“Mary, for Heavens’ sake, hush! Things are going to be bad enough—I’m just holding my breath.” “I think it’s wonderful!” Mary’s eyes were full of stars. “Let me tell you something though—don’t you start out being a dutiful wife like aunt Rachel. A woman can get herself simply _subjugated_ by being so worshipful. I mean to keep my spirit and my personality, whoever I marry. Aunt Rachel’s kind of wife is going out of fashion.” Emily bent her brows together. Of course Jack would expect a dutiful wife. Hadn’t he been trained by uncle Jackson, who had never known any other mode of life except to be master in his house? Jack would expect his wife to be a gracious copy of aunt Rachel—with a bit more style perhaps, and more ease in company, Emily amended, with no disloyalty. Aunt Rachel was good. She did not need a flair for clever conversation or the sly, pretty arts by which some women kept men enthralled, but as Mary had said, times were changing. Women even went to colleges now and read deep books. Rachel came in then, followed by Hannah and the maids, all carrying steaming dishes. “What are you moppets whispering about?” she asked. “Beaus, I’ll wager.” “Oh, we’re far too young, aunt Rachel. And too utterly well bred,” Mary replied saucily. “Plotting against the whites,” evaded Emily. “What’s in that dish, Dilsey? It smells wonderful.” “Dilsey’s candied yams are always perfect,” Rachel said. “Mary, you run and fetch all the boys and tell them to carry in every extra chair. And tell Andy to have George ring the bell. Your uncle and the other men have likely wandered off to the stables. I never have put a meal on the table yet that didn’t have to compete for their concern with some colt. Hannah, we’ll set the ham at this end, and the turkeys at the other. Levin can carve at this other table and Mr. Jackson here, and you and Dilsey can serve the children their plates. That small table makes it crowded, but I couldn’t bear to make the little ones wait. I like all my family together at Christmas.” Her family, all the Donelsons, whom the General, having no kin of his own, had taken to his heart generously, as he had taken John Eaton and John Overton, Ralph, the young painter, and, twenty years ago, Aaron Burr—too bad that charming man had come to be in bad repute!—even Sam Houston! Rachel glowed with happiness as the clan came noisily into the room. This was as things should be. She took the chair Ralph pulled out for her, bent her head in a little prayer of thankfulness, of entreaty to God that things would go on like this forever, so long as they lived, in peace here at their Hermitage. Then there was the sudden crash of a door at the rear of the house, a chilly gust blew into the room and from the pantry there were squeals of delighted welcome from the waiting servants. The inner door was flung back and a travel-stained figure strode into the room. “Christmas gift, everybody!” shouted Andrew Jackson Donelson.