At The Gaffs he looked long and earnestly. He imagined he saw the old Colonel, his grandfather, sitting in his accustomed place on the front porch, his feet propped on the balcony, his favorite hound by his side. Long he gazed, looking at every familiar place of his youth. He knew now that every foot of it would be his. He had no bitterness in his heart. Not he, for in the love and constancy of Alice Westmore all such things seemed unspeakable insignificance to the glory of that. In the old family cemetery, which lay hid among the cedars on the hill, he stood bare-headed before the grave of his grandsire and silently the tears fell: "My noble old grandsire," he murmured, "if the spirits of the dead look down on the living, tell me I have not proved unworthy. It was his flag--my father's, and he lies by you wrapped in it. Tell me I have not been unworthy the same, for I have suffered." And from the silent stars, as he looked up, there fell on him a benediction of peace. Then he drew himself up proudly and gave each grave a military salute, mounted and rode away. CHAPTER XIV THE JOY OF THE MORNING All the week, since the scene at Maggie's deathbed, Alice Westmore had remained at home, while strange, bitter feelings, such as she had never felt before, surged in her heart. Her brother was away, and this gave her more freedom to do as she wished--to remain in her room--and her mother's presence now was not altogether the solace her heart craved. Of the utmost purity of thought herself, Alice Westmore had never even permitted herself to harbor anything reflecting on the character of those she trusted; and in the generosity of her nature, she considered all her friends trustworthy. Thinking no evil, she knew none; nor would she permit any idle gossip to be repeated before her. In her case her unsuspecting nature was strengthened by her environment, living as she was with her mother and brother only. It is true that she had heard faint rumors of Richard Travis's life; but the full impurity of it had never been realized by her until she saw Maggie die. Then Richard Travis went, not only out of her life, but out of her very thoughts. She remembered him only as she did some evil character read of in fiction or history. Perhaps in this she was more severe than necessary--since the pendulum of anger swings always farthest in the first full stroke of indignation. And then the surprise of it--the shock of it! Never had she gone through a week so full of unhappiness, since it had come to her, years before, that Tom Travis had been killed at Franklin. Her mother's entreaties--tears, even--affected her now no more than the cries of a spoiled child. "Oh, Alice," she said one night when she had been explaining and apologizing for Richard Travis--"you should know now, child, really, you ought to know by now, that all men may not have been created alike, but they are all alike."