An old-fashioned romance

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Everton. I

II. Morning. 9

Chapter I. Everton

“Tell me, gentle traveller, thou

Who hast wandered far and wide,

Seen the sweetest roses blow And the brightest rivers glide;

Say, of all thine eyes have seen,

Which the fairest land has been?”

—From the Persian.

LGERNON EMMETT NICHOL, a little boy of twelve, drove through the first gate of the plantation known as “Everton,” in Jefferson County, Mis¬ sissippi. He threw a wistful glance at the sombre trees, the long drive leading up to the very high hill, upon which the dignified, white house was situated.

He shuddered a bit and said to his small servant, “I don’t like it much. It’s too cold. Looks like a big tomb, and the trees are so solemn. They are aweful, I think.”

“Yeh, they’re awful,” answered the faithful little Dick. “Not a bit like de trees in Louisiany. And they ain’t no palmettos. And I’se sho they’se ghosts hidden bellin’ those big trees.”

“There are no ghosts,” said the little gentleman to his servant, “and you don’t understand that I did not say the house was ‘awful,’ meaning ‘terrible’; I said ‘aweful.’ There is a difference, you know.”

“Yessir,” said the little servant, “I knows that you sticks on an ‘e’ and makes an awful diffrence in a word now and then. But I on’y goes by the sound.” “Does you hear the dogs, Buddie ?”contin¬ ued the little negro. “I don’ like dogs.”

“Dogs won’t hurt you, if you keep quiet,” said the little master. This he said in a superior and imperious tone. “And don’t call me Buddie; call me Marse Nichol. I’m thirteen soon, and my guardian will not approve of your manners.”

“Yessir,” said the little negro. “And I’se awful scared o’ yo’ guardian. The name sounds awful. ‘Wade Hampton Harrison’—what a awful name.”

“It’s a fine name,” answered the young master, “and the lady, his wife, is my

Everton 3

cousin—Mary Nichol Harrison, from the Eastern Shore.”

“Eastern Sho’e! Wha’s that, Marse Nichol?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but it’s something to do with Maryland and must be nice.”

“Yessir, I’se shuh it’s nice, but jes’ the same, I wish we could turn right ’round and go on back to Louisiany. I would swim the Miss’ippi to get ther’. I never seed such a long drive. Ain’t we neber goin’ to get to the house, Buddie—I mean Marse Alge’non?”

“Ask the driver how far it is,” an¬ swered the young master. The little negro kept quiet. “I say, ask the driver how far it is.”

“I’se scared, honey—Buddie—Marse Algy—you ax him.”

“Oh, very well,” said Algernon. “How far is it, Uncle, to the house?”

“Half a mile, sir,” answered the old negro driver. “It’s a strange house. It seems to get farther away as you get closer to it.”

“You hear that, Buddie?” said the lit¬ tle negro. “It’s haunted, I knowed it.”

“Be quiet. You sound so ignorant. Al¬ ways talking about ghosts and haunts and things.”

“The master,” continued the old negro driver, “takes particular pains to have this drive long and straight, and had the trees cut so as to make it very grand.”

“You mean mysterious,” said the young master. “It’s very handsome, I think.”

“Oh, yes, everything’s nice here, sir. Marse Wade is terrible particular about everything.”

“I knowed it,” said the little valet un¬ der his breath. “I felt it, and I’se scared to death. I don’t like that awful soundin’ name, Wade Hampton Harrison! If he got mad-”

“Be quiet,” said young Algernon, “and don’t talk so much.”

The old negro driver reached for his whip, and touched the horses lightly. In a minute they were going at a merry pace up the long, straight drive, drawing closer to the white house, deeply set in trees.

“I never like straight and narrow

Everton 5

paths. I’se heard about them all my life,” said the little negro.

“Be quiet,” said the young master.

“Yessir, but I wish I was back with the palmettos, the red bushes, the berries, the nice black dirt. I lobes Louisiany, but I don’ like this Miss’ippi.”

“You haven’t been here long enough to know,” answered his master.

“Yes, I has, honey—Buddie—I means Marse Algy. I didn’t like it from the time we struck those blackberry bushes and dat sandy hill just dis side de Mis¬ s’ippi River.” The little negro crouched down in the cushions. “Ain’t you scared a little bit o’ that Wade Hampton Har¬ rison?”

“Of course not, and there he is now, standing in the door. We are almost there.”

“Giddap,” said the driver, and touched the horses again, as the last gate was opened and they drove proudly up to the door.

A stately figure stood in the door, then solemnly walked toward the steps and stood again, awaiting his young guest.

The old driver hopped off the seat, opened the carriage door, and made a motion for the little negro to get out and assist his young master, but the young servant was so frightened that he crouched in the cushions and stared blankly with his mouth wide open, gazing at the figure at the head of the steps. Young Algernon looked at him reproach¬ fully, stepped down out of the carriage, and walked up the steps to meet his guardian.

The little gentleman was dressed in black velvet, with a large white collar, upon which his dark brown curls rested lovingly.

Mr. Wade Hampton Harrison held out his hand, and said, “How do you do, sir.”

“How do you do,” answered young Algernon, quickly.

“I’m very well, thank you,”—with em¬ phasis on the thank you. “Your Cousin Mary will be here in a moment.”

Just then a very tall young woman

Everton Ji

came forward, and without saying, “How do you do,” said, “Well, little boy, you are here at last, at home, at Everton.”

“Yes, Cousin Mary,” answered young Algernon, holding out his hand, “It is very wonderful.”

“I am glad to see you, Algernon,” con¬ tinued his cousin. “You must be happy here with Cousin Mary and Cousin Wade,” she added tenderly.

He turned in time to catch a deter¬ mined look in his guardian’s eyes, who said abruptly, “Mary, have old Mandy cut off those curls at once. He is twelve years old, you know.”

“They are too beautiful, Wade, to be cut,—and his mother loved them so.”

At the mention of his mother, little Algernon suppressed a sob, but said briefly, “Cousin Wade is right, Cousin Mary. I am too old for curls.”

“Of course,” added his guardian, and turned to the little valet. “Take your master’s things upstairs. Follow Ben.”

Ben, black, gray and smiling, led the way up the long stairway. The little valet followed, looking back lovingly at his young master.

“I knowed dey do somethin’ cruel right away,—cuttin’ off his curls, the beautifullest thing on him, too. Dat Wade Hampton Harrison, I knowed he’d do somethin’ like that, and this place is haunted, too. I’se always right about feelin’ things, and I’se sho be’n feelin’ things today.”

“Come along,” said Ben. “You can’t be so slow around heah, and talk so much, and be careful ’cause Marse Wade no¬ tices everything.”

“I sho will be careful. I don’t feel things for nuthin’. I hope he be good to Buddie. He feels awful cut up about his mother dyin’ so sudden, and his father jus’ a yeah ago. Buddie, he cries a lot in his sleep, but not in the daytime. I’se got to watch Buddie. That’s the last thing the old missus said to me. Here, with no father, with that fierce lookin’ man with de awful name to boss him ’round.

I can see Miss Mary have no say with that man. Didn’t I tell I’se scared to death of dat Wade Hampton Harrison!”

Chapter II. Morning

“To have love is to work miracles.”

—Michael Fairless.

HE next morning Ben knocked on the door lightly and said, “Marse Algy, breakfast is ready.” He stuck his head in the door and found Algernon sound asleep, with a great tear on his long lashes. “Marse Algy,” he said tenderly, “wake up. I called you befo’e. It’s breakfast time. Marse Wade will be waitin’ for you.” This he said nervously.

Slowly awakening, and dashing the large tear from his lashes, Algernon jumped out of bed and said, “Thank you, I’ll be there in a minute. Where is Dick?”

“Dick—Dick who?” said Ben.

“My servant,” answered Algernon, with emphasis on the my.

“Oh,” said Ben, “dat nigger—dat scarry, good for nuthin’ nigger, he’s io An Old-Fashioned Romance down in de yard sittin’ on the wood pile cryin’.”

“Crying—what’s the matter?”

“He’s cryin’ ’cause your curls have gone. Said someone ought to cry. He’s makin’ a real funeral out of the curls. Asked Miss Mary to let him bury dem in a box under the magnolia tree, but she’s keeping them locked up. Fore the Lawd, she’s crying, too. Said it was awful cruel for Marse Wade to have dem cut off so sudden like.”

Dressing hurriedly, the young gentle¬ man walked proudly down the long stairs, into the hall and then into the dining room.

“Sorry to be late, Cousin Wade, but I over-slept.”

“Quite all right this time,” said his cousin. “You must have been tired. A long drive.”

“It’s very beautiful here,” added young Algernon hurriedly.

“Yes,” said his cousin.

Sitting at the head of the long table, Wade Hampton Harrison looked very

II forbidding and severe. Algernon looked around for his cousin Mary.

“Your Cousin Mary will see you after breakfast. I wanted to see you alone, and talk about your studies. Do you know any Latin?”

“A little,” answered the young man.

“Know any mathematics?”

“A little.”

“Any history?”

“Oh, a lot.”

“Yes,” said the severe cousin, “what history?”

“All history, but especially about Na¬ poleon Bonaparte. Do you like Napo¬ leon too, Cousin Wade?”

“Greatest man that ever lived,” answered his cousin. “The Code Napo¬ leon. Do you know what that is, young man?”

“Oh, yes, Cousin Wade, but it’s the battles I love so.”

“Of course,” answered the cousin. “I see that we’re going to be friends.”

Serving him quail, he touched a bell and said to the waitress, “Bring Master Algernon some waffles. See that they are hot and a lot of syrup—Louisiana syrup. This young gentleman belongs to Louisiana, the Napoleon country.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waitress.

“Stick to your own country, my boy, to your own ideas, ideals, and do not pre¬ tend to like this hill country. Stick to the flat country. It is just as nice as this, and your father was an early settler in Louisiana; came from the Eastern Shore of Maryland, you know. Always be yourself, my boy, be natural. You can afford to be natural. The house here, the horses, the dogs, the servants, all are yours. You can have anything you like. But never tell me a lie. I make no dis¬ tinction between a story and a lie. Any form of deception is immoral and ungentlemanly. I can forgive anything except a lie. My people never lie—the Wade Hampton Harrisons,” he said proudly, j “I am sure that yours do not either, but it is a good way to begin life with an absolute intolerance of any form of hypocrisy.”

Just then the little valet stuck his head in the door to see if his young master was all right;—just in time to hear the word “lie” and that name, which had fright¬ ened him so. He took one look, and then stepped out of the room, like a frightened animal.

After breakfast the young master fol¬ lowed him into the yard. “You’re a coward, Dick. Why did you run? I would never run.”

“Co’se, Honey, you’se white, and I’se black—dat’s de diffurence. I’se come from the runnin’ kind. I’se just natuly scarry. But don’t you ever be scared. I’d kill anybody what hurt you. Dat’s what I’se heah for.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” answered the young master. “My cousin is very kind.”

“You mean fierce. He’s fierce. I ain’t nebber goin’ to make him angry, believe me. And don’t you make him angry, either. I tell you I’se jest scared o’ de whole place. It’s too big and sternlike. Did you ever see such a big dinin’room, and the bedrooms and de awful lookin’ furniture and such trees and such a big hall? I feels my hair stand straight up on ends when I cross that hall. I prays all the way, but I feels the ghost followin’ close behin’ me. I tells you, Buddie, the place is haunted. Let’s run off and go back to Louisiany. Go back to the red trees and the palmetters, where a feller can hide if things get after him. An’ you don’t look natural with yo’ curls gone. Everythin’ is strange here, even you.”

In an hour the horses were brought around to the front door and young Al¬ gernon rode off into the fields with his little valet following closely behind him. A negro servant carried the bird sacks, the guns and some sandwiches for the day.

“I likes deer huntin’ much better, don’ you, Honey? But dar ain’t no deer heah. Dar ain’t nuthin’ I like.”

“Oh, it’s very pretty, I think,” said the young master. “Watch your rein, or you’ll go off in the briar bushes again.”

“Mind yo’ own rein, Buddie, or you’ll fall off that big horse. You ain’t used to ridin’ big horses.”

“Be quiet, and don’t tell everything you know. It’s stupid.”

“Yes, Buddie, but suppose you faint like you did back in Louisiany.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” said young Alger¬ non.

There was a soft south breeze, a burst of color—red gold and brown of every description. They rode on into the fields. They passed under a large walnut tree. A nut fell directly upon the little negro’s head.

“My Gawd,” he said under his breath, “What am dat, Buddie?”

“Oh, it’s only a nut. Be quiet. We’ll soon be ready to fire. Tomorrow we’re going fox hunting, you know.”

All that day they rode through the fields, returning in the dusk with quail, most of which the negro servant had shot.

In a short while dinner was announced. A long table was covered with flowers, Venetian glass and Sheffield silver and tall candelabra. It stood in the center of the room, while the several side-boards, as they were called in those days, were heaped with every imaginable flower, fresh from the hot-house. The large de¬ canters sparkled with wines and Ken¬ tucky whiskey. A servant continuously prepared mint juleps, which were served to each gentleman, while the ladies were given a small glass of sherry, with a rose leaf in the glass. These were the cock¬ tails of the old-fashioned days.

The meats were not served, as in these days, but brought on the table and placed in front of the host, while he carved skil¬ fully, and at the same time indulged in repartee.

The dinner was more of a banquet—a feast—than anything else, and the stories that were told at the table were of unique value.

Young Algernon was again late in get¬ ting to the dining room. He slipped off his riding habit and put on his black vel¬ vet suit again. He walked down the long stairway to the hall, which led to the dining room. He walked in and asked to be excused, not knowing whether he was to sit at the large table or not. One of the gentlemen at the table turned and looked at him, saying to his host, “Is this the little gentleman from Louisiana?”

“Yes,” said the host.

Calling Algernon to his side, he said “This is Mr. Green—Mr. Payne Green.” Mr. Green held out his hand and said “I knew your Mother. She was very beautiful. I visited in her home and she came from my beautiful country, the Eastern Shore of Maryland.”

“Yes,” said the little man, and turned his head suddenly so that his new friend would not see the tears which quickly rushed into his eyes at the mention of his mother.

“Cousin Wade,” he continued, “am I to sit at the big table with you, or shall I wait?”

“Of course,” he said, “you are much too grown up and gallant to dine with the children.”

“Nice boy, is he not?” continued the cousin, looking at Mr. Green.

“He is splendid,” said Mr. Green, tak¬ ing him in at a glance.

“Your eyes,” he said to Algernon, “your hazel eyes bring back memories, my boy. You must tell me all about Lou¬ isiana, the deer, the camp hunts. I am sure that we are going to be friends.”

“Thank you very much,” said Alger¬ non.

A year of hunting, of life in the coun¬ try, passed swiftly away, and young Al¬ gernon was sent to a boarding school. The carriage drove up to the door, and he left, saying good-by to his cousins with a real feeling of regret. Just as he stepped into the carriage, his little negro valet appeared around the corner of the house, dragging a huge bag behind him.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Mr. Wade Hampton Harrison.

The little servant dropped the bag suddenly and said, “It’s our clothin’, Marse Wade.”

“Our clothing?” said Marse Wade. “Well, what are you doing with it?”

“Taking it along, Marse Wade. Yassuh, ain’t I gwine with Buddie—I mean Marse Algy?”

“Of course not,” answered Mr. Harri¬ son. “You little rascal, you are not going anywhere. Your young master is going to boarding school.”

“Yessir, but ain’t I gwine too?”

With a swift glance, Mr. Harri¬ son looked at young Algernon and saw that he too expected to take the little negro with him. “I am sorry,” he said, “how did you make such a mistake? Well, anyhow it is impossible, and Al¬ gernon, my boy, you must hurry. It is eighteen miles to Natchez. You must drive well to get there before dark.”

The little man got into the carriage and was driven suddenly away, while the negro child stood as though petrified, his feet glued to the earth, his eyes star¬ ing. Not a word he said. Young Al¬ gernon waved to him saying “Good-by” but the little negro stood motionless.

“I’ll write you,” called Algernon, but the little servant stood there as though paralyzed by grief and shock.

The young traveler disappeared into the distance. Only a cloud of dust was left behind, and the faint sound of the carriage wheels to be heard as they dis¬ appeared down the long road.

Dick stood there for minutes. Finally he threw himself down into the dust and dirt and cried, “Buddie! Buddie! Honey! My little Lamb! Marse Algy!” and cried as if his heart would break. Perhaps it did break. The next morning he was nowhere to be found.

Chapter III. Rosa Gordon

Helen, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicean barks of yore,

That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,

The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,

Thy naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand,

The agate lamp within thy hand,

Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

—Edgar Allan Poe.

T dusk the next evening Alger¬ non was called from his room in the school to see the head master. He was lonely and tired and wondered what the teacher could want with him at that hour. He walked down the aisle slowly and knocked on the teacher’s door, and said timidly, “You sent for me, sir.”

“Come in,” answered the teacher. “Yes, I sent for you. There is an ex¬ traordinary looking person here to see you.”

Touching a bell, he summoned a serv¬ ant and said “Send him in.”

Algernon was startled—he could not imagine who would come to see him there. In a moment the door opened and in walked the little valet, literally tattered and torn, for his clothes were torn and his feet were bleeding.

“Buddie, Buddie!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around his young master. “I had to come, Buddie. I walked most of the way and got lost. Caught on to a wagon and fell off in the briar bushes. Stumped my toe and slept all night under the trees. I run away ’bout two hours after you left and here I is.”

After Algernon had greeted the little negro affectionately, the two children stood there hand in hand, gazing into the eyes of the teacher pleadingly. The teacher suppressed a smile and said, “You intend to stay here, I presume.”

“Yessir, Yessir—I don’t know sir. I’se scared to death, sir, but I jus’ had to see Buddie.”

“Buddie,” said the teacher, “is your young master, I imagine. Well, you de¬ serve to be with him after so long a trip. I will see.”

“Henry,” he said to the butler, “Take this boy to your house and see that your wife treats him well. He can help you bring in the wood. He’s a nice little nigger.”

Smilingly, the little valet followed the butler out of the room into the yard, fairly beaming with joy because he could be near his master.

Several years passed—the usual years for a school boy, with the vacation spent at Everton, where Algernon was happy and beloved. Each year he grew hand¬ somer as he developed into young man¬ hood, and his manners were so perfect, his mind so keen, his heart so kind, that he commanded respect wherever he went. The Wade Hampton Harrisons gave him the name of Prince, and he was known throughout the neighborhood as ‘Prince Nichol.’ He fenced bril¬ liantly, was a splendid sportsman and was a picturesque figure indeed. But, beneath all of these manly qualities, Prince Nichol was a dreamer, a poet at heart. The poet expressed himself in music. He was a natural musician— a violinist—and, though his musical education was neglected, his playing was exquisitely beautiful, because of the soul quality in it. His natural technique made his playing a simple and beautiful thing. His spare hours were spent in practicing on his violin, and reading Alexandre Dumas. He still loved Napoleon with a sublime fervor. What a marvelous personal¬ ity he was, of love, chivalry and cour¬ age!

Many women adored him, but he was indifferent to them. He confided to his Cousin Mary that he had seen a beauti¬ ful woman, with brilliant dark eyes and black hair ride swiftly past the school near Natchez.

“I tried to find out who she is, and I go to many places with the hope of meet¬ ing her, but I have never seen her, Cousin Mary. Only once, she dashed past the grounds, looked up imperiously, spurred her horse and dashed down the road.”

“Down,” said his cousin. “And she is dark, young, beautiful, a good horse¬ woman? I wonder if it is Rosa Gordon. She visits near Natchez.”

“Rosa Gordon!” exclaimed Algernon. “What a pretty name. “Who is Rosa Gordon?”

“Oh, THE Gordon family. You know who they are. Perhaps you would not like her, however, if you knew her. She is brilliant, sarcastic and imperious, and often at the expense of others. She is arrogant and a little domineering, I fear. I know her.”

“You know her, Cousin Mary?” he asked eagerly. “If she, my dream, my woman, the woman I love is Rosa Gor¬ don, I . . . ”

“You love? I thought you had only seen her once,” answered his cousin.

“Yes, only once, but that was enough, and she looked at me and smiled, and what a smile. Half daring, imperious, swift, just for a second, she looked at me, and then a little smile crept over her face. Such a sweet expression. Oh, yes, Cousin Mary, she is sweet. Back of the arrogance is love, and that makes her sweet. I love her, Cousin Mary. Ask her to dine here at once, won’t you?”

“Of course, I shall. I will write her tomorrow.”

“Oh, no, write her today, and I’ll send the letter by a messenger. Ask her to dine tomorrow.”

The letter was written. The negro valet Dick saddled the fastest horse in the stable, and was off in a minute, off to Homewood, the home of the Balfours, where Rosa Gordon visited. Eighteen miles was a long ride of a gallop, but Dick rode on as though it were a matter of life and death, for he knew by the commanding look in his master’s eyes when he said, “Hurry, Dick—deliver this letter at once, Miss Rosa Gordon,

Homewood, the Balfour residence, hurry,”—he knew that there was no time to be lost.

When night came on, it grew dark quickly and Dick, who still believed in ghosts, spurred his horse to a run as he was enveloped in shadows made by the great oak trees. On and on he rode, and finally he reached the Balfour residence. He jumped off the horse and knocked on the door. A negro butler, whom he knew, opened the door. He looked at the horse and at Dick, who both seemed to be in a state of exhaustion, and he said, “What’s the matter? Is someone ill—someone dead? I hate to give it to Miss Rosa if it’s bad news.”

“Oh, no, it’s nothing,” said Dick, “jes* love.”

“Jes’ love,” said the old butler. “My Gawd—at this hour of the night. Well, I’ll take it in anyhow. Miss Rosa will be bored to death with jes’ love. She got brains; she got no time for foolishness.”

Rosa Gordon was sitting in the draw¬ ing room reading a Life of Pythagoras.

The letter was handed to her—she took it in a casual way and opened it. It said:

“My dear Rosa:

Will you dine with us tomorrow at 8 :oo? I want you to meet my cousin, Algernon Emmett Nichol, a handsome, gallant boy, of whom you have heard me speak. Come prepared to visit. It is a long drive and quite fatiguing. Come and stay as long as you will.

With best wishes, and hoping to see you, I am

Sincerely,

Mary Nichol Harrison.”

“Bring my portfolio,” Rosa Gordon said, and she wrote this:

“My dear Mrs. Harrison:

I am so sorry not to dine with you tomorrow, but I am leaving for Louisiana. As to your handsome cousin,

I am sure I would not like him. I do not care for young men, as you know. They bore me unmercifully. I prefer the companionship of more sophisti¬ cated individuals, and for this, am doubly sorry not to visit you, as I remember your brilliant husband with much delight and you, always with love and appreciation.

Rosa Gordon.”

The letter was given to Dick, who sensed the indifference and reluctantly accepted the letter which was to bring pain to his master.

“I’se gwine to leave my horse here,” Dick said to the old butler, “and take one ub yourn.”

“All right,” he said, pointing to the stable. “Take a good one; it’s all right with Marse Balfour, but don’t take Miss Rosa’s horse—her’s is de black one.”

“All right,” said Dick, “Anyone w*ill do goin’ home.”

Slowly, wearily, he rode back over the road to Everton. At daylight he was home.

“I wonder if Marse Algy is up.” But as he said this, he caught sight of a light burning in the window of his master’s bedroom.

Dick rode up under the window slowly.

“Buddie—Honey—Marse Algernon, I mean,—yo’ there ?”

“Yes, of course, come up. The door is open.”

Slowly Dick entered the room. “It— the letter—is to Miss Mary,” he said, “Not to you, suh.”

“Yes, I know,” said Algernon eagerly. “My cousin told me to read it. It is all right.”

He tore the letter open, glanced over the page quickly. The letter fell to the floor. After a moment, he said, “Thank you, Dick. You may go now, and here’s the key to the cellar. Go and get your¬ self a good drink—you need it. And here, Dick, take a cigar. And—never mind, that’s all, Dick.”

“Good night, suh. Sleep well, suh. It’s nearly mornin’, suh.”

“Thank you. You may go now, Dick.”

The servant walked reluctantly away, knowing that his master was unhappy. Algernon Nichol walked toward the window. After a moment, he crossed the room again and picked up his violin. “It will not awaken them,” he said to him¬ self. With this he began playing a long, plaintive strain, something that he had composed himself. As he did, he saw the day break but he noticed that the sun was slow in coming up. The sun did not come up that morning.

Chapter IV. News

“War is a breaking of the law, for the first law is to love one another.”

LGERNON NICHOL walked into the breakfast room in a depressed mood. “You must not take it so seriously. You do not know her yet, and it may not be Rosa Gordon, after all, who rode past the grounds,” said his Cousin Mary tenderly.

“I know,” answered Algernon, “I know it is Rosa Gordon.”

Just then Mr. Payne Green was an¬ nounced. He stepped in for a mint ju¬ lep. Drinking a toast of some original kind to Algernon, he said, “Very soon I believe you will have a chance to use that sword of yours in real earnest. It is just a question of days now when you will be called to fight for your country. Your gallant sword will make havoc with the Yankees.”

News

“Yes,” answered Algernon absentmindedly, “I shall be glad to go.”

“Yes, of course, all young men are happy in going to War.”