Although Holly called him “Uncle” he was in reality no relation. He had ever been, however, her father’s closest friend and on terms of greater intimacy than many near relations. Excepting only Holly, none had mourned more truly at Lamar Wayne’s death. The Captain had been the Major’s senior by only one year, but seeing them together one would have supposed the discrepancy in age much greater. The Major always treated the Captain like an older brother, accepting his decisions with unquestioning loyalty, and accorded him precedence in all things. It was David and Jonathan over again. Even after the war, in which the younger man had won higher promotion, the Major still considered the Captain his superior officer. The Major pursued an uncertain law practice and had served for some time as Circuit Judge. Among the negroes he was always “Major Jedge.” That he had never been able to secure more than the simplest comforts of life in the pursuit of his profession was largely due to an unpractical habit of summoning the opposing parties in litigation to his office and settling the case out of court. Add to this that fully three-fourths of his clients were negroes, and that “Major Jedge” was too soft-hearted to insist on payment for his services when the client was poorer than he, and you can readily understand that Major Lucius Quintus Cass’s fashion of wearing large patches on his immaculately-shining boots was not altogether a matter of choice. [Illustration] The Major had not long to wait for an audience. As he adjusted his trouser-legs for the third time the sound of soft footfalls on the bare staircase reached him. He glanced apprehensively at the open door, puffed his cheeks out in a mighty exhalation of breath, and arose from his chair just as Miss India Wayne swept into the room. I say swept advisedly, for in spite of the lady’s diminutive stature she was incapable of entering a room in any other manner. Where other women walked, Miss India swept; where others bowed, Miss India curtseyed; where others sat down, Miss India subsided. Hers were the manners and graces of a half-century ago. She was fifty-four years old, but many of those years had passed over her very lightly. Small, perfectly proportioned, with a delicate oval face surmounted by light brown hair, untouched as yet by frost and worn in a braided coronet, attired in a pale lavender gown of many ruffles, she was for all the world like a little Chelsea figurine. She smiled upon the Major a trifle anxiously as she shook hands and bowed graciously to his compliments. Then seating herself erectly on the sofa――for Miss India never lolled――she folded her hands in her lap and looked calmly expectant at the visitor. As the visitor exhibited no present intention of broaching the subject of his visit she took command of the situation, just as she was capable of and accustomed to taking command of most situations.