Such a supper as I had I shall never forget.  And she sat beside me for long, neglecting her guests, and talking of my life.  Suddenly she turned to her husband, calling him by name.

“He is Alec Ritchie’s son,” she said, “and Alec has gone against Cameron.”

Mr. Lowndes did not answer, but nodded.

“And must he go to Temple Bow?”

“My dear,” said Mr. Lowndes, “I fear it is our duty to send him there.”

CHAPTER IV

TEMPLE BOW

In the morning I started for Temple Bow on horseback behind one of Mr. Lowndes’ negroes.  Good Mrs. Lowndes had kissed me at parting, and tucked into my pocket a parcel of sweetmeats.  There had been a few grave gentlemen to see me, and to their questions I had replied what I could.  But tell them of Mr. Temple I would not, save that he himself had told me nothing.  And Mr. Lowndes had presently put an end to their talk.

“The lad knows nothing, gentlemen,” he had said, which was true.

“David,” said he, when he bade me farewell, “I see that your father has brought you up to fear God.  Remember that all you see in this life is not to be imitated.”

And so I went off behind his negro.  He was a merry lad, and despite the great heat of the journey and my misgivings about Temple Bow, he made me laugh.  I was sad at crossing the ferry over the Ashley, through thinking of my father, but I reflected that it could not be long now ere I saw him again.  In the middle of the day we stopped at a tavern.  And at length, in the abundant shade of evening, we came to a pair of great ornamental gates set between brick pillars capped with white balls, and turned into a drive.  And presently, winding through the trees, we were in sight of a long, brick mansion trimmed with white, and a velvet lawn before it all flecked with shadows.  In front of the portico was a saddled horse, craning his long neck at two panting hounds stretched on the ground.  A negro boy in blue clutched the bridle.  On the horse-block a gentleman in white reclined.  He wore shiny boots, and he held his hat in his hand, and he was gazing up at a lady who stood on the steps above him.

The lady I remember as well—­Lord forbid that I should forget her.  And her laugh as I heard it that evening is ringing now in my ears.  And yet it was not a laugh.  Musical it was, yet there seemed no pleasure in it:  rather irony, and a great weariness of the amusements of this world:  and a note, too, from a vanity never ruffled.  It stopped abruptly as the negro pulled up his horse before her, and she stared at us haughtily.

“What’s this?” she said.

“Pardon, Mistis,” said the negro, “I’se got a letter from Marse Lowndes.”

“Mr. Lowndes should instruct his niggers,” she said.  “There is a servants’ drive.”  The man was turning his horse when she cried:  “Hold!  Let’s have it.”