One evening Jim took her out on the river. It was the summer of '61, when the North was learning how bitter was the task it had to accomplish. Kentucky was disputed ground and feeling ran high there; little else was thought of. Jim had been talking to her for some time on this all-absorbing topic while she sat silent in the stern, her hand trailing in the water. Finally he asked why she was so quiet.
“I think this war is very stupid,” she said. “Let's talk about”—here she paused and her eyes followed the big night boat which was churning its way down the river—“about paddle-wheels, or port lights, or something.”
Jim said nothing; he had nothing to say. She went on:—
“Don't you think it is tiresome to always mean what you say? I hate to tell the truth. Anybody can do that.”
“I thought,” said Jim, “that you believed in sincerity.”
“Oh, of course I do,” she exclaimed impatiently, and again Jim was silent.
The next day he took her for a drive and it was then that the end came. They had been having a glorious time, for the rapid motion and the bright sunshine had driven away her mood of the night before and she was perfectly happy; Jim was happy in her happiness. The half-broken colts were fairly steady and he let her drive them and turned in his seat so that he could watch her. As he looked at her there, her head erect, her elbows squared, her bright eyes looking straight out ahead, Jim fell deeper than ever in love with her. The colts felt a new and unrestraining hand on the reins, and the pace increased rapidly. Jim noted it.
“You'd better pull up a little,” he said. “They'll be getting away from you.”
“I love to go this way,” she replied, and over the reins she told the colts the same thing, in a language they understood. Suddenly one of them broke, and in a second both were running.
“Pull 'em in,” said Jim, sharply. “Here—give me the reins.”