“Mr. Ludwell Cary doesn’t like him either,” said Deb.  “Why, Jacqueline?”

“Mr. Ludwell Cary is his political opponent.”

“And Mr. Fairfax Cary called him a damned tobacco-roller’s son.”

Jacqueline reddened.  “Mr. Fairfax Cary might be thankful to have so informed a mind and heart.  It is well to blame a man for his birth!”

“Mr. Ludwell Cary said, ‘A man’s a man for a’ that.’  What does that mean, Jacqueline?”

“It means,” said Jacqueline, “that—­that man stamps the guinea, but God sees the gold.”

“Won’t you tell me a story?” demanded Deb.  “Tell me about the time when you were a little girl and you used to stay at Cousin Jane Selden’s.  And about the poor boy who lived on the next place—­and the apple tree and the little stream where you played, and the mockingbird he gave you.  And how his father was a cruel man, and you cried because he had to work so hard all day in the hot fields.  You haven’t told me that story for a long time.”

“I have forgotten it, Deb.”

“Then tell me about summer before last, when you were at Cousin Jane Selden’s again, and you were grown, and you saw the poor boy again—­only he was a man—­and his father was dead, and he talked to you in Cousin Jane Selden’s flower garden.  You never told me that story but once.”

“I have forgotten that one too.”

“Why does your breath come long like that, Jacqueline?  I have gotten my feet wet.  Will you tell Mammy Chloe not to whip Miranda?  Here is Uncle Edward!”

Major Edward Churchill entered from the garden, for which he had an attachment almost comparable to his love for the old Fontenoy library and the Fontenoy stables.  He was a gentleman of the old school, slight, withered, high-nosed and hawk-eyed, dressed with precision and carrying an empty sleeve.  The arm he had lost at Yorktown; a temper too hot to hold he daily lost, but he had the art to keep his friends.  There were duels to his account, as well as a reputation for great courage and coolness during the late war.  Under the name of Horatius he contributed to The Virginia Federalist diatribes of a polished ferocity against the Democrat-Republicans and their chief, and he owned Mustapha, the noblest race-horse of the day.  He was a bachelor, a member of the Cincinnati, a Black Cockade, a friend of Alexander Hamilton, a scholar, and a sceptic; a proud, high, fiery man, who had watched at the death-bed of many things.  He made his home with his brother, the master of Fontenoy; and his niece Jacqueline, the daughter of a younger, long dead brother, was to him youth, colour, music, and romance.

“The moss-rose is in bloom,” he announced, standing in the parlour door.  “Come see it, Jacqueline.”

They went out into the garden and stood before the moss-rose bush.  “Oh, beautiful!” exclaimed Jacqueline, and touched the rose with her lips.  It was sunny in the garden, and the box smelled strong and sweet.  The Major plucked a sprig and studied it as though box were a rarity.  “I have found,” he said, “Ludwell Cary’s visit highly agreeable.  He has come home to Virginia as likely a man as one could find in a summer day.  He adorns the state.  I predict for him a long and successful career.”