see you apart.  You must know it as well as I.”

“I suppose I do, Philemon,” assented the girl, quietly.

“A long time we’ve been parted, but not once has my love for you lessened, and—­and in Philadelphia you held out a little hope that I’ve lived on ever since.  You said that the squire held to his promise, and that—­did you—­do you still think as you—­”

“Have you spoken to dadda?”

“No.  For—­for I was afraid he’d force you against your will.  Once I was eager to take you even so, but I hope you won’t judge me for that.  I was an unthinking boy then.”

“We all make mistakes, Philemon, and would that I could outlive mine as well as you have yours,” Janice answered gently.

“Then—­then—­you will?”

“If dadda still—­Before I answer—­I—­something must be told that I wish—­oh, how I wish, for your sake and for mine!—­had never been.  I gave—­I tried to be truthful to you, Philemon, but, unknown to myself, some love I gave to —­to one I need not name, and though I—­though he quickly killed it, ’t is but fair that you should know that the little heart—­for I—­I fear me I am cold by nature—­I had to give was wasted on another.  But if, after this confession, you still would have me for a wife, and dadda and mommy wish it, I will wed you, and try my best to be dutiful and loving.”

“’T is all I ask,” eagerly exclaimed Philemon, as he caught her hand, and drew her toward him.  “Ah, Janice, if you but knew how I love—­”

“Ho! there ye are,” came the voice of the commissary not five paces away.  “I saw ye go toward the river, and followed.”