There was the grave of the Major’s father which he knew so well; next that, to the left, was a new mound under which rested the Major himself.  To the right was a stone marked “Chadwick Buford, born in Virginia, 1750, died in Kentucky”—­and then another stone marked simply: 

Mary Buford.

“He had both brought from the mountains,” said Margaret, softly, “and the last time he was out of the house was when he leaned here to watch them buried there.  He said there would always be a place next your mother for you.  ’Tell the boy that,’ he said.”  Chad put his arms around the tombstone and then sank on one knee by his mother’s grave.  It was strewn with withered violets.

“You—­you did that, Margaret?”

Margaret nodded through her tears.

. . . . . . .

The wonder of it!  They stood very still, looking for a long time into each other’s eyes.  Could the veil of the hereafter have been lifted for them at that moment and they have seen themselves walking that same garden path, hand in hand, their faces seamed with age to other eyes, but changed in not a line to them, the vision would not have added a jot to their perfect faith.  They would have nodded to each other and smiled—­“Yes, we know, we know!” The night, the rushing earth, the star-swept spaces of the infinite held no greater wonder than was theirs—­they held no wonder at all.  The moon shone, that night, for them; the wind whispered, leaves danced, flowers nodded, and crickets chirped from the grass for them; the farthest star kept eternal lids apart just for them and beyond, the Maker himself looked down, that night, just to bless them.

Back they went through the old garden, hand in hand.  No caress had ever passed between these two.  That any man could ever dare even to dream of touching her sacred lips had been beyond the boy’s imaginings—­such was the reverence in his love for her—­and his very soul shook when, at the gate, Margaret’s eyes dropped from his to the sabre cut on his cheek and she suddenly lifted her face.

“I know how you got that, Chad,” she said, and with her lips she gently touched the scar.  Almost timidly the boy drew her to him.  Again her lips were lifted in sweet surrender, and every wound that he had known in his life was healed.

. . . . . .

“I’ll show you your horse, Chad.”

They did not waken old Tom, but went around to the stable and Chad led out a handsome colt, his satiny coat shining in the moonlight like silver.  He lifted his proud head, when he saw Margaret, and whinnied.

“He knows his mistress, Margaret—­and he’s yours.”

“Oh, no, Chad.”

“Yes,” said Chad, “I’ve still got Dixie.”

“Do you still call her Dixie?”

“All through the war.”

Homeward they went through the dewy fields.

“I wish I could have seen the Major before he died.  If he could only have known how I suffered at causing him so much sorrow.  And if you could have known.”