“Well, I’ve always known that Cousin Dave was a great man.  He ought to be the president or governor—­or something.  I would vote for him to-morrow—­or that is, I would make some man—­I don’t know just who—­do it!” And Polly’s treble voice again took up the theme of David’s praises.

“And think of the old soldiers,” said Mrs. Buchanan with a catch in her breath.  “It will hurt them so when they read it.  They will think people are tired of them and that we don’t want them to come here in the spring for the reunion.  They are old and feeble and they have had so much to bear.  It was cruel, cruel.”

“And to think of not wanting the children to see them and know them and love them—­and understand!” Milly’s soft voice both broke and blazed.

“I’m going to cry—­I’m doing it,” sobbed Polly with her head on Phoebe’s shoulder.  “I wasn’t but twelve when they met here last time and I followed all the parades and cried for three solid days.  It was delicious.  I’m not mad at any Yankee—­I’m in love with a man from Boston and I’m—­oh, please, don’t anybody tell I said that!  I may not be, I just think so because he is so good-looking and—­”

“We must all go out to the Soldier’s Home to-morrow, a large committee, and take every good thing we can think up and make.  We must pay them so much attention that they will let us make a joke of it,” said Mrs. Matilda thinking immediately of the old fellows who “sat in the sun”—­waiting.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Peyton, “and we must go oftener.  We want some more committees.  It won’t be many years—­two were buried last week from the Home.”  There was a moment’s silence and the sun streamed in across the deserted tables.

“Oh,” murmured Caroline Darrah Brown with her eyes in a blaze, “I can’t stand it, Phoebe.  I never felt so before—­I who have no right.”

“Dear,” said Phoebe with a quiet though intensely sad smile, “this is just an afterglow of what they must have felt in those awful times.  Let’s get them started at the game.”

For just a moment longer Phoebe watched them in their heated discussion, then chose her time and her strong quiet voice commanded immediate attention.

“Girls,” she said, and as she spoke she held out her hand to Mrs. Peyton Kendrick with an audacious little smile.  Any woman from two to sixty likes to be called girl—­audaciously as Phoebe did it.  “Let’s leave it all to the men.  I think we can trust them to compel the judge to dine off his yesterday’s remarks in tomorrow’s papers.  And then if we don’t like the way they have settled with him we can have a gorgeous time telling them how much better they might have done it.  Let’s all play—­everybody for the game!”

“And Phoebe!” called Mrs. Payt as she sat down at the table farthest in the corner.  She spoke in a clear high-pitched voice that carried well over the rustle of settling gowns and shuffling cards:  “We all intend after this to see that David Kildare gets what he wants—­you understand?” A laugh rippled from every table but Phoebe was equal to the occasion.