WITH JEAN DENSLOW
"Jean Denslow, at your service," dropping me a curtsey, her eyes sparkling behind the fringe of lashes.
I was armed and I believed her. I had not the faintest conception that the interior of the house concealed the man we were searching after, or indeed any others than those she had named. It was not even to assure myself in this respect that I instantly determined to go with her—it was the charm of the girl which made me captive. I would go merely to remain in her presence, to prolong our conversation, to increase, if possible, the memory of our acquaintance. This was an adventure of love, not war, and I was blind to all but the impulse to linger. My heart throbbed fast, yet I managed to say gravely,
"Very well. Miss Denslow, it you can satisfy me that no guerillas are harbored here, I will see that you are left undisturbed in the future."
She turned without a word, and I followed, quickening my steps, until we walked nearly side by side. I could observe the contour of her face against the green leaves, but the expression of her eyes was securely veiled by the long lashes. I hardly remarked the house at all, endeavoring to think of something I might say to renew our conversation, when we came to the end of the grape-arbor, and fronted a door standing slightly ajar. A negro, working in the garden, straightened up, and stared at us curiously, but as he grasped his hoe, and took a threatening step forward, the girl shook her head, and he came to a pause, evidently greatly puzzled. Inside the door, which the girl closed behind us, the lock clicking sharply, a dozen carpeted steps led upward to the level
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