THE BATTALION.
d
his soul beyond anything that had
happened to him for years.
For the next three days he really
avoided the new arrival as far as was
possible. They met at meals, it is
true, and he could not help joining in
the conversation, which was made
spicy and piquant by her wit, her vi
vacious interest in any subject that
came up, and her contagious gayety.
Her beauty was one both of features
and expression,, and it gained on him
at each repetition of her appearance
at the table. Actual contact with her
he dared not risk: instinctively he
realized that the touch of her dainty
Anger tips would send a current of
hot blood from his heart tingling
through his entire frame.
On the evening of the third day,
however, she approached him of her
own accord. The others had gone to
an entertainment at the opera house
in town. She had declined to go, al
leging a little migraine caught the
night before when the weather had
turned somewhat damp and chilly.
Marchmont, too, had decided to stay
where he was, he hardly knew why.
He had taken a book—it wias “The
Children of the Mist,” by Eden
Philports—and had sat down in an
easy chair by the lamp in the parlor
—there were not electric lights out
at Pomegranate Grove,—fully pos
sessed in his own mind with the idea
that Mrs. Sinclair had retired to her
own room.
What was his surprise when sud
denly she walked into the parlor,
more bewitching than 'ever in her sim
ple evening dress of white, and came
straight up to him;, with the evident
intention of speaking to him! She
came close to him, and stretched out
her hand invitingly to him, saying at
the same time with a frank natural
ness, that was simply irresistible:
“Why do you shun me, Mr. March
mont? I hope it is not because I am
a Yankee, for I thought this Spanish
war had brought us all together again,
and that there were no more preju
dice® between North and South. It
must be something else, and I want to
know what it is, for I have observed
that you are sociable enough with
others.” ’
Marchmont tried to be as frank and
open on his part, as she had been
with him, and taking her extended
hand into his, as he rose, he said:
“I wih tell you the truth, Mrs. Sin
clair. I was simply afraid of your
beauty and your charm. I can love
with passion, and I dare not run the
risk of falling in love with a married
woman.”
“Oh!” said she, in a very low tone,
half surprised and half amused. “That
is it, is it? Well, I must try to re
press some of my seducing qualities.
But don’t be afraid of me. I’ll not
run away with you. Come and hear
me sing: I’m just in the mood for
it to-night.”
And she led him, rather than he
her, into the music room, which was
in fact one end of the large parlor
cut off from the rest by a row of
great jars with japonicas and opo-
ponax in : them.
Marchmont went with his heart in
the palms of his hand-—the hand she
held. Her touch had indeed, as he
had feared, set his blood on Are.
She .sat down at the piano and
played and' sang. Her playing was
nothing more than a soft accompani
ment to her songs. But such singing
Beverly Marchmont had never heard
in his life before. The songs them
selves were new to him. They were
Bohemian, and Hungarian songs of the