"Next month. Oh, Unity, if Uncle Dick and Uncle Edward would but make friends before we go!" Unity, stopping for an hour at Cousin Jane Selden's, remarked to that lady, "Ah, she is happy! She does not know and she does not care what is said of Lewis Rand. They say dreadful things. The last Gazette--" "She doesn't hear a Federalist upon the subject," replied Cousin Jane. "The last Gazette! Pooh! who believes what a Federalist paper says of a Republican, or a Republican paper says of a Federalist? Most men and all newspapers are liars." "It says that he is a Buonaparte ready to break the shell." "Buonaparte's a great man, my dear." "And that the Mammoth's alarmed--" "Like the hen that hatched the eaglet--" "And that Lewis Rand's no more Republican at heart than he is Federalist. He's just for Lewis Rand." "Hm-m-m!" "And that his name's known as far west as the Mississippi." "There's no law against a man's name spreading. It's what every man strives for. One succeeds, and the birds that carried the news are indignant." "And that he's an Atheist." "Lewis Rand's no saint, child, but he's no fool either. You'll be telling me next that he mistreats his wife." "Ah, he does not do that!" exclaimed Unity. "She's deep in love. He can't be so very bad, can he, Cousin Jane?" "He's not a monster, child: he's just a man.--And now, Unity, I am making damson preserves to-day." "I'll go," said Unity, rising. "But they believe these things at Fontenoy." "Do they believe them at Greenwood?" "I don't know. Ludwell Cary is still away--" "When are you going to marry his brother?" "Why, I don't know that I am going to marry his brother at all," answered Unity, her foot upon the coach step. "Good-bye, Cousin Jane. I wish I could make pot-pourri like yours." "You must know what spices to use, and when to gather the roses," said Cousin Jane. "Good-bye, child! You read too many romances, but you're a loyal soul and one of your gowns is prettier than another. Don't you believe all the world says of Lewis Rand. It's mighty prone to make mistakes. The man's just a sinner like the rest of us." At Fontenoy, that September afternoon, Fairfax Cary, riding over from Greenwood, found Miss Dandridge seated upon the steps which ran down to the garden from the glass doors of the library. Her chin was in her hands, and her black eyes were suspiciously bright. "You were crying," exclaimed the younger Cary. "Why?" "I've been reading about the Capulets and the Montagues." "You are not one to cry for the dead," said the young man. "Tell me truly." "No; I'm crying for the living. I've been talking to the Capulets. I've been giving Uncle Edward a piece of my mind." "Which he would not take?" "Just so. Oh, it was a battle royal! But I lost--I always lose. He is sitting there in triumphant misery, reading Swift. I brought my defeat out here. Now and then I am glad I am a woman."