Upon first landing there, we had been impressed with the unusual depth of water just off that point; but we had not suspected how, in colonial tunes, many a too-talkative woman had also been impressed with it.  It was the law, made and provided, that a ducking-stool should be set up “neere the court-house in every county.”  So, doubtless, in accordance with that law, a long pole used to reach out from our sandy point, having a seat on the end of it, right over the deep water.  And, also in accordance with law, the end of the pole sometimes went down into the water, and a shivering woman went with it.  But what would you, when “brabbling women slander and scandalize their neighbours, for which their poore husbands are often brought into chargeable and vexatious suits and cast in great damages”?

The survey showed, also, where Westover Church stood in colonial days.  Near the river a little way above the house, stood not only the church but a court-house and a brewing-house, all in sociable and suggestive proximity.  We walked up the river bank to visit the spot.

[Illustration:  Tombs in the old Westover churchyard. (In the foreground is the tomb of Evelyn Byrd.)]

It is still marked by a few gravestones that remain in the deserted churchyard.  Among these is the altar-tomb of Evelyn Byrd.  It stands with an iron band about it, holding the aged stones in place.  The time-dimmed inscription tells us to “be reminded by this awful Tomb” of many dismal things with which we refuse to associate our thoughts of this lovely colonial girl.

Rather, we recall the story of her intimacy with Mrs. Anne Harrison of Berkeley, and of the compact the two friends made, that whichever should die first should appear at some time to the other.  The tale goes on to tell that Mrs. Harrison, after the death of her friend, was walking over to Westover one evening, and as she passed the churchyard she saw the ethereal figure of Evelyn Byrd there by the altar-tomb, smiling in happy fulfilment of the strange tryst.

It was late afternoon when we were ready to take our way for the last time down the strip of sandy beach that led from William Byrd’s old home to ours.  The sun slanted low over the Powhatan; in its glow the old manor-house stood out in all its stateliness.  We reflected that just as Westover looked then, it had looked when Colonel Byrd himself used to step out from the marble portal to saunter among his trees and flowers, or to take his faultless self out upon the pier perhaps to watch the unloading of the ship from London Towne.  Just so the old house had looked through all those days when it was the scene of a luxurious colonial life not excelled by that of the patroons of the Hudson.

Looking from the home out upon the river we saw a low-laden vessel, all sail spread to the soft, faltering breeze, coming slowly up stream on the last of the tide.  How she fitted into the old-time setting!  She was one of Colonel Byrd’s freighting ships just in from overseas.  After a tempestuous voyage, and a narrow escape from the Spanish too, she had safely entered Chesapeake Bay and now, the wind serving but ill, she was slowly drifting up the river.