"Why, I don't know as I said anything very parti cular. I told him you and Edmund was going to be married as soon as the war was over, and he said as how you'd make-no, I said as how you'd make a good wife for any man."

“Oh, mother, how could you ?" asked the blushing girl.

"How could I ain't he Edmund's brother, and ain't you going to be married ?"

"Yes, but, mother "

"Well, what, mother? A good daughter will make a good wife, I know, and I'm sure you've been a good daughter to me."

At these words, which brought home to poor Lizzie the consciousness of her own guilt, she blushed crimson; but the fond, doting mother, not dreaming of the cause, attributed her blushes to the fact of her having spoken so plainly of her expected marriage to the brother of her betrothed, and said, with an apologetic air: “Oh, Lizzie, dear, I didn't mean to make you feel so bad about it, but he seemed to know all, and so I spoke freely with him."

"Did he, really ?" asked Lizzie, earnestly.

"Oh, yes; when I spoke about it, he said he knew, only Edmund hadn't told him when it was to come off; and so I told him. I am sure there was no harm in that."

"No, nothing;" said Lizzie, half musingly, but she

was thinking of the words which the captain uttered as he was leaving, and she was happy. "I am sure I'll try to be a good wife, mother, as good as I know how to be. Dear, dear Edmund!" she murmured, as, leaving her mother at her work, she resumed her place behind the counter of her little shop.

CHAPTER XXIII.

MARGARET RECEIVES A PROPOSAL.

EDMUND BLANCHARD could not, because he would not, believe what his more experienced brother had said concerning Margaret, and he determined to ascertain how far he had spoken correctly, little thinking how recklessly he was exposing himself to the most imminent danger.

The next morning, therefore, after the interview with his brother, found him at General Putnam's house, and the family being engaged in their usual avocations, his heart bounded with delight when he found he was permitted an interview with Margaret, alone. He had fully prepared himself (mentally) for this interview, but to say his heart failed him when she entered the room, radiant with beauty, and wearing her most fascinating smile, would be but feeble truth; he actually trembled as she approached and held out her hand, which he grasped with a force which made the fair girl wince, but which, young as she was, let her into his secret.

"Well, captain," she said, as in obedience to her motion, he seated himself, and she drew her chair near to him, "what word have you ?”

"Nothing, Miss Moncrieffe, of any special importance. Nothing, at all events, worth communicating to our friends. And you?"

"Oh, matters go on with me pleasantly and happily as usual, though I must confess I am tired of being cooped up here. By the way, where is your brother, and why is he not with you? When did you see him last ?"

"We dined together yesterday, but he said nothing of coming to see you."

"He does well to leave that to you," said Margaret, with a meaning smile, which he entirely misinterpreted; for in speaking to him, she had but one purpose in view, the accomplishment of the project in which she had volunteered her services, and in the success of which she felt a truly deep interest.

"My brother is very kind to deprive himself of the privilege he allows me," he replied, with a low inclination of the head, accompanied by a glance which the shrewd coquette rightly read.

"And do you really esteem it a privilege, Captain Blanchard?” she added, bending on him a look which went to his very soul.

"I know no higher privilege, and surely no greater pleasure, than is permitted me in seeing Miss Moncrieffe," and the young soldier blushed as he spoke, for Margaret's eyes were fixed upon him with an intensity of expression which thrilled through him.

"I hope you have not been taking lessons of your brother," she added, half averting her face.

"I need no teacher, Miss Moncrieffe, save my own heart, to enable me to tell you how solely, how truly, and how devotedly I am yours."

"Really, Captain Blanchard, you must not speak so earnestly, or I shall be more than half inclined to believe what you say."

"Mean, Miss Moncrieffe! Oh! could you read my heart-could you but see how indelibly your image was impressed there from the moment you crossed my path-could you but know how I have dreamed of you ―aye, even dared to hope of you-you would at least do me the justice to believe me sincere in what I say."

"I do believe you, Captain Blanchard," said Margaret, with well affected hesitancy, and stooping her head until the color came (a trick she had learned from reading of a French abbé, who, whenever he wished to blush, bent down his head and held his breath for a moment), she raised her eyes to his; her face was suffused with a deep blush, her eyes wore a softened expression, and there was an outward indication that she had appreciated the fervor of the young soldier's feelings, and reciprocated them. "I do not know what you mean," she said, confusedly, turning toward the door, as if fearful of interruption.

"Oh, then let me say," exclaimed the impassioned young man, "that since the moment I saw you your