Steps and voices died away.  The evening shadows lengthened, and filled the library where Uncle Edward sat, propping his lean old chin upon his lean old hand, and staring at a dim old clock in the corner, as if it could tell him more than the time of day.  He heard Mr. Pincornet’s fiddle from the long parlour in the other wing.  Since the doctor was come, the younger part of the gathering at Fontenoy had cheerfully returned to its business.  The dancing class was not long neglected.  Uncle Edward disliked France, disliked even monarchical and emigre France.  And he disliked all music but Jacqueline’s singing, and disliked the fiddle because Thomas Jefferson played it.  He half rose to shut the door and so keep out Mr. Pincornet’s Minuet from Ariadne, but reflected that the door would also keep out the doctor’s descending voice and final dicta delivered at the stair-foot.  Uncle Edward was as curious as a woman, and the door remained ajar.  He tried to read, but the words conveyed no meaning to his mind, which became more and more frowningly intent upon the fact of Jacqueline’s weeping.  What had the child to weep for?  He determined to send to Richmond to-morrow for a certain watch which he had in his mind,—­plain gold with J.C. upon it in pearls.  He reflected with satisfaction that Cary as well as Churchill began with a C.

The glass door led by a flight of steps down to the flower garden.  Deb came up the steps and into the library.  “Kiss me good-night, Uncle Edward.  It’s mos’ seven o’clock.  I’ve had my supper at the Quarter with Aunt Daphne.  The scarlet beans over her door are in bloom, and Uncle Mingo told me about the rabbit and the fox.  Miranda is going to put me to bed because Mammy Chloe is busy in the blue room with the doctor and the man whose horse threw him.”

Uncle Edward put his one arm around the child and drew her close to his chair.  Deb touched with her brown fingers the sleeve that was pinned across his coat.  “Does your arm that is buried at Yorktown hurt you to-day, Uncle Edward?  Tell me a story about General Washington.”

“No; you tell me a story.”

Deb considered.  “I’ll tell you a story about the man upstairs in the blue room.”

“What do you know about the man in the blue room?”

“Jacqueline told me.  She knows,” answered Deb.  “I am going to begin now, Uncle Edward.”

“I am listening,” said the Major.

“Once upon a time there lived on the Three-Notched Road a boy, a poor boy.  He lived in a log house that was not so good as an overseer’s house, and there were pine trees all around it, and wild flowers, but no other kinds of flowers.  And in the trees there were owls, and in the bushes there were whip-poor-wills, and sometimes a mockingbird, but no other kinds of birds, and at night the fireflies were all about.  And outside the pine trees, all around the house, the tobacco grew and grew.  It grew so broad and high that the children might have played I-spy in