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_ It was nearly noon when Stephen walked into the office the next day,
dusty and travel-worn and perspiring. He had come straight from the
ferry, without going home. And he had visions of a quiet dinner with
Richter under the trees at the beer-garden, where he could talk about
Abraham Lincoln. Had Richter ever heard of Lincoln?
But the young German met him at the top of the stair--and his face was
more serious than usual, although he showed his magnificent teeth in a
smile of welcome.
"You are a little behind your time, my friend," said he, "What has
happened you?"
"Didn't the Judge get Mr, Lincoln's message?" asked Stephen, with
anxiety.
The German shrugged his shoulders.
"Ah, I know not," he answered, "He has gone is Glencoe. The Judge is
ill, Stephen. Doctor Polk says that he has worked all his life too hard.
The Doctor and Colonel Carvel tried to get him to go to Glencoe. But he
would not budge until Miss Carvel herself comes all the way from the
country yesterday, and orders him. Ach! exclaimed Richter, impulsively,
"what wonderful women you have in America! I could lose my head when I
think of Miss Carvel."
"Miss Carvel was here, you say?" Stephen repeated, in a tone of inquiry,
"Donner!" said Richter, disgusted, "you don't care."
Stephen laughed, in spite of himself.
"Why should I?" he answered. And becoming grave again, added: "Except on
Judge Whipple's account. Have you heard from him to-day, Carl?"
"This morning one of Colonel Carvel's servants came for his letters. He
must be feeling better. I--I pray that he is better," said Richter, his
voice breaking. "He has been very good to me."
Stephen said nothing. But he had been conscious all at once of an
affection for the Judge of which he had not suspected himself. That
afternoon, on his way home, he stopped at Carvel & Company's to inquire.
Mr. Whipple was better, so Mr. Hopper said, and added that he "presumed
likely the Colonel would not be in for a week." It was then Saturday.
Eliphalet was actually in the Colonel's sanctum behind the partition,
giving orders to several clerks at the time. He was so prosperous and
important that he could scarce spare a moment to answer Stephen, who went
away wondering whether he had been wise to choose the law.
On Monday, when Stephen called at Carvel & Company's, Eliphalet was too
busy to see him. But Ephum, who went out to Glencoe every night with
orders, told him that the "Jedge was wuss, suh." On Wednesday, there
being little change, Mrs. Brice ventured to despatch a jelly by Ephum.
On Friday afternoon, when Stephen was deep in Whittlesey and the New
Code, he became aware of Ephum standing beside him. In reply to his
anxious question Ephum answered:
"I reckon he better, suh. He an' de Colonel done commence wrastlin'
'bout a man name o' Linkum. De Colonel done wrote you dis note, suh."
It was a very polite note, containing the Colonel's compliments, asking
Mr. Brice to Glencoe that afternoon with whatever papers or letters the
Judge might wish to see. And since there was no convenient train in the
evening, Colonel Carvel would feel honored if Mr. Brice would spend the
night. The Colonel mentioned the train on which Mr. Brice was expected.
The Missouri side of the Mississippi is a very different country from the
hot and treeless prairies of Illinois. As Stephen alighted at the little
station at Glencoe and was driven away by Ned in the Colonel's buggy, he
drew in deep breaths of the sweet air of the Meramec Valley.
There had been a shower, and the sun glistened on the drops on grass and
flowers, and the great trees hung heavy over the clay road. At last they
came to a white gate in the picket fence, in sight of a rambling wooden
house with a veranda in front covered with honeysuckle. And then he saw
the Colonel, in white marseilles, smoking a cigar. This, indeed, was
real country.
As Stephen trod the rough flags between the high grass which led toward
the house, Colonel Carvel rose to his full height and greeted him.
"You are very welcome, sir," he said gravely. "The Judge is asleep now,"
he added. "I regret to say that we had a little argument this morning,
and my daughter tells me it will be well not to excite him again to-day.
Jinny is reading to him now, or she would be here to entertain you, Mr.
Brice. Jackson!" cried Mr. Carvel, "show Mr. Brice to his room."
Jackson appeared hurriedly, seized Stephen's bag, and led the way
upstairs through the cool and darkened house to a pretty little room on
the south side, with matting, and roses on the simple dressing-table.
After he had sat awhile staring at these, and at the wet flower-garden
from between the slats of his shutters, he removed the signs of the
railroad upon him, and descended. The Colonel was still on the porch, in
his easy-chair. He had lighted another, cigar, and on the stand beside
him stood two tall glasses, green with the fresh mint. Colonel Carvel
rose, and with his own hand offered one to Stephen.
"Your health, Mr. Brice," he said, "and I hope you will feel at home
here, sir. Jackson will bring you anything you desire, and should you
wish to drive, I shall be delighted to show you the country."
Stephen drank that julep with reverence, and then the Colonel gave him a
cigar. He was quite overcome by this treatment of a penniless young
Yankee. The Colonel did not talk politics--such was not his notion of
hospitality to a stranger. He talked horse, and no great discernment on
Stephen's part was needed to perceive that this was Mr. Carvel's hobby.
"I used to have a stable, Mr. Brice, before they ruined gentleman's sport
with these trotters ten years ago. Yes sir, we used to be at Lexington
one week, and Louisville the next, and over here on the Ames track after
that. Did you ever hear of Water Witch and Netty Boone?"
Yes, Stephen had, from Mr. Jack Brinsmade.
The Colonel's face beamed.
"Why, sir," he cried, "that very nigger, Ned, who drove you here from the
cars-he used to ride Netty Boone. Would you believe that, Mr. Brice? He
was the best jockey ever strode a horse on the Elleardsville track here.
He wore my yellow and green, sir, until he got to weigh one hundred and a
quarter. And I kept him down to that weight a whole year, Mr. Brice.
Yes, sirree, a whole year."
"Kept him down!" said Stephen.
"Why, yes, sir. I had him wrapped in blankets and set in a chair with
holes bored in the seat. Then we lighted a spirit lamp under him. Many
a time I took off ten pounds that way. It needs fire to get flesh off a
nigger, sir."
He didn't notice his guest's amazement.
"Then, sir," he continued, "they introduced these damned trotting races;
trotting races are for white trash, Mr. Brice."
"Pa!"
The Colonel stopped short. Stephen was already on his feet. I wish you
could have seen Miss Virginia Carvel as he saw her then. She wore a
white lawn dress. A tea-tray was in her hand, and her head was tilted
back, as women are apt to do when they carry a burden. It was so that
these Southern families, who were so bitter against Abolitionists and
Yankees, entertained them when they were poor, and nursed them when they
were ill.
Stephen, for his life, could not utter a word. But Virginia turned to
him with perfect self-possession.
"He has been boring you with his horses, Mr. Brice," she said. "Has he
told you what a jockey Ned used to be before he weighed one hundred and
a quarter?" (A laugh.) "Has he given you the points of Water Witch and
Netty Boone?" (More laughter, increasing embarrassment for Stephen.)
"Pa, I tell you once more that you will drive every guest from this
house. Your jockey talk is intolerable."
O that you might have a notion of the way in which Virginia pronounced
intolerable.
Mr. Carvel reached for another cigar asked, "My dear," he asked, "how is
the Judge?"
"My dear," said Virginia, smiling, "he is asleep. Mammy Easter is with
him, trying to make out what he is saying. He talks in his sleep, just
as you do--"
"And what is he saying?" demanded the Colonel, interested.
Virginia set down the tray.
"'A house divided against itself,"' said Miss Carvel, with a sweep of her
arm, 'cannot stand. I believe that this Government cannot endure
permanently, half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to
dissolve--I do not expect the house to fall--but I do expect it will
cease to be divided.' Would you like any more?" added Miss Virginia.
"No," cried the Colonel, and banged his fist down on the table. "Why,"
said he, thoughtfully, stroking the white goatee on his chin, "cuss me if
that ain't from the speech that country bumpkin, Lincoln, made in June
last before the Black Republican convention in Illinois."
Virginia broke again into laughter. And Stephen was very near it, for he
loved the Colonel. That gentleman suddenly checked himself in his
tirade, and turned to him.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said; "I reckon that you have the same
political sentiments as the Judge. Believe me, sir, I would not
willingly offend a guest."
Stephen smiled. "I am not offended, sir," he said. A speech which
caused Mr. Carvel to bestow a quick glance upon him. But Stephen did not
see it. He was looking at Virginia.
The Colonel rose.
"You will pardon my absence for a while, sir," he said,
"My daughter will entertain you."
In silence they watched him as he strode off under the trees through tall
grass, a yellow setter at his heels. A strange peace was over Stephen.
The shadows of the walnuts and hickories were growing long, and a rich
country was giving up its scent to the evening air. From a cabin behind
the house was wafted the melody of a plantation song. To the young man,
after the burnt city, this was paradise. And then he remembered his
mother as she must be sitting on the tiny porch in town, and sighed.
Only two years ago she had been at their own place at Westbury.
He looked up, and saw the girl watching him. He dared not think that the
expression he caught was one of sympathy, for it changed instantly.
"I am afraid you are the silent kind, Mr. Brice," said she; "I believe it
is a Yankee trait."
Stephen laughed.
"I have known a great many who were not," said he, "When they are
garrulous, they are very much so."
"I should prefer a garrulous one," said Virginia.
"I should think a Yankee were bad enough, but a noisy Yankee not to be
put up with," he ventured.
Virginia did not deign a direct reply to this, save by the corners of her
mouth.
"I wonder," said she, thoughtfully, "whether it is strength of mind or a
lack of ideas that makes them silent."
"It is mostly prudence," said Mr. Brice. "Prudence is our dominant
trait."
Virginia fidgeted. Usually she had an easier time.
"You have not always shown it," she said, with an innocence which in
women is often charged with meaning.
Stephen started. Her antagonism was still there. He would have liked
greatly to know whether she referred to his hasty purchase of Hester, or
to his rashness in dancing with her at her party the winter before.
"We have something left to be thankful for," he answered. "We are still
capable of action."
"On occasions it is violence," said Virginia, desperately. This man must
not get ahead of her.
"It is just as violent," said he, "as the repressed feeling which prompts
it."
This was a new kind of conversation to Virginia. Of all the young men
she knew, not one had ever ventured into anything of the sort. They were
either flippant, or sentimental, or both. She was at once flattered and
annoyed, flattered, because, as a woman, Stephen had conceded her a mind.
Many of the young men she knew had minds, but deemed that these were
wasted on women, whose language was generally supposed to be a kind of
childish twaddle. Even Jack Brinsmade rarely risked his dignity and
reputation at an intellectual tilt. This was one of Virginia's
grievances. She often argued with her father, and, if the truth were
told, had had more than one victory over Judge Whipple.
Virginia's annoyance came from the fact that she perceived in Stephen a
natural and merciless logic,--a faculty for getting at the bottom of
things. His brain did not seem to be thrown out of gear by local
magnetic influences,--by beauty, for instance. He did not lose his head,
as did some others she knew, at the approach of feminine charms. Here
was a grand subject, then, to try the mettle of any woman. One with less
mettle would have given it up. But Virginia thought it would be
delightful to bring this particular Yankee to his knees; and--and leave
him there.
"Mr. Brice," she said, "I have not spoken to you since the night of my
party. I believe we danced together."
"Yes, we did," said he, "and I called, but was unfortunate."
"You called?"
Ah, Virginia!
"They did not tell you!" cried Stephen.
Now Miss Carvel was complacency itself.
"Jackson is so careless with cards," said she, "and very often I do not
take the trouble to read them."
"I am sorry," said he, "as I wished for the opportunity to tell you how
much I enjoyed myself. I have found everybody in St. Louis very kind to
strangers."
Virginia was nearly disarmed. She remembered how, she had opposed his
coning. But honesty as well as something else prompted her to say:
"It was my father who invited you."
Stephen did not reveal the shock his vanity had received.
"At least you were good enough to dance with me."
"I could scarcely refuse a guest," she replied.
He held up his head.
"Had I thought it would have given you annoyance," he said quietly, "I
should not have asked you."
"Which would have been a lack of good manners," said Virginia, biting her
lips.
Stephen answered nothing, but wished himself in St. Louis. He could not
comprehend her cruelty. But, just then, the bell rang for supper, and
the Colonel appeared around the end of the house.
It was one of those suppers for which the South is renowned. And when at
length he could induce Stephen to eat no more, Colonel Carvel reached for
his broad-brimmed felt bat, and sat smoking, with his feet against the
mantle. Virginia, who had talked but little, disappeared with a tray on
which she had placed with her own hands some dainties to tempt the Judge.
The Colonel regaled Stephen, when she was gone, with the pedigree and
performance of every horse he had had in his stable. And this was a
relief, as it gave him an opportunity to think without interruption upon
Virginia's pronounced attitude of dislike. To him it was inconceivable
that a young woman of such qualities as she appeared to have, should
assail him so persistently for freeing a negress, and so depriving her
of a maid she had set her heart upon. There were other New England young
men in society. Mr. Weston and Mr. Carpenter, and more. They were not
her particular friends, to be sure. But they called on her and danced
with her, and she had shown them not the least antipathy. But it was to
Stephen's credit that he did not analyze her further.
He was reflecting on these things when he got to his room, when there
came a knock at the door. It was Mammy Easter, in bright turban and
apron,--was hospitality and comfort in the flesh.
"Is you got all you need, suh?" she inquired.
Stephen replied that he had. But Mammy showed no inclination to go, and
he was too polite to shut the door:
"How you like Glencoe, Mistah Bride?"
He was charmed with it.
"We has some of de fust fam'lies out heah in de summer," said she. "But
de Colonel, he a'n't much on a gran' place laik in Kaintuck. Shucks, no,
suh, dis ain't much of a 'stablishment! Young Massa won't have no lawns,
no greenhouses, no nothin'. He say he laik it wil' and simple. He on'y
come out fo' two months, mebbe. But Miss Jinny, she make it lively.
Las' week, until the Jedge come we hab dis house chuck full, two-three
young ladies in a room, an' five young gemmen on trunnle beds."
"Until the Judge came?" echoed Stephen.
"Yassuh. Den Miss Jinny low dey all hatter go. She say she a'n't
gwineter have 'em noun' 'sturbin' a sick man. De Colonel 'monstrated.
He done give the Judge his big room, and he say he and de young men gwine
ober to Mista, Catherwood's. You a'n't never seen Miss Jinny rise up,
suh! She des swep' 'em all out" (Mammy emphasized this by rolling her
hands) "an' declah she gwine ten' to the Jedge herself. She a'n't never
let me bring up one of his meals, suh." And so she left Stephen with
some food for reflection.
Virginia was very gay at breakfast, and said that the Judge would see
Stephen; so he and the Colonel, that gentleman with his hat on, went up
to his room. The shutters were thrown open, and the morning sunlight
filtered through the leaves and fell on the four-poster where the Judge
sat up, gaunt and grizzled as ever. He smiled at his host, and then
tried to destroy immediately the effect of the smile.
"Well, Judge," cried the Colonel, taking his hand, "I reckon we talked
too much."
"No such thing, Carvel," said the Judge, forcibly, "if you hadn't left the
room, your popular sovereignty would have been in rags in two minutes."
Stephen sat down in a corner, unobserved, in expectation of a renewal.
But at this moment Miss Virginia swept into the room, very cool in a pink
muslin.
"Colonel Carvel," said she, sternly, "I am the doctor's deputy here. I
was told to keep the peace at any cost. And if you answer back, out you
go, like that!" and she snapped her fingers.
The Colonel laughed. But the Judge, whose mind was on the argument,
continued to mutter defiantly until his eye fell upon Stephen.
"Well, sir, well, sir," he said, "you've turned up at last, have you? I
send you off with papers for a man, and I get back a piece of yellow
paper saying that he's borrowed you. What did he do with you, Mr.
Brice?"
"He took me to Freeport, sir, where I listened to the most remarkable
speech I ever expect to hear."
"What!" cried the Judge, "so far from Boston?"
Stephen hesitated, uncertain whether to laugh, until he chanced to look
at Virginia. She had pursed her lips.
"I was very much surprised, sir," he said.
"Humph!" grunted Mr. Whipple, "and what did you chink of that ruffian,
Lincoln?"
"He is the most remarkable man that I have ever met, sir," answered
Stephen, with emphasis.
"Humph!"
It seemed as if the grunt this time had in it something of approval.
Stephen had doubt as to the propriety of discussing Mr. Lincoln there,
and he reddened. Virginia's expression bore a trace of defiance, and Mr.
Carvel stood with his feet apart, thoughtfully stroking his goatee. But
Mr. Whipple seemed to have no scruples.
"So you admired Lincoln, Mr. Brice?" he went on. "You must agree with
that laudatory estimation of him which I read in the Missouri Democrat."
Stephen fidgeted.
"I do, sir, most decidedly," he answered.
"I should hardly expect a conservative Bostonian, of the class which
respects property, to have said that. It might possibly be a good thing
if more from your town could hear those debates."
"They will read them, sir; I feel confident of it."
At this point the Colonel could contain himself no longer.
"I reckon I might tell the man who wrote that Democrat article a few
things, if I could find out who he is," said he.
"Pa!" said Virginia, warningly.
But Stephen had turned a fiery red,
"I wrote it, Colonel Carvel," he said,
For a dubious instant of silence Colonel Carvel stared. Then--then he
slapped his knees, broke into a storm of laughter, and went out of the
room. He left Stephen in a moist state of discomfiture.
The Judge had bolted upright from the pillows.
"You have been neglecting your law, sir," he cried.
"I wrote the article at night," said Stephen, indignantly.
"Then it must have been Sunday night, Mr. Brice."
At this point Virginia hid her face in her handkerchief which trembled
visibly. Being a woman, whose ways are unaccountable, the older man took
no notice of her. But being a young woman, and a pretty one, Stephen was
angry.
"I don't see what right you have to ask me that sir," he said.
"The question is withdrawn, Mr. Brice," said the Judge, "Virginia, you
may strike it from the records. And now, sir, tell me something about
your trip."
Virginia departed.
An hour later Stephen descended to the veranda, and it was with
apprehension that he discerned Mr. Carvel seated under the vines at the
far end. Virginia was perched on the railing.
To Stephen's surprise the Colonel rose, and, coming toward him, laid a
kindly hand on his shoulder.
"Stephen," said he, "there will be no law until Monday you must stay with
us until then. A little rest will do you good."
Stephen was greatly touched.
Thank you, sir," he said. "I should like to very much. But I can't."
"Nonsense," said the Colonel. "I won't let the Judge interfere."
"It isn't that, sir. I shall have to go by the two o'clock train, I
fear."
The Colonel turned to Virginia, who, meanwhile, had sat silently by.
"Jinny," he said, "we must contrive to keep him."
She slid off the railing.
"I'm afraid he is determined, Pa," she answered. "But perhaps Mr. Brice
would like to see a little of the place before he goes. It is very
primitive," she explained, "not much like yours in the East."
Stephen thanked her, and bowed to the Colonel. And so she led him past
the low, crooked outbuildings at the back, where he saw old Uncle Ben
busy over the preparation of his dinner, and frisky Rosetta, his
daughter, playing with one of the Colonel's setters. Then Virginia took
a well-worn path, on each side of which the high grass bent with its load
of seed, which entered the wood. Oaks and hickories and walnuts and
persimmons spread out in a glade, and the wild grape twisted
fantastically around the trunks. All this beauty seemed but a fit
setting to the strong girlish figure in the pink frock before him. So
absorbed was he in contemplation of this, and in wondering whether indeed
she were to marry her cousin, Clarence Colfax, that he did not see the
wonders of view unrolling in front of him. She stopped at length beside
a great patch of wild race bushes. They were on the edge of the bluff,
and in front of them a little rustic summer-house, with seats on its five
sides. Here Virginia sat down. But Stephen, going to the edge, stood
and marvelled. Far, far below him, down the wooded steep, shot the
crystal Meramec, chafing over the shallow gravel beds and tearing
headlong at the deep passes.
Beyond, the dimpled green hills rose and fell, and the stream ran indigo
and silver. A hawk soared over the, water, the only living creature in
all that wilderness.
The glory of the place stirred his blood. And when at length he turned,
he saw that the girl was watching him.
"It is very beautiful," he said.
Virginia had taken other young men here, and they had looked only upon
her. And yet she was not offended. This sincerity now was as new to her
as that with which he had surprised her in the Judge's room.
And she was not quite at her ease. A reply to those simple words of his
was impossible. At honest Tom Catherwood in the same situation she would
have laughed, Clarence never so much as glanced at scenery. Her replies
to him were either flippant, or else maternal, as to a child.
A breeze laden with the sweet abundance of that valley stirred her hair.
And with that womanly gesture which has been the same through the ages
she put up her hand; deftly tucking in the stray wisp behind.
She glanced at the New Englander, against whom she had been in strange
rebellion since she had first seen him. His face, thinned by the summer
in town, was of the sternness of the Puritan. Stephen's features were
sharply marked for his age. The will to conquer was there. Yet justice
was in the mouth, and greatness of heart. Conscience was graven on the
broad forehead. The eyes were the blue gray of the flint, kindly yet
imperishable. The face was not handsome.
Struggling, then yielding to the impulse, Virginia let herself be led on
into the years. Sanity was the word that best described him. She saw
him trusted of men, honored of women, feared by the false. She saw him
in high places, simple, reserved, poised evenly as he was now.
"Why do you go in this afternoon?" she asked abruptly.
He started at the change in her tone.
"I wish that I might stay," he said regretfully. "But I cannot, Miss
Carvel."
He gave no reason. And she was too proud to ask it. Never before had
she stooped to urge young men to stay. The difficulty had always been to
get them to go. It was natural, perhaps, that her vanity was wounded.
But it hurt her to think that she had made the overture, had tried to
conquer whatever it was that set her against him, and had failed through
him.
"You must find the city attractive. Perhaps," she added, with a little
laugh, "perhaps it is Bellefontaine Road."
"No," he answered, smiling.
"Then" (with a touch of derision), "then it is because you cannot miss an
afternoon's work. You are that kind."
"I was not always that kind," he answered. "I did not work at Harvard.
But now I have to or--or starve," he said.
For the second time his complete simplicity had disarmed her. He had not
appealed to her sympathy, nor had he hinted at the luxury in which he was
brought up. She would have liked to question Stephen on this former
life. But she changed the subject suddenly.
What did you really think of Mr. Lincoln?" she asked.
"I thought him the ugliest man I ever saw, and the handsomest as well."
"But you admired him?"
"Yes," said Stephen, gravely.
"You believe with him that this government cannot exist half slave and
half free. Then a day will come, Mr. Brice, when you and I shall be
foreigners one to the other."
"You have forgotten," he said eagerly, "you have forgotten the rest of
the quotation. 'I do not expect the Union to be dissolved--I do not
expect the house to fall--but cease to be divided.' It will become all
one thing or all the other."
Virginia laughed. "That seemed to me very equivocal," said she. "Your
rail-sputter is well named."
"Will you read the rest of that speech?" he asked,
"Judge Whipple is very clever. He has made a convert of you," she
answered.
"The Judge has had nothing to do with it," cried Stephen. "He is not
given to discussion with me, and until I went to Springfield had never
mentioned Lincoln's name to me."
Glancing at her, he surprised a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. Then
she laughed openly.
"Why do you suppose that you were sent to Springfield?" she asked.
"With an important communication for Mr. Lincoln," he answered.
"And that most important communication was--your self. There, now, I
have told you," said Virginia.
"Was myself? I don't understand."
Virginia puckered her lips.
"Then you haven't the sense I thought you had," she replied impatiently.
"Do you know what was in that note? No? Well, a year ago last June this
Black Republican lawyer whom you are all talking of made a speech before
a convention in Illinois. Judge Whipple has been crazy on the subject
ever since--he talks of Lincoln in his sleep; he went to Springfield and
spent two days with him, and now he can't rest until you have seen and
known and heard him. So he writes a note to Lincoln and asks him to take
you to the debate--"
She paused again to laugh at his amazement.
"But he told me to go to Springfield!" he exclaimed.
"He told you to find Lincoln. He knew that you would obey his orders, I
suppose."
"But I didn't know--" Stephen began, trying to come pass within an
instant the memory of his year's experience with Mr. Whipple.
"You didn't know that he thought anything about you," said Virginia.
"That is his way, Mr. Brice. He has more private charities on his list
than any man in the city except Mr. Brinsmade. Very few know it. He
thinks a great deal of you. But there," she added, suddenly blushing
crimson, "I am sorry I told you."
"Why?" he asked.
She did not answer, but sat tapping the seat with her fingers. And when
she ventured to look at him, he had fallen into thought.
"I think it must be time for dinner," said Virginia, "if you really wish
to catch the train."
The coldness in her voice, rather than her words, aroused him. He rose,
took one lingering look at the river, and followed her to the house.
At dinner, when not talking about his mare, the Colonel was trying to
persuade Stephen to remain. Virginia did not join in this, and her
father thought the young man's refusal sprang from her lack of
cordiality. Colonel Carvel himself drove to the station.
When he returned, he found his daughter sitting idly on the porch.
"I like that young man, if he is a Yankee," he declared.
"I don't," said Virginia, promptly.
"My dear," said her father, voicing the hospitality of the Carvels,
"I am surprised at you. One should never show one's feelings toward a
guest. As mistress of this house it was your duty to press him to stay."
"He did not want to stay."
"Do you know why he went, my dear," asked the Colonel.
"No," said Virginia.
"I asked him," said the Colonel.
"Pa! I did not think it of you!" she cried. And then, "What was it?" she
demanded.
"He said that his mother was alone in town, and needed him."
Virginia got up without a word, and went into Judge Whipple's room. And
there the Colonel found her some hours later, reading aloud from a scrap-
book certain speeches of Mr. Lincoln's which Judge Whipple had cut from
newspapers. And the Judge, lying back with his eyes half closed, was
listening in pure delight. Little did he guess at Virginia's penance!
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