Wheels were crunching along up to the steps; horses, held by boys, were pawing the earth; and on the piazza there was the rustle of dresses and the subdued hum of preparation. The Don alone seemed to have no part in the proceedings. Alice drew two girls’ heads together. “The exhorter looks solemn! The drive will be hilarious in the carriage that takes _him_! Listen!” “By the way,” Mr. Whacker was saying, “I had forgotten to ask you,—will you take a seat in the carriage, or would you prefer going on horseback?” “Horseback, by all means,” whispered Alice; “the jolting might cheer up his Riverence.” The Don, looking down, changed color, and was visibly embarrassed. “I remember,” said he, presently, raising his eyes to those of Mr. Whacker, “that one of the first things you said to me, when you welcomed me to Elmington, was that it was ‘Liberty Hall.’” “Certainly, oh, certainly,” rejoined my grandfather, in his cordial way. “Choose for yourself. That pair of thoroughbreds may look a trifle light; but you will find they will take you spinning. Then there is the buggy. But perhaps you would prefer to ride? I can recommend that sorrel that Zip is holding.” (Zip gave a furtive pressure on the curb which made the sorrel arch his neck and paw the ground.) “I have not made myself clear,” said the Don, with a constrained smile. “I meant to beg you to—to let me take care of ‘Liberty Hall’ to-day.” “You mean,” said my grandfather, taking in the idea with some difficulty, “that you do not wish to go to church to-day?” The Don bowed. “Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Whacker, with some eagerness; for he felt that he had inadvertently pressed his guest beyond the limits of good breeding. “Certainly, of course, I had not thought of it. Of course you have not yet quite recovered your strength.” The Don bowed his head deferentially, as though willing to let this explanation of his host pass unchallenged; but a certain something that lurked beneath his rather mechanical smile showed that that explanation was Mr. Whacker’s, not his. A sudden constraint came over the company, and they were glad to get off. When the party returned, the Don was absent, walking; and when, at dinner, there was the usual rambling discussion of the sermon, the singing, and so forth, he took no part in the conversation. The next Sunday, when the vehicles and horses came up to the door, the Don was found to be missing; having absented himself purposely, as seemed likely; and so on the next Sunday—and on the next—to the end. It was remarked, too, that never once did he take part in those innocent little theological discussions which are apt to spring up in Virginia homes, around the family hearth, after tea, Sunday evenings. As he was not a talker, as a rule, his silence would not have been obtrusive, save for his persistency in maintaining it. As it was, in the end his very silence seemed a sort of crying aloud. Alice had called him “Pass’n” for the last time.