“Women,” remarked the major dryly, “when man-stalking make very cruel enemies for the weaker of their kind.  Let’s be thankful that pursuit is a perverted instinct in them that happens seldom.  We can trust much to Phoebe.  The Almighty puts the instinct for mother guarding all younger or lesser women into the heart of superbly sexed women like Phoebe Donelson, and with her aroused we may be able to keep it from the child.”

“Ah, but it is sad, Major,” said David in a low voice deeply moved with emotion.  “Sad for her who does not know—­and for him who does.”

“And it was farther reaching than that, Dave,” answered the major slowly, and the hand that held the dying pipe trembled against the table.  “Andrew Sevier was a loss to us all at the time and to you for whom we builded.  The youngest and strongest and best of us had been mowed down before a four-years’ rain of bullets and there were few enough of us left to build again.  And of us all he had the most constructive power.  With the same buoyant courage that he had led our regiment in battle did he lead the remnant of us in reconstructing our lives.  He was gay and optimistic, laughed at bitterness and worked with infectious spirits and superb force.  We all depended on him and followed him keenly.  We loved him and let ourselves be laughed into his schemes.  It was his high spirits and temperament that led to his gaming and tragedy.  Nearly thirty years he’s been dead, the happy Andrew.  This boy’s like him, very like him.”

“I see it—­I see it,” answered David slowly, “and all of that glad heart was bred in Andy, Major, and it’s there under his sadness.  Heavens, haven’t I seen it in the hunting field as he landed over six stiff bars on a fast horse?  It’s in some of his writing and sometimes it flashes in his eyes when he is excited.  I’ve seen it there lately more often than ever before.  God, Major, last night his eyes fairly danced when I plagued Caroline into asking him to whom he wrote that serenade which I have set to music and sing for her so often.  It hurts me all over—­it makes me weak—­”

“It’s hunger, David, lunch is almost ready,” said Phoebe who had come into the room in time to catch his last words.  “Why, where is Andrew?  Wouldn’t he come?”

“No,” answered Kildare quickly, covering his emotion with a laugh as he refused to meet Caroline Darrah’s eyes which wistfully asked the same question that Phoebe had voiced, “he is writing a poem—­about—–­about,” his eyes roamed the room wildly for he had got into it, and his stock of original poem-subjects was very short.  Finally his music lore yielded a point, “It’s about a girl drinking—­only with her eyes you understand—­and—­”

“He could save himself that trouble,” laughed Phoebe, “for somebody has already written that; did it some time ago.  Run stop him, David.”

“No,” answered David with recovered spirit, “I’d flag a train for you, Phoebe, but I don’t intend to side-track a poem for anybody.  Besides, I’m hungry and I see Jeff with a tray.  Mrs. Matilda, please put Caroline Darrah by me.  She’s attentive and Phoebe just diets—­me.”