“Not care for clabber! Nonsense, my dear; everyone likes clabber. Besides, it’s just what he ought to have after taking dinner at the hotel; I don’t reckon they’ll give him a thing that’s fit to eat. When your father was alive he took me to Augusta with him once and we stopped at a hotel there, and I assure you, Holly, there wasn’t a thing I could touch! Such tasteless trash you never saw! I always pity folks that have to live at hotels, and I do wish the Major would go to Mrs. Burson’s for his meals.” “But the Bursons live mighty poorly, Auntie.” “Because they have to, my child. If the Major went there Mrs. Burson could spend more on her table. She has one of the best cooks in the town.” Holly made no reply and presently Miss India went on: “Have you noticed,” she asked, “how Mr. Winthrop has improved since he came here, Holly?” “Yes, Auntie. He says himself that he’s much better. He was wondering the other day whether it wasn’t time to stop taking the medicine.” “The tonic? Sakes, no! Why, that’s what’s holding him up, my dear, although he doesn’t realize it. I reckon he’s a much sicker man than he thinks he is.” “He appears to be able to get around fairly well,” commented Holly. “He’s always off somewhere nowadays.” “Yes, and I’m afraid he’s overdoing it, my dear. I must speak to him about it.” “Then we mightn’t get any more quail or doves, Auntie.” “It would be just as well. Why he wants to kill the poor defenceless creatures I don’t see.” “But you know you love doves, Auntie,” laughed Holly. “Well, maybe I do; but it isn’t right to kill them, _I_ know.” “Doesn’t it seem strange,” asked Holly presently, her eyes on the bread she was crumbling between her fingers, “that Mr. Winthrop never says anything about his wife?” “I’ve never yet heard him say he had a wife,” answered Miss India. “Oh, but we know that he has. Uncle Major said so.” “I don’t reckon the Major knows very much about it. Maybe his wife’s dead.” “Oh,” said Holly, thoughtfully. Then: “No, I don’t think she could be dead,” she added, with conviction. “Do you――do you reckon he has any children Auntie?” “Sakes, child, how should I know? It’s no concern of ours, at any rate.” “I reckon we can wonder, though. And it is funny he never speaks of her.” “Northerners are different,” said Miss India sagely. “I reckon a wife doesn’t mean much to them, anyhow.” “Don’t you think Mr. Winthrop is nice, Auntie?” “I’ve seen men I liked better and a heap I liked worse,” replied her Aunt, briefly. “But I’ll say one thing for Mr. Winthrop,” she added, as she arose from her chair and drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders, “he has tact; I’ve never heard him allude to the War. Tact and decency,” she murmured, as she picked her keys from the table. “Bring the plates, Phœbe.”