In silence they watched him as he strode off under the trees through tall grass, a yellow setter at his heels.  A strange peace was over Stephen.  The shadows of the walnuts and hickories were growing long, and a rich country was giving up its scent to the evening air.  From a cabin behind the house was wafted the melody of a plantation song.  To the young man, after the burnt city, this was paradise.  And then he remembered his mother as she must be sitting on the tiny porch in town, and sighed.  Only two years ago she had been at their own place at Westbury.

He looked up, and saw the girl watching him.  He dared not think that the expression he caught was one of sympathy, for it changed instantly.

“I am afraid you are the silent kind, Mr. Brice,” said she; “I believe it is a Yankee trait.”

Stephen laughed.

“I have known a great many who were not,” said he, “When they are garrulous, they are very much so.”

“I should prefer a garrulous one,” said Virginia.

“I should think a Yankee were bad enough, but a noisy Yankee not to be put up with,” he ventured.

Virginia did not deign a direct reply to this, save by the corners of her mouth.

“I wonder,” said she, thoughtfully, “whether it is strength of mind or a lack of ideas that makes them silent.”

“It is mostly prudence,” said Mr. Brice.  “Prudence is our dominant trait.”

Virginia fidgeted.  Usually she had an easier time.

“You have not always shown it,” she said, with an innocence which in women is often charged with meaning.

Stephen started.  Her antagonism was still there.  He would have liked greatly to know whether she referred to his hasty purchase of Hester, or to his rashness in dancing with her at her party the winter before.

“We have something left to be thankful for,” he answered.  “We are still capable of action.”

“On occasions it is violence,” said Virginia, desperately.  This man must not get ahead of her.

“It is just as violent,” said he, “as the repressed feeling which prompts it.”

This was a new kind of conversation to Virginia.  Of all the young men she knew, not one had ever ventured into anything of the sort.  They were either flippant, or sentimental, or both.  She was at once flattered and annoyed, flattered, because, as a woman, Stephen had conceded her a mind.  Many of the young men she knew had minds, but deemed that these were wasted on women, whose language was generally supposed to be a kind of childish twaddle.  Even Jack Brinsmade rarely risked his dignity and reputation at an intellectual tilt.  This was one of Virginia’s grievances.  She often argued with her father, and, if the truth were told, had had more than one victory over Judge Whipple.