“Does it so much matter that you are Federalist and he Republican?”

“It matters very little.”

“Or that you are a Cary, with all that that means, while he is Lewis Rand from the Three-Notched Road?”

“That matters not at all.”

“Or that you are rival lawyers?  Or that in politics he has defeated you?  Or—­Oh, my friend, now I am dealing unjustly!  Forgive me—­forgive me and make friends!”

“Would he,” asked Cary sombrely—­“would he agree?  I think not.  I am sure not.  I think rather that he cherishes this enmity, feeds it, and fans it.  Our lines in life have crossed, and now there is no force can lay them parallel.  The sun is sinking, and I must see Major Edward again.”

She rose from her seat beneath the cedar.  “I’ll hope on,” she said.  “Some day, if we live long enough, all clouds will break.  Time withstands even the stony heart.”

“Do you think,” he demanded, “that mine is a stony heart?  Well, be it so, since this is a game of misunderstanding!  I will say this.  If I could come, the next nineteenth of February, to your house on Shockoe Hill, and find him there, and find you happy with him there, then, then I think I would clasp hands—­”

“Ah,” she cried, “do not wait until February!  We shall be there on Shockoe Hill in November.”

He stooped and lifted her branch of ironweed.  “You are sure?”

“Why, yes,” she answered.  “The house has been retaken.  We go to Richmond as soon as Lewis comes back from over the mountains.”

“From—­”

“He has bought land in the western part of the state.  He is going on a journey soon to examine it.”

“Toward the Ohio?”

“Yes; toward the Ohio.  How did you know?”

“And you—­you will not go with him?”

“He has talked of my going.  But I cannot now that my aunt is ill.”

“Perhaps he will wait?”

“Yes; he says that he will.  How pale you are!  I am sure you are not well?”

They had stepped from out the wood into the light of the garden.  She looked at him with concern, but be dismissed her question with a gesture of his hand and a laugh that sounded strangely in her ears.  “It is,” he said, “the fading light.  Are you going in now?”

“Not yet.  Daphne is ill at the quarter, and I’ll walk down to her cabin first.  Do you stay to supper?”

“No, not to-night.  But I wish to see Major Edward again.  If you’ll allow me, I will go on to the library.”

“Certainly,” answered Jacqueline, and, when he had kissed her hand and said good-bye, watched him across the flower garden and up the steps that led to the glass doors.  He passed into the room, out of her sight, but she still stood there among the asters and the box.  His look was strange, she thought, and her hand had been crushed, rather than held, to his lips.  She drew her scarf about her; the September evening was falling chill.