Dorothea laughed and tried to take an interest in Harriot’s chatter, but her mind was filled with perplexing thoughts which she was trying vainly to straighten out. The news that Stanchfield had brought, added to her mystification. Was Val Tracy the Red String who had eluded her so persistently? Indeed she could find no other explanation for his share in the young man’s first escape. Yet it did not seem possible. Tracy was not the sort of a fellow to sail under false colors of any sort. She knew that he was not so bitter a foe to the Union as the Southerners generally were. She realized that he felt much as she did about the causes of the war; but it would not be like him, once having committed himself, to play the traitor, which must be the case if indeed he was one of the Red Strings. And yet, what other explanation was there for what he had done?
Of Stanchfield and his journey to Savannah she thought also. This time, however, she did not seem to have the same personal interest that had played on her sympathies before. He was well and strong and evidently in the way of being overfed, if his experience at Mrs. Stewart’s was any measure of his future treatment. Of course, he ran considerable risk; but he seemed very sure of himself, and his confidence inspired her with faith that he would pull through and accomplish his mission.
The matter that most perplexed her had to do with herself. She had told him she was British and therefore neutral in this controversy between the North and the South. But was she? She was fast coming to the conclusion that she was neither neutral nor British in her feelings. She began to find the American part of her taking a vital interest in the things that went on about her. She was no longer a visitor to America. She did not wish to be that. Her mother had been an American—one of these kindly Southern women whose charm made them a welcome wherever they went. In her heart Dorothea felt the stirrings of her American blood and a nearer kinship to these aunts and cousins with whom she had been living.
“You know, Harriot,” she said, after a long silence, “I don’t think the English people know very much about our country after all.”
The girl beside her looked up with wide-eyed surprise.
“What has that to do with peanut pralines?” she demanded. “Here I’ve been talking about really interesting things and the first word you’ve said for hours is something that doesn’t make any difference one way or the other. I think you must be in love.”
Dorothea laughed outright and brought her thoughts back to her immediate surroundings.
“I was just thinking aloud,” she remarked lightly.
“That’s the way I always act when I’m hungry,” Harriot replied practically. “When we get home I’ll get you a glass of milk or some clabber. Aunt Decent says that’s the best thing there is for an empty stomach.”