"Some say that the poor lady upstairs is demented," she volunteered.
"Whoever says so lies," I replied. "She has more sense than nine-tenths of the people you meet."
"And then, again, some say she can mesmerize folks." Then, seeing that the information failed to interest me, "What do you think of them—the mesmerizers?"
"I think nothing of them. If they could mesmerize me, I should like to see them do it."
"Oh, would you, you poor young man," she said, with a strange smile. "How would you know that you were mesmerized, and how would you help yourself?"
I know not what reply I made. A fit of dejection had seized me, and I could think of nothing but Jane Ryder. "You mustn't think of that young lady upstairs as hating you," said the woman, after she had brushed the hat and had asked me if I felt strong enough to walk a mile or more. "All she means is that she hates your principles. She hates secession, and she hates Secessionists. But something has upset her of late; she is not herself at all. I'm telling you the truth."
"She hates me; you may depend on that; but her hate makes no difference to me. I love her, and I'd love her if she were to cut my throat."
"Is that true? Are you honest? May I tell her so some time—not now—but some time when you are far away?"
"To what end?" I asked. "She would tear her hair out if she knew it; she would never be happy again."
"You don't happen to love her well enough to join her side, do you?" This question was put hesitatingly, and, as I thought, with some shy hope that it would receive consideration.