So thought Isabey. Angela could never be his, but at least he had found that jewel which all men seek and few discover--that other half of his being, the woman who perfectly understood him. He remembered that the hearts of men and women are like the cello and the violin--both are required to form the perfect strain of music. CHAPTER XV THE HEGIRA It is possible in remote country houses, especially when snowbound, for one day to be exactly like the other for a long period. Such was the case at Harrowby during the month after Isabey’s arrival. Each day repeated itself; it was the worst winter known for thirty years in eastern Virginia, and one snowstorm succeeded another. The river was frozen, cutting off communication by water. George Charteris managed to plunge on mule-back daily through the snow to Harrowby, but no such mode of progression was possible for Mrs. Charteris. Angela, fired by George Charteris’s example, had her side-saddle put on a sure-footed mule and so ventured out a few times, but found riding rather more difficult than walking. She had not since her marriage paid visits anywhere except to Greenhill, and the mutual attitude of herself and the county people was such that she had no visitors. The mails were interrupted, and, although Mrs. Tremaine wrote daily, her letters were long in coming and generally arrived in a batch. Richard was recovering slowly, but Mrs. Tremaine could not think of leaving him, and Archie would remain with them until his mother could return to Harrowby. Madame Isabey and Adrienne were established at a Richmond hotel, and the elder lady from her letters seemed perfectly happy. There was much going on in the Confederate capital, and, to add zest to events, was the continual prospect of siege and battle. She wrote that Adrienne was much admired. At the first levee the ladies attended at the Confederate White House, Adrienne had attracted universal admiration. The fame of her charming voice having reached the President, he had asked her on the occasion of her first formal visit to the executive mansion to sing and play for him. His grave and anxious face had lightened under the spell of her little French songs so full of grace and sentiment and so exquisitely rendered. Great attention was shown her by everyone, and they were asked to “refugee” for the war in several distinguished families, but Madame Isabey declared she preferred Harrowby, and had not seen any boy so sweet as “Monsieur Archie” with his rose-red hair. Refugeeing was exactly like the life her grandfather lived when he was an _émigré_ in England in 1789. She often thought what a delightful supply of stories she would have to tell of her days as an _émigré_ in Virginia.