Virginia’s heart had leaped within her at the words, and into her eyes had flashed once more the look for which the boy had waited and hoped in vain.  He had the carriage of a soldier, the animation and endurance of the thoroughbred when roused.  He was of the stuff that made the resistance of the South the marvel of the world.  And well we know, whatever the sound of it, that his speech was not heroics.  Nor was it love for his cousin that inspired it, save in this:  he had apotheosized Virginia.  To him she was the inspired goddess of the South—­his country.  His admiration and affection had of late been laid upon an altar.  Her ambition for him he felt was likewise the South’s ambition for him.

His mother, Virginia’s aunt, felt this too, and strove against it with her feeble might.  She never had had power over her son; nor over any man, save the temporal power of beauty.  And to her mortification she found herself actually in fear of this girl who might have been her daughter.  So in Virginia’s presence she became more trivial and petty than ever.  It was her one defence.

It had of course been a foregone conclusion that Clarence should join Company A. Few young men of family did not.  And now he ran to his room to don for Virginia that glorious but useless full dress,—­the high bearskin rat, the red pigeon-tailed coat, the light blue trousers, and the gorgeous, priceless shackle.  Indeed, the boy looked stunning.  He held his big rifle like a veteran, and his face was set with a high resolve there was no mistaking.  The high color of her pride was on the cheek of the girl as he brought his piece to the salute of her, his mistress.  And yet, when he was gone, and she sat alone amid the roses awaiting him, came wilfully before her another face that was relentless determination,—­the face of Stephen Brice, as he had stood before her in the summer house at Glencoe.  Strive as she might against the thought, deny it to herself and others, to Virginia Carvel his way become the face of the North.  Her patriotism and all that was in her of race rebelled.  To conquer that face she would have given her own soul, and Clarence’s.  Angrily she had arisen and paced the garden walks, and cried out aloud that it was not inflexible.

And now, by the car window, looking out over the endless roll of the prairie, the memory of this was bitter within her.

Suddenly she turned to her father.

“Did you rent our house at Glencoe?” she asked.

“No, Jinny.”

“I suppose Mr. Brice was too proud to accept it at your charitable rent, even to save Mr, Whipple’s life.”

The Colonel turned to his daughter in mild surprise.  She was leaning back on the seat, her eyes half closed.

“Once you dislike a person, Jinny, you never get over it.  I always had a fancy for the young man, and now I have a better opinion of him than ever before.  It was I who insulted them by naming that rent.”