“Feels like snow.” John Eaton slapped his gloves against his knee, shook moisture from his high-crowned hat. “Misting now, but it’s getting colder. Miss Emily,”—he made a courtly bow as they entered the warm parlor—“you grow more beautiful every day. How any young man can stay away from you is a puzzle in my mind.” Emily made her curtsy. “You flatter me, sir.” “All our girls are pretty,” stated the General, moving a chair near to the fire for his wife. “It’s the air here on this hill. We keep ’em here as long as we can, then sometimes we have to let ’em go home to their mothers, but not for long. Be seated, Mrs. Jackson. You look weary, my dear.” “She is tired,” Emily said. “She’s been putting out dishes and silver all day, attending to the Christmas dinner. Uncle Jackson,” she began timidly, “if Jack should ride home for Christmas—” “He won’t,” declared the General testily, getting down his long clay pipe from the mantelpiece. “He won’t because I wrote and gave him his orders not to come. I told him that the important thing for him now is to finish his schooling and get admitted to the bar. I’ve raised that boy.” He filled the pipe and handed it to Eaton. “You smoke that, John. I like my old corncob best. I raised that boy, Andrew Jackson Donelson. Going to make a gentleman and a scholar out of him. He’ll have the chance I never had, he and young Andy.” “Jack Donelson is your nephew, Mrs. Jackson?” Eaton drew on the pipe to which Emily held a spill she had lighted at the fire. “My brother’s son. But we’ve had him here with us since he was four years old. Andy, our adopted son, is my brother Severn’s boy. We took him four days after he was born.” “Twins,” remarked the General. “Severn’s wife was mighty frail and one baby was all she could nurse. So we took Andy off her hands. All named after me,” he grinned, “a whole covey of ’em, Donelsons, Hutchingses and Hayeses.” “I must see about supper, Mr. Jackson. You gentlemen will excuse me?” Rachel got up too quickly and the little pain caught at her and she put a quick hand to her breast. “I’ll go, aunt Rachel, you sit still and rest,” Emily volunteered quickly. “I want her to sit here and listen to my news,” said the General, thumbing down his pipe. “You too, Emily. Let the women attend to the supper. About a dozen of ’em around, ought to be able to manage to feed us.” Rachel had turned pale. “Oh, no!” she cried. “Not Pensacola again! Not another war. I can’t bear it. You said we’d stay at home. Mr. Jackson, you swore we’d live here in peace in our new Hermitage.” Distress sharpened her voice, her eyes dimmed, and she dabbed at them nervously with a corner of her white shawl. “Compose yourself, my dear,” comforted her husband. “This news I’ve brought is exciting. You’ll be pleased. You’re being offered an opportunity to go where few women have ever gone—American women, anyway.”