“My brother, Captain Wilde, United States Navy—Mrs. Withers!” said Emily, presenting him with mock gravity. And Sophie mechanically arose, curtsied, and sank into her seat again, as though she had never set eyes upon him before. She did so involuntarily, and without again raising her eyes; a weight like destiny seemed to weigh down the eyelids. Captain Wilde looked right and left in search of a seat, but found none, until a youth, one of Raymond’s groomsmen, who was sitting by Sophie, politely relinquished his seat, which was as politely accepted by Captain Wilde. Emily moved off, leaning on the arm of the boy. Captain Wilde glanced all around the room—no! no one was minding him—old men were talking politics and agriculture, and old women gossipping scandal and housewifery, and young men were courting seriously or flirting flippantly, and young women were being courted; no one was minding him—no one seemed at all interested in the sayings and doings of Captain Augustus Wilde, United States Navy, in full dress uniform though he was. He turned to look at Sophie; _she_ was looking straight down at a ring upon the third finger of her left hand—_he_ followed her eyes and looked at it, too; and now, losing her presence of mind, growing very much confused, and blushing deeply, she began unconsciously to twist it round and round—while he watched the operation. At last, while apparently in doubt how to address her, he made a remark, startling in its profundity— “There is quite an assembly here this evening, madam.” Her reply, given in a very low tone, was equally original: “Yes, sir, a large company for so sparse a neighborhood.” “Yes, the neighborhood _is_ sparse and not increasing in population, I think; no new settlers coming in, while a considerable number of the old families are moving off. Is it not so?” said he, stooping forward, and looking intently upon Sophie’s varying cheek, as though life and death were in the answer. “Yes, sir.” “What do you suppose to be the reason?” “I really do not know.” “One thing I know to be, the deterioration of land here, owing to their dreadfully destructive system of agriculture—the contrast between New England and the Southern States is so striking in this feature of agriculture; don’t you think so?” “Indeed, I never think about it.” “Oh, you are not at all a _fermière_. Yes, the contrast is very striking; the New Englanders have raised, by the labor of their own hands, a naturally ungenial soil to a high state of productiveness, while your Maryland planters have, even with the aid of their troops of negroes, exhausted the fertility of a soil naturally very productive. Why, Mrs. Withers, I am informed that your planters, instead of manuring their ground, plant one third of their land in rotation every year, leaving two thirds to recover itself. This must exhaust land very soon.” Sophie was silent.