kissed me on the forehead. That was my wife."

"So you seceded from Secession right away, to pay for that
lip-service, hey?"

"No, Thorn, not right away,--to my shame be it spoken. I'll tell you
how it came about. Margaret was not old Bent's daughter, but a
Virginia girl on a visit, and a long one it proved, for she couldn't
go till things were quieter. While she waited, she helped take care
of me; for the good souls petted me like a baby when they found that
a Rebel could be a gentleman. I held my tongue, and behaved my best
to prove my gratitude, you know. Of course, I loved Margaret very
soon. How could I help it? She was the sweetest woman I had ever
seen, tender, frank, and spirited; all I had ever dreamed of and
longed for. I did not speak of this, nor hope for a return, because
I knew she was a hearty Unionist, and thought she only tended me
from pity. But suddenly she decided to go home, and when I ventured
to wish she would stay longer, she would not listen, and said, "I
must not stay; I should have gone before."

"The words were nothing, but as she uttered them the color came up
beautifully over all her face, and her eyes filled as they looked
away from mine. Then I knew that she loved me, and my secret broke
out half against my will. Margaret was forced to listen, for I would
not let her go, but she seemed to harden herself against me, growing
colder, stiller, statelier, as I went on, and when I said in my
desperate way,--

"'You should love me, for we are bid to love our enemies,' she
flashed an indignant look at me and said,--