“Poor Uncle Tremaine, did you ever see anybody in your life as wretched as he is in those homespun clothes made by Aunt Sophia and Mammy Tulip? And he loves his clothes so much!” “Yes, I thought him a sad sight when he appeared in homespun and drank his potato coffee. I have, however, made another important chemical discovery.” Here Lyddon looked hard at Angela and winked his left eye. “Have you observed how the colonel’s hair has been turning red?” “And green,” responded Angela, with animation. “It is the most melancholy sight I ever saw in my life.” “So I thought, and I looked up a formula, of which black walnuts was the chief ingredient, and recommended it to Colonel Tremaine as a hair tonic--warranted to make the hair grow and prevent falling out and baldness. He shook my hand with tears in his eyes. I have got it all ready in this bottle.” Lyddon pointed to a big bottle on the wooden mantelpiece. “And you will see that the colonel’s spirits will rise in the next day or two.” Lyddon was quite correct in his prognostication. At supper the next evening Colonel Tremaine appeared resplendent, his pigeon wings, on each side of his forehead, a lustrous black instead of a rich brown, but the colonel, serenely unconscious, looked with eyes of profound gratitude at Lyddon. The next day the candle-making began in earnest, and Colonel Tremaine, who had always used wax candles on his dressing table, came down to tallow ones. He sighed and tried to reconcile himself by the reflection that his ancestors, during the Revolution, thought themselves well off when they were able to get tallow candles. Mrs. Tremaine, on the contrary, made every sacrifice with eagerness after having been forced to make the greatest sacrifice of all, in having her best beloved torn from her, torn from honor and good repute, and fallen from his high estate. It seemed to her as if all else were easy. She was glad of an excuse to wear homespun, to give up her linen sheets, to spend her days in labors heretofore unknown to her. If she had been in the Middle Ages, she would have used the scourge and worn sackcloth. God’s hand lay heavy upon her, so she thought, and not doubting its wisdom, believed that she deserved the terrible chastisement which had fallen upon her. In that latitude May is summer time, and the heat descended upon Harrowby. It was, however, well adapted to withstand the torrid days. No Italian villa is better suited to these fierce summer heats than the old Virginia country houses with their unstained floors, polished like a looking-glass by dry rubbing with sand and wax, the scanty mahogany furniture, the large doors and windows, free from dust-carrying draperies, and through which the summer breezes wander fitfully. Harrowby was as pleasant in summer as in winter, and Madame Isabey, who had the coolest room in the house, was never tired of congratulating herself upon having fallen upon her feet as it were.