Major Churchill, playing Patience at the small table, raised his head like a war-horse.  “Nonsense! widen on one side and you will fall into the river; on the other, and a pretty cliff you’ll have to climb!  You could as well widen the way between Scylla and Charybdis—­or Mahomet’s Bridge to Paradise—­or Thomas Jefferson’s Natural Bridge!  Pshaw!” He began to build from the five of clubs.

“A detour can be made,” said Colonel Dick.

“Around the Blue Ridge?” asked the Major scornfully.  “Pshaw!  And it passes my comprehension what a stage-coach would do in that country.  There are not ten houses on that cart track.”

“Nonsense! there are fifty.”

“Fifty-three, I assure you, sir.”

The Major laid down his cards and turned in his chair.  “I counted every structure the last time I was on that road.  Taking in Fagg’s Mill and Brown’s Ferry and the Mountain Schoolhouse, there are just ten houses.  It is my habit, sir, to reckon accurately.”

Mr. Hunter grew red.  “But, sir, the count was taken before the last election, and fifty-three—­”

“Ten, sir!” said the Major, and placed the queen of diamonds.

“When did you ride that way, Edward?” queried his brother.  “I don’t believe you’ve been across the mountain since the war.”

“I was on that road in ’87,” said the Major.  “I rode that way on the sixth of April with Clark.  And there are ten houses; I counted them.”

“But good Lord, sir, this is 1804!”

The Major’s hawk eyes, dark and bright beneath shaggy brows, regarded Mr. Ned Hunter with disfavour.  “I am aware, sir, that this is 1804,” he said, and placed the king of diamonds.

Jacqueline arose from her chair beside the open window, softly crossed the floor, and touched Colonel Churchill upon the arm.  “Uncle Dick,” she murmured, and with the slightest of gestures indicated Rand standing in the door.

Colonel Churchill started, precipitantly left Mr. Hunter, and crossed the floor to his guest of two weeks.  “My dear sir, you came in so quietly!  I welcome you downstairs.  Gilmer says you’re a strong fighter.  When I was thrown at that same turn coming home from a wedding, I believe I was in bed for a month!—­Allow me to present you to my nieces—­Miss Churchill, Miss Dandridge.  My poor wife, you know, never leaves her chamber.  Mr. Ned Hunter, Mr. Rand.  Mr. Fairfax Cary I think you know, and my brother Edward.”

The young men’s greeting, if somewhat constrained, was courteous.  Major Churchill played the card which he held in his hand, then slowly rose, came stiffly from behind the small table, and made an elaborate bow.  There was in his acknowledgment of the honour of Mr. Rand’s acquaintance so much accent, cruelty, and hauteur that the younger man flushed.  “This is an enemy,” said a voice within him.  He bowed in return, and he no longer felt any distrust of himself.  When Miss Dandridge, leaving the