We will let thirty days pass on, and bear the reader South of the Potomac, beyond the Federal lines and within rifle-shot of an advanced picket of the Confederate army, under General Beauregard.  It was a dismal night—­the 16th of July.  The rain fell heavily and the wind moaned and shrieked through the lone forests like unhappy spirits wailing in the darkness.  A solitary horseman was cautiously wending his way through the storm upon the Centreville road and toward the Confederate Hue.  He bore a white handkerchief, and from time to time, as his ear seemed to catch a sound other than the voice of the tempest, he drew his rein and raised the fluttering symbol at his drawn sword’s point.  Through the dark masses of foliage that skirted the roadside, presently could be seen the fitful glimmer of a watchfire, and the traveller redoubled his precautions, but yet rode steadily on.

“Halt!” cried a stern, loud voice from a clump of bushes that looked black and threatening in the darkness.  The horseman checked his horse and sat immovable in the centre of the road.

“Who goes there?” followed quick, in the same deep, peremptory tone.

“An officer of the United States, with a flag of truce,” was answered in a clear, firm voice.

“Stand where you are.”  There was a pause, and presently four dark forms emerged from the roadside, and stood at the horse’s head.

“You’ve chosen a strange time for your errand, and a dangerous one,” said one of the party, with a mild and gentlemanly accent.

“Who speaks?”

“The officer in command of this picket.”

“Is not that Beverly Weems?”

“The same.  And surely I know that voice.”

“Of course you do, if you know Harold Hare.”

And the stranger, dismounting, stretched out his hand, which was eagerly and warmly clasped, and followed by a silent and prolonged embrace.

“How rash you have been, Harold,” said Beverly, at last.  “It is a mercy that I was by, else might a bullet have been your welcome.  Why did you not wait till morning?”

“Because my mission admits of no delay.  It is most opportune that I have met you.  You have spoken to me at times, and Oriana often, of your young cousin, Miranda.”

“Yes, Harold, what of her?”

“Beverly, she is within a rifle-shot of where we stand, very sick—­dying I believe.”

“Good God, Harold! what strange tale is this?”

“I am in command of an advanced picket, stationed at the old farm-house yonder.  Toward dusk this evening, a carriage drove up, and when challenged, a pass was presented, with orders to assist the bearer, Miranda Ayleff, beyond the lines.  I remembered the name, and stepping to the carriage door, beheld two females, one of whom was bending over her companion, and holding a vial, a restorative, I suppose, to her lips.

“‘She has fainted, sir,’ said the woman, ’and is very ill.  I’m afraid she won’t last till she gets to Richmond.  Can’t you help her; isn’t there a surgeon among you at the farm-house there?’