Aunt Chaney reflected on her appearance on the highway, in her old homespun dress, "coat," as she called it, one slipper, no bonnet, the cake-dough dripping from her hands. She remembered that some wagoners of a forage train, struck by her agitated aspect, had looked back to laugh from their high perches among the hay and fodder; she remembered that some little imp-like boys had twitted her, calling after her in their high, callow chirp, and sorry was she that she had not left all to chase them--to chase them till they died of fright! She--_she_ who was accustomed to flaunt in a "changeable" silk, and her bonnet had an ostrich plume! She wore a bracelet, too, on grand occasions, and this was gold, solid and heavy, fine and engraved, for "Miss Leonora" herself had it bought in New Orleans expressly for her, after she had discovered and unaided extinguished a midnight fire. Not that old Chaney would have wasted all this splendor on the errand for the doctor. If she had thought but for a moment, she would have garbed herself as now, as she did instantly on her return home, to save her self-respect,--in a purple calico and a clean, white, domestic apron, with her respected and respectable green-and-white checked sun-bonnet, all laundered, as ever, to absolute perfection. Her haste had destroyed her judgment. "Whyn't ye tole me dat de man hed jes' fell downsteers,--when ye come out yere, howlin' lak a painter wid a misery in his jaw. I 'lowed de Yankee had deestroyed his-self on dese yere premises." "So did I! So did I! He bled--and _bled_!" Old Ephraim paused, his face fallen. The association of ideas brought by the mention of blood was uncanny. "What ailed de man dat he hatter fall downsteers?" "I dunno." The denial was pat. "Whut's he come down here fightin' in the War without he's able ter keep from fallin' downsteers? De Roscoes kin stan' up! I'll say dat fur 'em." "Dey kin dat," replied the "double-faced Janus" admiringly, thinking of Julius. "How long he gwine stay?" "'Twell he git well, I reckon." "Den _I_ say dis ain't no house nor home. Dis is horspital Number Forty--dat's whut. Marse Gerald Roscoe ain't got no more sense 'n a good-sized chicken, dough he _is_ a jedge, ter hev' dat man yere fur Miss Leonora ter keer fur, an' take ter marryin' agin 'fore her old sweetheart, Julius Roscoe, kin git home. 'Fore de Lawd, I stood it ez long ez dere seemed enny end to it, but now--" she banged her pots, and pans, and kettles about with virulence.