Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late.  He was detained in a little consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting.  Perhaps it was his entrance.

No, Laura said.  She heard that.  It was later.  She might have been nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house.

Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the members were occupied in night session.

The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of newspaper slang.  There might be burglars about.

Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness.  But she thought she world feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his pistols.  Washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her in the art of loading and firing it.

During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker’s to pay a friendly call.

“Your receptions are always delightful,” she said to that lady, “the pleasant people all seem to come here.”

“It’s pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins.  I believe my friends like to come here.  Though society in Washington is mixed; we have a little of everything.”

“I suppose, though, you don’t see much of the old rebel element?” said Laura with a smile.

If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singular remark for a lady to make, who was meeting “rebels” in society every day, she did not express it in any way, but only said,

“You know we don’t say ‘rebel’ anymore.  Before we came to Washington I thought rebels would look unlike other people.  I find we are very much alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice.  And then you know there are all sorts of common interests.  My husband sometimes says that he doesn’t see but confederates are just as eager to get at the treasury as Unionists.  You know that Mr. Schoonmaker is on the appropriations.”

“Does he know many Southerners?”

“Oh, yes.  There were several at my reception the other day.  Among others a confederate Colonel—­a stranger—­handsome man with gray hair, probably you didn’t notice him, uses a cane in walking.  A very agreeable man.  I wondered why he called.  When my husband came home and looked over the cards, he said he had a cotton claim.  A real southerner.  Perhaps you might know him if I could think of his name.  Yes, here’s his card—­Louisiana.”

Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the address, and then laid it down, with,

“No, he is no friend of ours.”

That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched the following note.  It was in a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number and street in Georgetown:—­

     “A Lady at Senator Dilworthy’s would like to see Col.  George Selby,
     on business connected with the Cotton Claims.  Can he call Wednesday
     at three o’clock P. M.?”