She drew on her loose dogskin gloves and went out to overlook the shucking of the corn.

With the exercise in the open air she had gained in suppleness and brilliancy.  It was the outdoor work that saved her spirit and her beauty—­that gave her endurance for the indoor monotony and magnified the splendid optimism of her saddest hour.  She was a woman born for happiness; when the Fates failed to accord it she defied them and found her own.

In the autumn news came that Nicholas was elected to the General Assembly.  The judge brought it, riding out on a bright afternoon to chat with the general before the blazing logs.

“The lad has a future,” said the judge with a touch of pride.  “Brains don’t grow on blackberry vines;” then he laughed softly.  “Caesar voted for him,” he added.

The general slapped his knee.

“Caesar is a gentleman,” he exclaimed.  “He was the first darkey in Kingsborough to vote the Democratic ticket.  I walked up to the polls with him and the boys cheered him.  You weren’t there, George.”

The judge shook his head.

“They called it undue influence,” he said; “but, on my honour, Tom, I never spoke a political word to Caesar in my life.  Of course he’d heard me talk with Tom at dinner.  He’d heard me say that the man of his race who would dare to vote with white men would be head and shoulders above his people, a man of mind, a man that any gentleman in the county would be proud to shake by the hand—­but seek to influence Caesar!  Never, sir!”

“Now, there’s that Ishmael of mine,” said the general aggrievedly.  “He no sooner got his vote than he cast it just to spite me.  I told the fool he didn’t know any more about voting than the old mule Sairy did, and he said he didn’t have to know ‘nothin’ cep’n his name.’  He forgot that when they challenged him at the polls, but he voted all the same—­voted in my face, sir.”

They lighted their pipes and sang the praises of that idyllic period which they called “before the war,” while Eugenia crept away into the shadows.

She was glad that Nicholas would go; glad, glad, glad—­so glad that she wept a little in the cold of a dark corner.

A week later Dudley came down, and she met him with a friendliness that dismayed and disarmed him.  Could a woman be so frankly cordial with a man she loved?  Could she face a passion that inspired her with such serene self-poise?  He questioned these things, but he did not hesitate.  He was of a Virginian line of lovers, and he charged in courtship as courageously as his father had charged in battle.  He was magnificent in his youthful ardour, and so fitted for success that it seemed already to cast a prophetic halo about his head.

“You are superb,” Eugenia had said, half insolently, looking up at him as he stood in the firelight.  “How odd that I never noticed it before.”

“You are looking at yourself in my eyes,” he returned gallantly.