The next day the army, refreshed and rested, took up its line of march, passing directly in front of the Cheshire homestead. On the veranda, in her brocade and brilliant petticoat and framed by the riotous rose vine, Joscelyn sat and made pretence to be very busy with her flax wheel; but from under her drooping lids she saw the whole procession.
Beside his company rode a young lieutenant, his eager gaze ahead of him until he reached the undecorated house; then his hat came off, and lifting his lapel on which hung a faded red rose, he cried up to the girl in the balcony:—
“This is for memory!”
And Joscelyn laughed and fluttered her white handkerchief with what might or might not be the suggestion of a kiss. And he, forgetful of military decorum, turned in his saddle and kept his gaze upon her until the troop passed beyond the corner.
“Do you know, Joscelyn,” cried Janet, rushing up the steps, her eyes shining and her yellow curls flying in the wind, “that was Lieutenant Wyley from Halifax—and he is brother to Frederick—and Frederick danced with no one but me last night (you don’t know what you missed in not going to the cotillion!)—and he has been at my house the livelong morning.”
“S-o! You have then a new beau to your string?”
“Oh, yes! and he is strong and masterful, and talks love beautifully, and he does not say ‘by your leave’ like Billy, but is just what a lover should be.”
“Janet, Janet!” cried Joscelyn, reprovingly; but the laughing girl tossed her yellow curls coquettishly, the exhilaration of a new conquest upon her; then suddenly hid her face on Joscelyn’s shoulder:—
“Joscelyn, dearest, did you ever feel a lover’s lips against your cheek for just one little moment?”
And Joscelyn went suddenly as red as she, remembering that November day when Richard came home.