the old brick building.  For the first time those grim walls, which had been thrice overthrown and had arisen thrice from their ashes, impressed him with the triumphant service they had rendered in the culture of his kind.  He saw it as it was—­a sacred skeleton, an honourable decay.  The long line of illustrious hands that had procured its ancient charter seemed to wave a ghostly benediction over its ancient learning.  Clergy and burgesses, council and governor, planters of Virginia and bishops of London had stood by its birth.  It was the fruit of the union of the old world and the new, and it had waxed strong upon the milk of its mother ere it turned rebel.  Later, to its younger country, it had sent forth its sons as statesmen who gave glory to its name.  And through all its history it had overcome calamity and defied assault.  Thrice it had fallen and thrice it had rearisen.

He recalled next the sheltered alcove in the dim library, where he had studied with the consumptive young instructor, who was dead.  The creepers upon the wall were encroaching stealthily upon the alcove window.  Scarlet tendrils, like forked flames, licked the narrow ledge.  Several wet sparrows fluttered in and out among the leaves.

He turned hastily away, passed the great Englishman with unseeing eyes, clanged the iron gate heavily behind him, and went on towards the house of his father.

The family were at dinner when he entered, and he took his seat silently in the empty chair at his stepmother’s right hand.

As he sat down she reached out and felt his coat sleeve.

“I declar, Nick, you air soaked clean through,” she said.  “Anybody’d think you’d been layin’ out in the rain all night.  You go up and change your clothes an’ I’ll keep your dinner hot on the stove.”

Nicholas went upstairs mechanically, and when he came down his father had gone to the stable and his stepmother was alone in the kitchen.

She brought him his dinner, standing beside the table while he ate it, watching him with an intentness that was almost wistful.

“Would you like some molasses on your corn pone?” she asked as he finished and pushed his plate away.  Then, as he shook his head, she added hesitatingly, “It come from Jerry Pollard’s store.”

But he only shook his head again, following with his eyes the wave-like design on the mahogany-coloured oilcloth that covered the table.

Marthy Burr set the jug aside, nervously clearing her throat.

“I reckon Jerry Pollard has got one of the finest stores anywhar ’bouts,” she said suddenly.

Nicholas looked up quickly and met her eyes.  She was holding a dish of baked potatoes in one hand and the other was resting for support upon the edge of the table.  Her face was yellow and interlined, and a faint odour of camphor came from the bandage about her cheek.

“Yes,” he replied indifferently.  “He does a very good business.”