The Colonel made no secret of his uneasiness.  With his hat on his head, and his hands in his pockets, he paced up and down the room.  He let his cigar go out,—­a more serious sign still.  Finally he stood with his face to the black window, against which the big drops were beating in a fury.

Virginia sat expressionless at the head of the table, still in that gown of white and crimson, which she had worn in honor of the defenders of the state.  Expressionless, save for a glance of solicitation at her father’s back.  If resolve were feminine, Virginia might have sat for that portrait.  There was a light in her dark blue eyes.  Underneath there were traces of the day’s fatigue.  When she spoke, there was little life in her voice.

“Aren’t you going to the Planters’ House, Pa The Colonel turned, and tried to smile.

“I reckon not to-night, Jinny.  Why?”

“To find out what they are going to do with Clarence,” she said indignantly.

“I reckon they don’t know at the Planters’ House,” he said.

“Then—­” began Virginia, and stopped.

“Then what?” he asked, stroking her hair.

“Then why not go to the Barracks?  Order the carriage, and I will go with you.”

His smile faded.  He stood looking down at her fixedly, as was sometimes his habit.  Grave tenderness was in his tone.

“Jinny,” he said slowly, “Jinny, do you mean to marry Clarence?”

The suddenness of the question took her breath.  But she answered steadily: 

“Yes.”

“Do you love him?

“Yes,” she answered.  But her lashes fell.

Still he stood, and it seemed to her that her father’s gaze pierced to her secret soul.

“Come here, my dear,” he said.

He held out his arms, and she fluttered into them.  The tears were come at last.  It was not the first time she had cried out her troubles against that great heart which had ever been her strong refuge.  From childhood she had been comforted there.  Had she broken her doll, had Mammy Easter been cross, had lessons gone wrong at school, was she ill, or weary with that heaviness of spirit which is woman’s inevitable lot,—­this was her sanctuary.  But now!  This burden God Himself had sent, and none save her Heavenly Father might cure it.  Through his great love for her it was given to Colonel Carvel to divine it—­only vaguely.

Many times he strove to speak, and could not.  But presently, as if ashamed of her tears, she drew back from him and took her old seat on the arm of his chair.

By the light of his intuition, the Colonel chose tins words well.  What he had to speak of was another sorrow, yet a healing one.

“You must not think of marriage now, my dear, when the bread we eat may fail us.  Jinny, we are not as rich as we used to be.  Our trade was in the South and West, and now the South and West cannot pay.  I had a conference with Mr. Hopper yesterday, and he tells me that we must be prepared.”