Jacqueline thought of the first evening beneath the mimosa, of the July dusk, and the cry of the whip-poor-will.

Rand thought, suddenly and inconsequently, of his father and mother, standing here at the gate as he had often seen them stand.

There was no mimosa then .-- Jacqueline turned, caught his hand, and pressed it to her lips.

He strained her in his arms and kissed her, and they entered the chaise which was to carry them to Richmond.

Before them lay a hundred miles of sunny road, three days' companionship in the blue, autumnal weather.