“No; I—I think I—I respect you the more.”
“Then you do respect me?”
Another word, a far stronger one, trembled upon my lips, yet I restrained it sternly, and asked all I dared.
“I do,” earnestly, her eyes dwelling upon my face.
“I may not comprehend how you can view matters from your standpoint, for I am in full sympathy with the Union, and am a woman. But I believe you to be honest, and I know you to be a gallant soldier.”
I clasped her hand close within my own.
“Your words encourage me greatly,” I said earnestly. “I have done so much to bring you trouble and sorrow that I have been fearful lest it had cost me what I value more highly than you can ever know.”
These words were unfortunate, and instantly brought back to her a memory which seemed a barrier between us. I read the change in her averted face.
“That can never be, Captain Wayne,” she returned calmly, yet rising even as she spoke. “You have come into my life under circumstances so peculiar as to make me always your friend. Celia,” and she turned toward the others, “is it not time we were going? I am very sure the doctor said you were to remain with Lieutenant Caton but a brief time.”
“Why, Edith,” retorted the other, gayly, “I have been ready for half an hour—haven't I, Arthur?—but you were so deeply engrossed with your Rebel I hadn't the heart to interrupt.”