The Colonel passed his arm around his daughter, and pulled his goatee thoughtfully.  And Virginia, glancing shyly upward, saw a smile in the creases about his mouth:  She smiled, too, and then the tears hid him from her.

Strange that the face which in anger withered cowards and made men look grave, was capable of such infinite tenderness,—­tenderness and sorrow.  The Colonel took Virginia in his arms, and she sobbed against his shoulder, as of old.

“Jinny, did he—?”

“Yes—­”

“Lige was right, and—­and you, Jinny—­I should never have trusted him.  The sneak!”

Virginia raised her head.  The sun was slanting in yellow bars through the branches of the great trees, and a robin’s note rose above the bass chorus of the frogs.  In the pauses, as she listened, it seemed as if she could hear the silver sound of the river over the pebbles far below.

“Honey,” said the Colonel,—­“I reckon we’re just as poor as white trash.”

Virginia smiled through her tears.

“Honey,” he said again, after a pause, “I must keep my word and let him have the business.”

She did not reproach him.

“There is a little left, a very little,” he continued slowly, painfully.  “I thank God that it is yours.  It was left you by Becky—­by your mother.  It is in a railroad company in New York, and safe, Jinny.”

“Oh, Pa, you know that I do not care,” she cried.  “It shall be yours and mine together.  And we shall live out here and be happy.”

But she glanced anxiously at him nevertheless.  He was in his familiar posture of thought, his legs slightly apart, his felt hat pushed back, stroking his goatee.  But his clear gray eyes were troubled as they sought hers, and she put her hand to her breast.

“Virginia,” he said, “I fought for my country once, and I reckon I’m some use yet awhile.  It isn’t right that I should idle here, while the South needs me, Your Uncle Daniel is fifty-eight, and Colonel of a Pennsylvania regiment.—­Jinny, I have to go.”

Virginia said nothing.  It was in her blood as well as his.  The Colonel had left his young wife, to fight in Mexico; he had come home to lay flowers on her grave.  She knew that he thought of this; and, too, that his heart was rent at leaving her.  She put her hands on his shoulders, and he stooped to kiss her trembling lips.

They walked out together to the summer-house, and stood watching the glory of the light on the western hills.  “Jinn,” said the Colonel, “I reckon you will have to go to your Aunt Lillian.  It—­it will be hard.  But I know that my girl can take care of herself.  In case—­in case I do not come back, or occasion should arise, find Lige.  Let him take you to your Uncle Daniel.  He is fond of you, and will be all alone in Calvert House when the war is over.  And I reckon that is all I have to say.  I won’t pry into your heart, honey.  If you love Clarence, marry him.  I like the boy, and I believe he will quiet down into a good man.”