1803, 1811, and 1844 to the contrary--does regard herself as a county. Possibly Connecticut--for all that there was a Hartford Convention!--sees herself in the same light. Possibly. 'Brutus saith 't is so, and Brutus is an honourable man!' But Virginia has not renounced! Eighty years ago she wrote a certain motto on her shield. To-day the letters burn bright! Unterrified then she entered this league from which we hoped so much. Unterrified to-morrow, should a slurring hand be laid upon that shield, will she leave it!" Allan Gold, from the schoolhouse on Thunder Run, listened with a swelling heart, then, amid the applause which followed the last speaker, edged his way along the crowded old brick pavement to where, not far from the portico, he made out the broad shoulders, the waving dark hair, and the slouch hat of a young man with whom he was used to discuss these questions. Hairston Breckinridge glanced down at the pressure upon his arm, recognized the hand, and pursued, half aloud, the current of his thought. "I don't believe I'll go back to the university. I don't believe any of us will go back to the university.--Hello, Allan!" "I'm for the preservation of the Union," said Allan. "I can't help it. We made it, and we've loved it." "I'm for it, too," answered the other, "in reason. I'm not for it out of reason. In these affairs out of reason is out of honour. There's nothing sacred in the word _Union_ that men should bow down and worship it! It's the thing behind the word that counts--and whoever says that Massachusetts and Virginia, and Illinois and Texas are united just now is a fool or a liar!--Who's this Colonel Anderson is bringing forward? Ah, we'll have the Union now!" "Who is it?" "Albemarle man, staying at Lauderdale.--Major in the army, home on furlough.--Old-line Whig. I've been at his brother's place, near Charlottesville--" From the portico came a voice. "I am sure that few in Botetourt need an introduction here. We, no more than others, are free from vanity, and we think we know a hero by intuition. Men of Botetourt, we have the honour to listen to Major Fauquier Cary, who carried the flag up Chapultepec!" Amid applause a man of perhaps forty years, spare, bronzed, and soldierly, entered the clear space between the pillars, threw out his arm with an authoritative gesture, and began to speak in an odd, dry, attractive voice. "You are too good!" he said clearly. "I'm afraid you don't know Fauquier Cary very well, after all. He's no hero--worse luck! He's only a Virginian, trying to do the right as he sees it, out yonder on the plains with the Apaches and the Comanches and the sage brush and the desert--" There was an interruption. "How about Chapultepec?"--"And the Rio Grande?"--"Didn't we hear something about a fight in Texas?"