The Colonel, sitting in a large pink satin armchair with the reel before him, began his self-imposed domestic labors, remarking grimly to Mrs. Tremaine: “It can no longer be said, my dearest Sophie, that there is a distaff side to our family.” “My dear,” replied Mrs. Tremaine in pathetic admiration, “the spectacle of you, at your time of life, eager to assist in the household labors and to lighten our tasks as much as possible is truly a lesson to be commended.” Colonel Tremaine, thus encouraged, sat up straight in the pink satin armchair and proceeded to what Angela wickedly called his “Herculean task.” The reel, however, was refractory, and it took Archie to mend it and Mammy Tulip to show him how. Hector, totally unable to tear himself away from the spectacle of Colonel Tremaine at work, remained as critic and devil’s advocate. In the end it required the services of Mrs. Tremaine and nearly the whole domestic staff, including an awe-stricken circle of negro boys and girls, to assist Colonel Tremaine in winding half a hank of cotton. Angela was as good as her word in providing work for Lyddon. When Colonel Tremaine was thoroughly started upon his undertaking, Angela triumphantly called Lyddon out on the dining-room porch. There stood a great churn with a stool by it. “Come, Daphius,” she cried, “your Chloe has work for you to do.” She produced a huge apron of Hector’s, and, tying it around Lyddon’s neck and making him roll up his sleeves, duly instructed him in the art and mystery of churning. Lyddon thought he had not seen her in such spirits for a long time, and as she stood laughing before him, her cotton skirts still tucked up and her beautiful bare arms crossed and the coquettish red silk handkerchief knotted high upon her head, she was a captivating picture. “Now,” she cried, “you must sing in order to make the butter come.” “_I_ sing!” cried Lyddon, wrathfully, but beginning to wield the dasher. “When I sing pigs will fly.” “But you must sing, ‘Come, butter, come,’ like the negro children sing, and then if the butter won’t come you must get up and dance the back step.” She flung into a pretty dancing step, singing the old churning song meanwhile. Lyddon suddenly stopped churning and looked over Angela’s shoulder on to the green lawn beyond. He laughed, but he was not looking at Angela. When she finished she turned around, and there was Isabey standing with his foot on the first step of the porch. CHAPTER XVIII THE VISITATIONS OF WAR Angela’s shock of delight at seeing him was obvious to Isabey, and the two poor souls looked into each other’s eyes with love and longing for one brief moment. Then reason and good sense resumed their sway. Isabey came up the steps and held out his hand, and Angela, scarcely knowing what she did, put hers within it.