At the bottom of the page was a characteristic line in pencil in the general's own hand--"Not the kind that is dangerous." A flush mounted Brant's cheeks, as if it contained not only a hidden, but a personal significance.

He had thought of his own wife! Singularly enough, a day or two later, at dinner, the conversation turned upon the intense sectional feeling of Southern women, probably induced by their late experiences.

Brant, at the head of the table, in his habitual abstraction, was scarcely following the somewhat excited diction of Colonel Strangeways, one of his staff.
"No, sir," reiterated that indignant warrior, "take my word for it! A Southern woman isn't to be trusted on this point, whether as a sister, sweetheart, or wife.

And when she is trusted, she's bound to get the better of the man in any of those relations!" The dead silence that followed, the ominous joggle of a glass at the speaker's elbow, the quick, sympathetic glance that Brant instinctively felt was directed at his own face, and the abrupt change of subject, could not but arrest his attention, even if he had overlooked the speech.

His face, however, betrayed nothing.