Once, only once, he said to her:  “Virginia, I loved your father better than any man I ever knew.  Please God I may see him again before I die.”

He never spoke of the piano.  But sometimes at twilight his eyes would rest on the black cloth that hid it.

Virginia herself never touched that cloth to her it seemed the shroud upon a life of happiness that was dead and gone.

Virginia had not been with Judge Whipple during the critical week after Stephen was brought home.  But Anne had told her that his anxiety was a pitiful thing to see, and that it had left him perceptibly weaker.  Certain it was that he was failing fast.  So fast that on some days Virginia, watching him, would send Ned or Shadrach in hot haste for Dr. Polk.

At noon Anne would relieve Virginia,—­Anne or her mother,—­and frequently Mr. Brinsmade would come likewise.  For it is those who have the most to do who find the most time for charitable deeds.  As the hour for their coming drew near, the Judge would be seeking the clock, and scarce did Anne’s figure appear in the doorway before the question had arisen to his lips—­“And how is my young Captain to-day?”

That is what he called him,—­“My young Captain.”  Virginia’s choice of her cousin, and her devotion to him, while seemingly natural enough, had drawn many a sigh from Anne.  She thought it strange that Virginia herself had never once asked her about Stephen’s condition and she spoke of this one day to the Judge with as much warmth as she was capable of.

“Jinny’s heart is like steel where a Yankee is concerned.  If her best friend were a Yankee—­”

Judge Whipple checked her, smiling.

“She has been very good to one Yankee I know of,” he said.  “And as for Mrs. Brice, I believe she worships her.”

“But when I said that Stephen was much better to-day, she swept out of the room as if she did not care whether he lived or died.”

“Well, Anne,” the Judge had answered, “you women are a puzzle to me.  I guess you don’t understand yourselves,” he added.

That was a strange month in the life of Clarence Colfax,—­the last of his recovery, while he was waiting for the news of his exchange.  Bellegarde was never more beautiful, for Mrs. Colfax had no whim of letting the place run down because a great war was in progress.  Though devoted to the South, she did not consecrate her fortune to it.  Clarence gave as much as he could.

Whole afternoons Virginia and he would sit in the shaded arbor seat; or at the cool of the day descend to the bench on the lower tier of the summer garden, to steep, as it were, in the blended perfumes of the roses and the mignonettes and the pinks.  He was soberer than of old.  Often through the night he pondered on the change in her.  She, too, was grave.  But he was troubled to analyze her gravity, her dignity.  Was this merely strength of character, the natural result of the trials through which she had passed, the habit acquired of being the Helper and comforter instead of the helped and comforted?  Long years afterward the brightly colored portrait of her remained in his eye,—­the simple linen gown of pink or white, the brown hair shining in the sunlight, the graceful poise of the head.  And the background of flowers—­flowers everywhere, far from the field of war.