She put away the old agreement, smoothed her hair and the lace of her collar, rubbed a bit of cotton dipped in rice powder over her swollen eyelids. This was Christmas Eve, the past was past, though Truxton’s colts still ambled over the meadows, some of them growing old as the Jacksons were growing old. Perhaps they would have no more Christmas Eves under this roof, this proud house that they loved. Nothing must mar this holiday. She would hurry out and tell Andy that he was forgiven. The boy was impulsive and thoughtless. He had not meant to wound her. The house was full of voices; children being led upstairs to bed reluctant and protesting, but outside were voices too, the songs of the black people gathered to sing to their master and mistress. Rachel snatched up a shawl, wrapped her head and shoulders in it and went out to stand and listen. “_Christmas is a-comin’, the goose is getting fat._ “_Please to put a penny in the ole man’s hat_,” caroled the slaves. She saw her husband standing bareheaded near the fire, his hair blowing in the winter wind, the firelight casting deep shadows under his eyes. He had a hand on Andy’s shoulder, an arm around Emily. No one heeded the mist that blew on the wind. Some of the older women were already picking their chickens on the lee side of the smokehouse. “_Go down, Moses, ’way down in Egypt’s lan’_,” trilled a high voice, Becky’s. The humming chorus swelled, burst into tremendous melody. “_Tell ole Phar’oh,—let my people go!_” Go down, Moses! Go down, Andrew Jackson! To Tohopeka, to Mobile, to New Orleans, to Pensacola. Go down, Andrew Jackson, and set a people free! No, no, moaned the heart of Rachel. Never any more. This was home, this was their Hermitage, this was Christmas Eve. Her eyes searched the air, challenged the air, the Heavens, as though somewhere out there in the murky dark lurked fate in wait for them, a prescience that would not lift. Was it a charm or a curse that invested her man on horseback? What dark Nemesis had hovered over that little cabin back in the North Carolina sandhills where he had been born? What strange power had preserved him when all his family succumbed to the hardships of that time of bitter war? What power of destiny had brought him up, an orphaned waif, led him through so many conflicts, made him a firebrand and a leader whom men would follow as they followed a flag? Sick and coughing, his frail health her constant anxiety, he inspired strong men. Something was brewing now. Rachel felt it, but she must hold her tongue and quiet her unease with the drug of hope. A horse came trotting up the drive and Rachel saw Emily start forward eagerly. Then the girl stopped as a slim figure in oilskin slid from the saddle.