An hour later--after Major Haskins had tried in vain to destroy her story--Daniel rose in his place, and simply, eloquently, without gesture or oratory, he made the plea that won him fame--a brother’s plea for a brother. So eloquent was it that Judge Jessup never spoke at all. There seemed nothing else to say. Major Haskins summed up for the prosecution. He did it with acrimony, in the old way, tearing Fanchon’s past to pieces and fairly pinning the Carter family, like a lot of butterflies stuck on the board of the cruelest of naturalists, and leaving Mr. Carter gasping with mute fury. Then, at a late hour, Judge Barbour charged the jury, and William Carter rose, white as a sheet, and left the court-house. Virginia, having eaten her dinner in solitary state, sat on the piazza waiting for her grandfather. It was late in August, and the sweet darkness fell early. She watched the earth grow darker and darker until the hilltops stood out, etched in black against a pale sky. Behind her the old house was dark except for the light in the hall, and silent except for the occasional sound of mellow laughter from the kitchen, where the negroes awaited their share of Mr. Payson’s prize watermelon. Virginia sat very still as the night deepened. The air was full of delicate fragrance from the flower-beds below her feet. Far off at first, and then nearer at hand, the insects began their incessant clamor, which seemed only to make the stillness more complete by contrast. Above, the pale sky began to darken, and one by one the stars came out, softly obscured by clouds and shining through them, as the candles at an altar sometimes shine through a fog of incense. Time passed; the old clock in the hall chimed. Virginia counted the strokes--ten. How late the colonel was! Then she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel outside the main gate, and Lucas drove the rockaway up to the front door. Her grandfather’s tall head appeared at the steps. He stopped to say a word to Lucas and then came slowly up. Not until then did Virginia rise from her corner. “Grandpa--is it over?” He was startled; then he smiled, taking off his hat. “How cool it is out here--we were baked down-town! I reckon I’ll sit with you, Jinny.” “Have you dined? Mr. Payson sent a watermelon; it’s on ice for you.” “I dined with Payson down-town. No, let the watermelon wait. What did you say, Jinny? No, it isn’t over. We waited, but they’ve locked up the jury for the night, so I came home.” Virginia, who had dropped into her seat again, was trying to be calm. “There’s a disagreement, then?” The colonel nodded thoughtfully. “I reckon there is. Haskins made a big fight, Jinny, but”--the old man drew a long breath--“by gum, I’ve heard that girl’s story--Fanchon’s. She told it on the stand!”