But mark how certain matters are beyond us.  Not caring to sit out the meeting on the platform, he made his way down the side of the crowded hall, and ran into (of all people) big Tom Catherwood.  As the Southern Rights politics of the Catherwood family were a matter of note in the city, Stephen did not attempt to conceal his astonishment.  Tom himself was visibly embarrassed.  He congratulated Stephen on his speech, and volunteered the news that he had come in a spirit of fairness to hear what the intelligent leaders of the Republican party, such as Judge Whipple, had to say.  After that he fidgeted.  But the sight of him started in Stephen a train of thought that closed his ears for once to the Judge’s words.  He had had before a huge liking for Tom.  Now he admired him, for it was no light courage that took one of his position there.  And Stephen remembered that Tom was not risking merely the displeasure of his family and his friends, but likewise something of greater value than, either.  From childhood Tom had been the devoted slave of Virginia Carvel, with as little chance of marrying her as a man ever had.  And now he was endangering even that little alliance.

And so Stephen began to think of Virginia, and to wonder what she would wear at Anne’s party; and to speculate how she would have treated him if had gone.  To speak truth, this last matter had no little weight in his decision to stay away.  But we had best leave motives to those whose business and equipment it is to weigh to a grain.  Since that agonizing moment when her eyes had met his own among the curiously vulgar at the Fair, Stephen’s fear of meeting Virginia had grown to the proportions of a terror.  And yet there she was in his mind, to take possession of it on the slightest occasion.

When Judge Whipple had finished, Tom rose.  He awoke Mr. Brice from a trance.

“Stephen,” said he, “of course you’re going to the Brinsmade’s.”

Stephen shook his head.

“Why not?” said Tom, in surprise.  “Haven’t you a costume?”

“Yes,” he answered dubiously.

“Why, then, you’ve got to come with me,” says Tom, heartily.  “It isn’t too late, and they’ll want you.  I’ve a buggy, and I’m going to the Russells’ to change my clothes.  Came along”

Steven went.

CHAPTER XIII

AT MR. BRINSMADE’S GATE

The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by the big drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball.  From the windows might be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Waters below.  But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coat of soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossoms still fall thinly in the spring.  The huge black town has coiled about the place the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forest are dying and dead.  Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive of fashion, is no more.  Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow its once rural windings, and gone forever are those comely wooded hills and green pastures,—­save in the memory of those who have been spared to dream.