in the sunshine, and the red brick dome of the ante bellum court
house.

Time seemed to have fallen asleep on that hot, still afternoon, and
Beryl was roused from her reverie by the sound of hearty laughter in
the apartment opposite the drawing-room--followed by the tones of a
man's voice.

"Thank you, General. That is my destination this afternoon, and I
shall certainly expect you to dance at my wedding."

Quick, firm steps rang on the oil-cloth-covered floor of the hall,
and Beryl rose and turned toward the door.

With a cigar in one hand, hat and riding-whip in the other, the
attorney stepped out on the colonnade, and pausing involuntarily, at
sight of the stranger, they looked at each other. A man, perhaps,
more, certainly not less than thirty years old, of powerful and
impressive physique; very tall, athletic, sinewy, without an ounce
of superfluous flesh to encumber his movements, in the professional
palaestra; with a large finely modeled head, whose crisp black hair
closely cut, was (contrary to the prevailing fashion) parted neither
in the middle, nor yet on the side, but brushed straight back from
the square forehead, thereby enhancing the massiveness of its
appearance.

Something in this swart, beardless face, with its brilliant
inquisitorial dark blue eyes, handsome secretive mouth veiled by no
mustache--and boldly assertive chin deeply cleft in the centre--
affected Beryl very unpleasantly, as a perplexing disagreeable