meet her wishes."

"I need not say how much I thank you, Harold. But you were ever kind and
generous. Poor girl! Let us ride over at once, Harold. Who is her
companion?"

"A woman some years her senior, but yet young, though prematurely faded.
I could get little from her. Not even her name. She is gloomy and
reserved, even morose at times; but she seems to be kind and attentive
to Miranda."

Beverly left some hasty instructions with his sergeant, and rode over
with Harold to the farm-house. They found Miranda reclining upon a couch
of blankets, over which Harold had spread his military cloak, for the
dwelling had been stripped of its furniture, and was, in fact, little
more than a deserted ruin. The suffering girl was pale and attenuated,
and her sunken eyes were wild and bright with the fire of delirium. Yet
she seemed to recognize Beverly, and stretched out her thin arms when he
approached, exclaiming in tremulous accents:

"Take me home, Beverly, oh, take me home!"

Moll was seated by her side, upon a soldier's knapsack; her chin resting
upon her hands, and her black eyes fixed sullenly upon the floor. She
would give but short and evasive answers to Beverly's questions, and
stubbornly refused to communicate the particulars of Miranda's history.

"She broke a blood-vessel a month ago in Boston. But she got better,
and was always wanting to go to her friends in Richmond. And so I
brought her on. And now you must take care of her, for I'm going back to