Miss Gordon folded up her work, laid it away in a dainty basket lined with blue satin and flounced with lace; and after pausing a moment to pet her Aunt’s white Maltese cat which lay dozing In the sunshine, walked away toward a Small hot-house, built quite near the dining-room, and connected with it by an arcade, covered in summer by vines, in winter by glass.

Twenty-four years before that day, when a proud, fond young mother puffed and tucked the marvel of lace and linen cambric, which was intended as a christening robe for her baby, and laid it away with spicery of rose leaves and sachet of lavender and deer tongue, to wait until a “furlough” allowed the child’s father to be present at the baptism, she had supposed that its delicate folds would one day adorn a dimpled rosy-faced infant, for whom the name Aurelia Gordon had long been selected.  Fate cruelly vetoed all the details of the programme, carefully arranged by maternal affection; and the lurid sun that set in clouds of smoke on one of the most desperate battles of the Confederacy, saw Colonel Gordon’s brave, patriotic soul released on that long “furlough” which glory granted her heroes; saw his devoted wife a wailing widow.  The red burial of battle had precluded the solemnization of baptismal rites at the sacred marble font; and when four days after Colonel Gordon’s death, his frail young wife welcomed the summons to an everlasting re-union, she laid her cold hands on her baby’s golden head, and died, as she whispered: 

“Name her Leo, for her father.”

So it came to pass, that the clergyman who read the burial service beside the mother’s coffin, lifted the cooing infant in the midst of a weeping funeral throng, and with a faltering voice baptized her, in the presence of the dead, Leo Gordon,

To the care of her sister Patty, and of her widowed brother, Judge Dent, Mrs. Gordon had consigned her child; and transplanted so early to her uncle’s house, the orphan knew no other home.

When the problem of vast numerical preponderance had solved itself in accordance with the rules of avoirdupois, and history—­fond like all garrulous old crones of repeating even her inglorious episodes—­ had triumphantly inscribed on her bloody tablets, that once more the Few were throttled and trampled by the Many, then the fabled “Ragnarok” of the Sagas described only approximately the doom of the devastated South.  In the financial and social chaos that followed the invasion by “loyal” hordes, rushing under “sealed orders” on the mission of “Reconstruction,” and eminently successful in “reconstructing” their individual fortunes, an anomaly presented itself for the consideration of political economists.  The wealthy classes of ante bellum days were the most destitute paupers that the newly-risen Union sun shone upon.

The French Revolution and its subsequent eruptions of Communism failed to destroy the value of land; and the emancipation of Russian serfs may have stimulated agricultural activity, but that political and social Communism which the Pandora of “reconstruction” let loose throughout the conquered States of the South, accomplished all that the victors could have desired.