Why, my honest opinion is that there are
not fifty men in Virginia with the spirit to secede--and they are women."
The rector laughed and tapped his wine-glass.
"You mustn't let that reach Mrs. Lightfoot's ears, Major," he cautioned,
"for I happen to know that she prides herself upon being what the papers
call a 'skulker.'" He stopped and rose heavily to his feet, for, at this
point, the door was opened by Cupid and the old lady rustled stiffly into
the room.
"I came down to tell you, Mr. Lightfoot, that you really must not allow
yourself to become excited," she explained, when the rector had comfortably
settled her upon the hearth-rug.
"Pish! tush! my dear, there's not a cooler man in Virginia," replied the
Major, frowning; but for the rest of the evening he brooded in troubled
silence in his easy chair.
In February, a week after a convention of the people was called at
Richmond, the old gentleman surrendered to a sharp siege of the gout, and
through the long winter days he sat, red and querulous, before the library
fire, with his bandaged foot upon the ottoman that wore Aunt Emmeline's
wedding dress. From Leicesterburg a stanch Union man had gone to the
convention; and the Major still resented the selection of his neighbours as
bitterly as if it were an affront to aspirations of his own.
"Dick Powell! Pooh! he's another Peyton Ambler," he remarked testily, "and
on my word there're too many of his kind--too many of his kind.
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