When the girl came in again they let
such topics go, and talked of home while she poured the coffee and helped
Dan to fried chicken. She belonged to the order of women who delight in
feeding a hungry man, and her eyes did not leave his face as she sat behind
the tray and pressed the food upon him.
"Dan thinks the war will be over before he gets his furlough," she said a
little wistfully.
A shadow crossed the Governor's face.
"Then I may hope to get back in time to watch the cradles in the wheat
field," he remarked. "There's little doing on the farm I'm afraid while I'm
away."
"If they hold out six months longer--well, I'll be surprised," exclaimed
Dan, slapping the arm of his chair with a gesture like the Major's.
"They've found out we won't give in so long as there's a musket left; and
that's enough for them."
"Maybe so, maybe so," returned the Governor, for it was a part of his
philosophy to cast his conversational lines in the pleasant places. "Please
God, we'll drink our next Christmas glass at Chericoke."
"In the panelled parlour," added Dan, his eyes lighting.
"With Aunt Emmeline's portrait," finished Virginia, smiling.
For a time they were all silent, each looking happily into the far-off
room, and each seeing a distinct and different vision. To the Governor the
peaceful hearth grew warm again--he saw his wife and children gathered
there, and a few friendly neighbours with their long-lived, genial jokes
upon their lips.
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