“But above all,” insisted a third, “we must check the sneers and exultation of European powers, and show them that we have not forgotten the art of war since the days of 1776 and 1812.”

“I should like to know what you are going to fight about,” said the Englishman, quietly; “for there appears to be much diversity of opinion.  However, if you are determined to cut each others’ throats, perhaps one pretext is as good as another, and a dozen better than only one.”

In the quiet recess of a window, shadowed by the crimson curtains, sat a fair young girl, and a man, young and handsome, but upon whose countenance the traces of dissipation and of passion were deeply marked.  Miranda Ayleff was a Virginian, the cousin and quondam playmate of Oriana Weems, like her an orphan, and a ward of Beverly.  Her companion was Philip Searle.  She had known him in Richmond, and had become much attached to him, but his habits and character were such, that her friends, and Beverly chiefly, had earnestly discouraged their intimacy.  Philip left for the North, and Miranda, who at the date of our story was the guest of Mrs. Pursely, her relative, met him in New York, after a separation of two years.  Philip, who, in spite of his evil ways, was singularly handsome and agreeable in manners, found little difficulty in fanning the old flame, and, upon the plea of old acquaintance, became a frequent visitor upon Miranda at Mr. Pursely’s mansion, where we now find them, earnestly conversing, but in low tones, in the little solitude of the great bay window.

“You reproach me with vices which your unkindness has helped to stain me with.  Driven from your presence, whom alone I cared to live for, what marvel if I sought oblivion in the wine-cup and the dice-box?  Give me one chance, Miranda, to redeem myself.  Let me call you wife, and you will become my guardian angel, and save me from myself.”

“You know that I love you, Philip,” she replied, “and willingly would I share your destiny, hoping to win you from evil.  Go with me to Richmond.  We will speak with Beverly, who is kind and truly loves me.  We will convince him of your good purposes, and will win his consent to our union.”

“No, Miranda; Beverly and your friends in Richmond will never believe me worthy of you.  Besides, it would be dangerous for me to visit Richmond.  I have identified myself with the Northern cause, and although, for your sake, I might refrain from bearing arms against Virginia, yet I have little sympathy with any there, where I have been branded as a drunkard and a gambler.”

“Yet, Philip, is it not the land of your birth—­the home of your boyhood?”

“The land of my shame and humiliation.  No Miranda, I will not return to Virginia.  And if you love me, you will not return.  What are these senseless quarrels to us?  We can be happy in each other’s love, and forget that madmen are at war around us.  Why will you not trust me, Miranda—­why do you thus withhold from me my only hope of redemption from the terrible vice that is killing me?  I put my destiny, my very life in your keeping, and you hesitate to accept the trust that alone can save me.  Oh, Miranda! you do not love me.”