LITMIR.BIZ

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when those Dutch ruffians were teasing you and Anne on the road, and Bert Russell and Jack and I came along? We whipped 'em, Jinny. And my eye was closed. And you were bathing it here, and one of my buttons was gone. And you counted the rest.”

      “Rich man, poor man, beggarman, thief, doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” she recited, laughing. She crossed over and sat beside him, and her tone changed. “Max, can't you understand? It isn't that. Max, if you would only work at something. That is why the Yankees beat us. If you would learn to weld iron, or to build bridges, or railroads. Or if you would learn business, and go to work in Pa's store.”

      “You do not care for me as I am?”

      “I knew that you did not understand,” she answered passionately. “It is because I care for you that I wish to make you great. You care too much for a good time, for horses, Max. You love the South, but you think too little how she is to be saved. If war is to come, we shall want men like that Captain Robert Lee who was here. A man who can turn the forces of the earth to his own purposes.”

      For a moment Clarence was moodily silent.

      “I have always intended to go into politics, after Pa's example,” he said at length.

      “Then—” began Virginia, and paused.

      “Then—?” he said.

      “Then—you must study law.”

      He gave her the one keen look. And she met it, with her lips tightly pressed together. Then he smiled.

      “Virginia, you will never forgive that Yankee, Brice.”

      “I shall never forgive any Yankee,” she retorted quickly. “But we are not talking about him. I am thinking of the South, and of you.”

      He stooped toward her face, but she avoided him and went back to the bench.

      “Why not?” he said.

      “You must prove first that you are a man,” she said.

      For years he remembered the scene. The vineyard, the yellow stubble; and the river rushing on and on with tranquil power, and the slow panting of the steamboat. A doe ran out of the forest, and paused, her head raised, not twenty feet away.

      “And then you will marry me, Jinny?” he asked finally.

      “Before you may hope to control another, we shall see whether you can control yourself, sir.”

      “But it has all been arranged,” he exclaimed, “since we played here together years ago!”

      “No one shall arrange that for me,” replied Virginia promptly. “And I should think that you would wish to have some of the credit for yourself.”

      “Jinny!”

      Again she avoided him by leaping the low railing. The doe fled into the forest, whistling fearfully. Virginia waved her hand to him and started toward the house. At the corner of the porch she ran into her aunt Mrs. Colfax was a beautiful woman. Beautiful when Addison Colfax married her in Kentucky at nineteen, beautiful still at three and forty. This, I am aware, is a bald statement. “Prove it,” you say. “We do not believe it. It was told you by some old beau who lives upon the memory of the past.”

      Ladies, a score of different daguerrotypes of Lillian Colfax are in existence. And whatever may be said of portraits, daguerrotypes do not flatter. All the town admitted that she was beautiful. All the town knew that she was the daughter of old Judge Colfax's overseer at Halcyondale. If she had not been beautiful, Addison Colfax would not have run away with her. That is certain. He left her a rich widow at five and twenty, mistress of the country place he had bought on the Bellefontaine Road, near St. Louis. And when Mrs. Colfax was not dancing off to the Virginia watering-places, Bellegarde was a gay house.

      “Jinny,” exclaimed her aunt, “how you scared me! What on earth is the matter?”

      “Nothing,” said Virginia

      “She refused to kiss me,” put in Clarence, half in play, half in resentment.

      Mrs. Colfax laughed musically. She put one of her white hands on each of her niece's cheeks, kissed her, and then gazed into her face until Virginia reddened.

      “Law, Jinny, you're quite pretty,” said her aunt

      “I hadn't realized it—but you must take care of your complexion. You're horribly sunburned, and you let your hair blow all over your face. It's barbarous not to wear a mask when you ride. Your Pa doesn't look after you properly. I would ask you to stay to the dance to-night if your skin were only white, instead of red. You're old enough to know better, Virginia. Mr. Vance was to have driven out for dinner. Have you seen him, Clarence?”

      “No, mother.”

      “He is so amusing,” Mrs. Colfax continued, “and he generally brings candy. I shall die of the blues before supper.” She sat down with a grand air at the head of the table, while Alfred took the lid from the silver soup-tureen in front of her. “Jinny, can't you say something bright? Do I have to listen to Clarence's horse talk for another hour? Tell me some gossip. Will you have some gumbo soup?”

      “Why do you listen to Clarence's horse talk?” said Virginia. “Why don't you make him go to work!”

      “Mercy!” said Mrs. Colfax, laughing, “what could he do?”

      “That's just it,” said Virginia. “He hasn't a serious interest in life.”

      Clarence looked sullen. And his mother, as usual, took his side.

      “What put that into your head, Jinny,” she said. “He has the place here to look after, a very gentlemanly occupation. That's what they do in Virginia.”

      “Yes,” said Virginia, scornfully, “we're all gentlemen in the South. What do we know about business and developing the resources of the country? Not THAT.”

      “You make my head ache, my dear,” was her aunt's reply. “Where did you get all this?”

      “You ask me because I am a girl,” said Virginia. “You believe that women were made to look at, and to play with,—not to think. But if we are going to get ahead of the Yankees, we shall have to think. It was all very well to be a gentleman in the days of my great-grandfather. But now we have railroads and steamboats. And who builds them? The Yankees. We of the South think of our ancestors, and drift deeper and deeper into debt. We know how to fight, and we know how to command. But we have been ruined by—” here she glanced at the retreating form of Alfred, and lowered her voice, “by niggers.”

      Mrs. Colfax's gaze rested languidly on her niece's faces which glowed with indignation.

      “You get this terrible habit of argument from Comyn,” she said. “He ought to send you to boarding-school. How mean of Mr. Vance not to come! You've been talking with that old reprobate Whipple. Why does Comyn put up with him?”

      “He isn't an old reprobate,” said Virginia, warmly.

      “You really ought to go to school,” said her aunt. “Don't be eccentric. It isn't fashionable. I suppose you wish Clarence to go into a factory.”

      “If I were a man,” said Virginia, “and going into a factory would teach me how to make a locomotive or a cotton press, or to build a bridge, I should go into a factory. We shall never beat the Yankees until we meet them on their own ground.”

      “There is Mr. Vance now,” said Mrs. Colfax, and added fervently, “Thank the Lord!”

      CHAPTER IX. A QUIET SUNDAY IN LOCUST STREET

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      IF the truth were known where Virginia got the opinions which she expressed so freely to her aunt and cousin,

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