Still the old house stands, begrimed but stately, rebuking the sordid life around it.  Still come into it the Brinsmades to marriage and to death.  Five and sixty years are gone since Mr. Calvin Brinsmade took his bride there.  They sat on the porch in the morning light, harking to the whistle of the quail in the corn, and watching the frightened deer scamper across the open.  Do you see the bride in her high-waisted gown, and Mr. Calvin in his stock and his blue tail-coat and brass buttons?

Old people will tell you of the royal hospitality then, of the famous men and women who promenaded under those chandeliers, and sat down to the game-laden table.  In 1835 General Atkinson and his officers thought nothing of the twenty miles from Jefferson Barracks below, nor of dancing all night with the Louisville belles, who were Mrs. Brinsmade’s guests.  Thither came Miss Todd of Kentucky, long before she thought of taking for a husband that rude man of the people, Abraham Lincoln.  Foreigners of distinction fell in love with the place, with its open-hearted master and mistress, and wrote of it in their journals.  Would that many of our countrymen, who think of the West as rough, might have known the quality of the Brinsmades and their neighbors!

An era of charity, of golden simplicity, was passing on that October night of Anne Brinsmade’s ball.  Those who made merry there were soon to be driven and scattered before the winds of war; to die at Wilson’s Creek, or Shiloh, or to be spared for heroes of the Wilderness.  Some were to eke out a life of widowhood in poverty.  All were to live soberly, chastened by what they had seen.  A fear knocked at Colonel Carvel’s heart as he stood watching the bright figures.

“Brinsmade,” he said, “do you remember this room in May, ’46?”

Mr. Brinsmade, startled, turned upon him quickly.

“Why, Colonel, you have read my very thoughts,” he said.  “Some of those who were here then are—­are still in Mexico.”

“And some who came home, Brinsmade, blamed God because they had not fallen,” said the Colonel.

“Hush, Comyn, His will be done,” he answered; “He has left a daughter to comfort you.”

Unconsciously their eyes sought Virginia.  In her gown of faded primrose and blue with its quaint stays and short sleeves, she seemed to have caught the very air of the decorous century to which it belonged.  She was standing against one of the pilasters at the side of the room, laughing demurely at the antics of Becky Sharp and Sir John Falstaff,—­Miss Puss Russell and Mr. Jack Brinsmade, respectively.

Mr. Tennyson’s “Idylls” having appeared but the year before, Anne was dressed as Elaine, a part which suited her very well.  It was strange indeed to see her waltzing with Daniel Boone (Mr. Clarence Colfax) in his Indian buckskins.  Eugenie went as Marie Antoinette.  Tall Maude Catherwood was most imposing as Rebecca; and her brother George made a towering Friar Tuck, Even little fifteen-year-old Spencer Catherwood, the contradiction of the family, was there.  He went as the lieutenant Napoleon, walking about with his hands behind his back and his brows thoughtfully contracted.