“They won’t—­they won’t.  Don’t you love Unity Dandridge?  Then let her live a little longer!”

“Kiss me—­”

Unity did as she was bid.  The sunlight left the hollow, but stayed bright upon the hills beyond.  It was August, but in a treetop somewhere a solitary bird was singing.  Nearer the earth the crickets and cicadas began their evening concert, a shrill drumming in the warm, still air.  There was a scent of dry grass, a feeling of summer at its full.  Dewy freshness, tender green, mist of bloom, and a thousand songs were far away, and yet upon the bench beneath the catalpa there was spring.

“The sun is setting,” said Unity at last.  “Let us go speak to Uncle Dick.”

“He’ll be glad, I think.  May I stay to supper?  I want to hear Unity Dandridge sing afterwards.”

“Yes, Uncle Dick will be glad—­he and Uncle Edward will be very glad.  I don’t believe that Unity Dandridge will want to sing to-night.  She’ll be thinking of that grave in the flower garden.”

“No!  She shall think of the sunrise at Greenwood—­sunrise and splendid roses and the million harps of heaven playing!”

“Oh!” cried Unity, “the sunrise at Greenwood should have been for your brother!”

“Yes, for him and your cousin.  Blind fate!  He is worth a thousand of me, and he sits lonely there in his house—­and I am here!”

“There’s no pure joy.”

“When I tell him to-night, he will feel but pure joy for me—­not one thought of self, of the sunrise he might have watched at Greenwood!  Oh, Justice and her balances!  There goes the last rim of the sun.”

“I’ll sing to you what you will—­and you may stay as long as you like—­and I’ll love you all my life.  Oh!  Now let’s go find Uncle Dick.”

Uncle Dick was easily found, being in fact upon the porch in his especial chair, with the dogs around him, and in his hand a silver goblet of mint and apple brandy.  “Hey!  What, what!” he cried, “has the jade said Yes at last?  Where’s Edward?  Edward, Edward!  Kiss me, you minx!  Fair, I wish that my dear friend, your father, were alive.  Well, well, patience does it, and the Lord knows, Unity, he’s been patient!  Oh, you black-eyed piece, you need a bit and bridle!  Here’s Edward!  Edward, the shrew’s tamed at last!  Such a wedding as Fontenoy will have!”

Four hours later, when supper was over, and Aunt Nancy in the “chamber” had been visited by the affianced pair, and all matters had been discussed, and Unity at the harpsichord had sung without protest a number of very sentimental songs, and Deb had gone unwillingly to bed, and first one uncle and then the other had thoughtfully faded from the drawing-room, and good-night, when it came to be said in the moonlit porch, took ten minutes to say, and the boy who brought around the visitor’s horse had caught with a grin and a “Thank’e, sah!” the whirling silver dollar, and Major Edward’s voice had sounded from the hail door behind Unity, “Good-night, Fair; bring Ludwell with you to-morrow night,” and Unity had echoed softly, “Yes, bring Ludwell,” and the last wave of the hand had been given, Fairfax Cary cantered down the driveway and through the lower gates.  Out upon the red highway he put his horse to the gallop, and rode with his bared head high to the wind and the stars of night.