Somewhere during the afternoon there had returned to Queed the words in which Sharlee Weyland had pointed out to him—­quite unnecessarily—­that he was standing here between two civilizations.  On the porch now sat Miss Weyland’s grandmother, representative of the dead aristocracy.  By his side stood, clearly, a representative of the rising democracy—­one of those “splendid young men” who, the girl thought, would soon be beating the young men of the North at every turn.  It was valuable professionally to catch the point of view of these new democrats; and now he had grasped the fact that whatever the changes in outward form, it had an unbroken sentimental continuity with the type which it was replacing.

“Did you ever hear Ben Hill’s tribute to Lee?” inquired the young man presently.

Queed happened to know it very well.  However, the other could not be restrained from reciting it for his own satisfaction.

“It is good—­a good piece of writing and a fine tribute,” said Queed.  “However, I read a shorter and in some ways an even better one in Harper’s Weekly the other day.”

“Harper’s Weekly! Good Heavens!  They’ll find out that William Lloyd Garrison was for us next.  What’d it say?”

“It was in answer to some correspondents who called Lee a traitor.  The editor wrote five lines to say that, while it would be exceedingly difficult ever to make ‘traitor’ a word of honorable distinction, it would be done if people kept on applying it to Lee.  In that case, he said, we should have to find a new word to mean what traitor means now.”

The young man thought this over until its full meaning sank into him.  “I don’t know how you could say anything finer of a man,” he remarked presently, “than that applying a disgraceful epithet to him left him entirely untouched, but changed the whole meaning of the epithet.  By George, that’s pretty fine!”

“My only criticism on the character, or rather on the greatness, of Lee,” said Queed, introspectively, “is that, so far as I have ever read, he never got angry.  One feels that a hero should be a man of terrible passions, so strong that once or twice in his life they get away from him.  Washington always seems a bigger man because of his blast at Charles Lee.”

The young man seemed interested by this point of view.  He said that he would ask Mrs. Beauregard about it.

Not much later he said with a sigh:  “Well!—­It’s about over.  And now I must pay for my fun—­duck back to the office for a special night session.”

Queed had taken a vague fancy to this youth, whose enviably pleasant manners reminded him somehow of Charles Gardiner West.  “I supposed that it was only in newspaper offices that work went on without regard to holidays.”

The young man laughed, and held out his hand.  “I’m very industrious, if you please.  I’m delighted to have met you, Mr. Queed—­I’ve known of you for a long time.  My name’s Byrd—­Beverley Byrd—­and I wish you’d come and see me some time.  Good-by.  I hope I haven’t bored you with all my war-talk.  I lost a grandfather and three uncles in it, and I can’t help being interested.”