“No, sir,” reiterated that indignant warrior, “take my word for it!  A Southern woman isn’t to be trusted on this point, whether as a sister, sweetheart, or wife.  And when she is trusted, she’s bound to get the better of the man in any of those relations!”

The dead silence that followed, the ominous joggle of a glass at the speaker’s elbow, the quick, sympathetic glance that Brant instinctively felt was directed at his own face, and the abrupt change of subject, could not but arrest his attention, even if he had overlooked the speech.  His face, however, betrayed nothing.  It had never, however, occurred to him before that his family affairs might be known—­neither had he ever thought of keeping them a secret.  It seemed so purely a personal and private misfortune, that he had never dreamed of its having any public interest.  And even now he was a little ashamed of what he believed was his sensitiveness to mere conventional criticism, which, with the instinct of a proud man, he had despised.

He was not far wrong in his sardonic intuition of the effect of his prohibition upon Miss Faulkner’s feelings.  Certainly that young lady, when not engaged in her mysterious occupation of arranging her uncle’s effects, occasionally was seen in the garden, and in the woods beyond.  Although her presence was the signal for the “oblique” of any lounging “shoulder strap,” or the vacant “front” of a posted sentry, she seemed to regard their occasional proximity with less active disfavor.  Once, when she had mounted the wall to gather a magnolia blossom, the chair by which she had ascended rolled over, leaving her on the wall.  At a signal from the guard-room, two sappers and miners appeared carrying a scaling-ladder, which they placed silently against the wall, and as silently withdrew.  On another occasion, the same spirited young lady, whom Brant was satisfied would have probably imperiled her life under fire in devotion to her cause, was brought ignominiously to bay in the field by that most appalling of domestic animals, the wandering and untrammeled cow!  Brant could not help smiling as he heard the quick, harsh call to “Turn out, guard,” saw the men march stolidly with fixed bayonets to the vicinity of the affrighted animal, who fled, leaving the fair stranger to walk shamefacedly to the house.  He was surprised, however, that she should have halted before his door, and with tremulous indignation, said,—­

“I thank you, sir, for your chivalrousness in turning a defenseless woman into ridicule.”

“I regret, Miss Faulkner,” began Brant gravely, “that you should believe that I am able to control the advances of farmyard cattle as easily as”—­But he stopped, as he saw that the angry flash of her blue eyes, as she darted past him, was set in tears.  A little remorseful on the following day, he added a word to his ordinary cap-lifting when she went by, but she retained a reproachful silence.  Later in the day, he received from her servant a respectful request for an interview, and was relieved to find that she entered his presence with no trace of her former aggression, but rather with the resignation of a deeply injured, yet not entirely unforgiving, woman.