Would she receive him?  Would she forgive him, one of the authors of her people’s bleeding wounds?  He determined to end his suspense, and rode slowly towards her, that she might not be startled.

At first she did not recognize the stranger in civilian dress, who was still more disguised by a heavy beard; but she rose and approached the veranda steps to meet him.  He was about to speak, when she gave a great start, and a quick flush passed over her face.

Then, as if by the sternest effort, she resumed her quiet, dignified bearing, as she said, coldly, “You will scarcely wonder, Captain Lane, that I did not recognize you before.”  He had dismounted and stood uncovered before her, and she added, “I regret that I have no one to take your horse, and no place to stable him, but for yourself I can still offer such hospitality as my home affords.”

Lane was chilled and embarrassed.  He could not speak to her in like distant and formal manner, and he resolved that he would not.  However it might end, he would be true to his own heart and impulses.

He threw the reins on the horse’s neck, caring not what became of him, and stepping to her side, he said, impetuously, “I never doubted that I should receive hospitality at your home,—­that is refused to no one,—­but I did hope for a different greeting.”

Again there was a quick, auroral flush, and then, with increased pallor and coldness, she asked, “Have I failed in courtesy?”

“No.”

“What reason had you to expect more?”

“Because, almost from the first hour we met, I had given you esteem and reverence as a noble woman,—­because I promised you honest friendship and have kept my word.”

Still more coldly she replied:  “I fear there can be no friendship between us.  My father and brothers lie in nameless graves in your proud and triumphant North, and my heart and hope are buried with them.  My mother has since died, broken-hearted; Roberta’s husband, the colonel you sent to prison, is a crippled soldier, and both are so impoverished that they know not how to live.  And you,—­you have been so busy in helping those who caused these woes that you evidently forgot the once light-hearted girl whom you first saw on this veranda.  Why speak of friendship, Captain Lane, when rivers of blood flow between us,—­rivers fed from the veins of my kindred?”

Her words were so stern and sad that Lane sat down on the steps at her feet and buried his face in his hands.  His hope was withering and his tongue paralyzed in the presence of such grief as hers.

She softened a little as she looked down upon him, and after a moment or two resumed:  “I do not blame you personally.  I must try to be just in my bitter sorrow and despair.  You proved long ago that you were obeying your conscience; but you who conquer cannot know the hearts of the conquered.  Your home does not look like mine; your kindred are waiting to welcome you with plaudits.  You have everything to live for,—­honor, prosperity, and love; for doubtless, long before this, the cold-hearted Northern girl has been won by the fame of your achievements.  Think of me as a ghost, doomed to haunt these desolate scenes where once I was happy.”