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 hat, 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