"Then may I have this tent to myself for a little while? And would you be kind enough to send for my saddlebags and my own horse."

The Colonel went to the tent flap, spoke to the trooper on guard. When he came back he said that it was beginning to rain.

"Hard?" she asked, troubled.

"No; just a fine, warm drizzle. It won't last."

"All the better!" she cried, brightening; and it seemed to the young officer as though the sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall.

But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.

There was a cavalry trooper's uniform in one bag; she undressed hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak, turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head, pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of gilt and its yellow braid.

It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel's tent and went cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre flopping.

There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the Carryl home, and John Deal's farm as well as she knew her own home in Sandy River.

The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant vapor rose from earth and shrub.

Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special Messenger's eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.

Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special Messenger's horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman, dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as though waiting.

The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger's eyes without recognition.

Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed--blonder for the dull contrast of the mourning she wore--and her voice was as colorless as her skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.

All she could see of this cloaked cavalryman was two dark, youthful eyes above the upturned collar of the cloak, shadowed, too, by the wet hat brim, drooping under gilded crossed sabres.

"You are not the usual mail-carrier?" she asked languidly.

"No, ma'am"--in a nasal voice.

"Colonel Gay sent you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Carryl turned, lifted a small salt sack, and offered it to the Messenger, who leaned wide from her saddle and took it in one hand.

"You are to take this bag to the Deal farm. Colonel Gay has told you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you. And there is no letter to-day. Will you have a few peaches to eat on the way? I always give the mail-carrier some of my peaches to eat."

Miss Carryl lifted a big, blue china bowl full of superb, white, rare-ripe peaches, and, coming to the veranda's edge, motioned the Messenger to open the saddlebags. Into it she poured a number of peaches.

"They are perfectly ripe," she said; "I hope you will like them."

"Thank'y, ma'am."

"And, Soldier," she turned to add with careless grace, "if you would be kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting."

"Yes'm; I will----"

"How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?"

"Plenty, ma'am; you gave me seven, ma'am."

"Seven? Take two more--I insist--that makes nine, I think. Good day; and thank you."

But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting to occupy her mind--a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit trees at the eastern end of the house.

From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The bee was a yellow one.

Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she spurred, putting her horse to a dead run.

Passing the inner lines, she halted to give and receive the password, then tossed a bunch of letters to the corporal, and spurred forward.

Halted by the outer pickets, she exchanged amenities again, rid herself of the remainder of the mail, and rode forward, loosening the revolver in her holster. Then she ate her first peach.

It was delicious--a delicate, dripping, snow-white pulp, stained with pink where the pit rested. There was nothing suspicious about that pit, or any of the others when she broke the fragrant fruit in halves and carefully investigated. Then she tore off the seal and opened the bag and examined each of the twenty dry pits within. Not one had been tampered with.

Her horse had been walking along the moist, fragrant road; a few moments later she passed the last cavalry picket, and at the same moment she caught sight of John Deal's farm.

The house was neat and white and small; orchards stretched in every direction; a few beehives stood under the fruit trees near a well.

A big, good-humored looking man came out into the path as the Messenger drew bridle, greeted the horse with a caress and its rider with a pleasant salute.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, taking the sack of pits. "I reckon we're bound to have more fine weather. What's this--some peach pits from Miss Carryl?"

"Nine," nodded the Messenger.

"Nine! I'll have nine fine young trees this time three years, I reckon.

Thank you, suh. How's things over to the Co't House?"

"Troops arriving all the while," said the Messenger carelessly.

"Comin' _in_?"

"Lots."

"Sho! I heard they was sendin' 'em East."

"Oh, some. We've got to have elbow-room. Can't pack two army corps into Osage Court House."

"Two a'my co'ps, suh?"

"More or less."