Meanwhile Mr. Valentine had been whispering to Miss Sally at the fireplace. As a result of his communications, whatever they were, the aunt first looked doubtful, then cast a wistful glance at Peyton, and then quietly left the room, followed by the old man, who carefully closed the door after him.
While Elizabeth held the flowers to her nostrils, Peyton continued to stand looking at her, during an 193 awkward pause. At length she replaced the nosegay on the spinet, and went to the fireplace, where she gazed at the writhing flames, and waited for him to speak.
Still laden with the cloak and hat, he desperately began:
“Miss Philipse, I—ahem—before I start on my walk to-night—”
“Your walk?” she said, in slight surprise.
“Yes,—back to our lines, above.”
“But you are not going to walk back,” she said, in a low tone. “You are to have the horse, Cato.”
Peyton stood startled. In a few moments he gulped down his feelings, and stammered:
“Oh—indeed—Miss Philipse—I cannot think of depriving you—especially after the circumstances.”
She replied, with a gentle smile: