“I knew that you did not understand,” she answered passionately. “It is because I care for you that I wish to make you great. You care too much for a good time, for horses, Max. You love the South, but you think too little how she is to be saved. If war is to come, we shall want men like that Captain Robert Lee who was here. A man who can turn the forces of the earth to his own purposes.” For a moment Clarence was moodily silent. “I have always intended to go into politics, after Pa's example,” he said at length. “Then--” began Virginia, and paused. “Then--?” he said. “Then--you must study law.” He gave her the one keen look. And she met it, with her lips tightly pressed together. Then he smiled. “Virginia, you will never forgive that Yankee, Brice.” “I shall never forgive any Yankee,” she retorted quickly. “But we are not talking about him. I am thinking of the South, and of you.” He stooped toward her face, but she avoided him and went back to the bench. “Why not?” he said. “You must prove first that you are a man,” she said. For years he remembered the scene. The vineyard, the yellow stubble; and the river rushing on and on with tranquil power, and the slow panting of the steamboat. A doe ran out of the forest, and paused, her head raised, not twenty feet away. “And then you will marry me, Jinny?” he asked finally. “Before you may hope to control another, we shall see whether you can control yourself, sir.” “But it has all been arranged,” he exclaimed, “since we played here together years ago!” “No one shall arrange that for me,” replied Virginia promptly. “And I should think that you would wish to have some of the credit for yourself.” “Jinny!” Again she avoided him by leaping the low railing. The doe fled into the forest, whistling fearfully. Virginia waved her hand to him and started toward the house. At the corner of the porch she ran into her aunt Mrs. Colfax was a beautiful woman. Beautiful when Addison Colfax married her in Kentucky at nineteen, beautiful still at three and forty. This, I am aware, is a bald statement. “Prove it,” you say. “We do not believe it. It was told you by some old beau who lives upon the memory of the past.” Ladies, a score of different daguerrotypes of Lillian Colfax are in existence. And whatever may be said of portraits, daguerrotypes do not flatter. All the town admitted that she was beautiful. All the town knew that she was the daughter of old Judge Colfax's overseer at Halcyondale. If she had not been beautiful, Addison Colfax would not have run away with her. That is certain. He left her a rich widow at five and twenty, mistress of the country place he had bought on the Bellefontaine Road, near St. Louis. And when Mrs. Colfax was not dancing off to the Virginia watering-places, Bellegarde was a gay house. “Jinny,” exclaimed her aunt, “how you scared me! What on earth is the matter?” “Nothing,” said Virginia