She went up into her own deserted room to gather the few things she would take with her—­the little jewellery case with the necklace of pearls which her great-grandmother had worn at her wedding.  Rosetta and Mammy Easter were of no use, and she had sent them downstairs again.  With a flutter she opened her wardrobe door, to take one last look at the gowns there.  You will pardon her.  They were part of happier days gone by.  She fell down on her knees and opened the great drawer at the bottom, and there on the top lay the dainty gown which had belonged to Dorothy Manners.  A tear fell upon one of the flowers of the stays.  Irresistibly pressed into her mind the memory of Anne’s fancy dress ball,—­of the episode by the gate, upon which she had thought so often with burning face.

The voices below grow louder, but she does not hear.  She is folding the gown hurriedly into a little package.  It was her great-grandmother’s; her chief heirloom after the pearls.  Silk and satin from Paris are left behind.  With one glance at the bed in which she had slept since childhood, and at the picture over it which had been her mother’s, she hurries downstairs.  And Dorothy Manners’s gown is under her arm.  On the landing she stops to brush her eyes with her handkerchief.  If only her father were here!

Ah, here is Ned back again.  Has Mr. Brinsmade come?

What did he say?  Ned simply pointed out a young man standing on the steps behind the negroes.  Crimson stains were on Virginia’s cheeks, and the package she carried under her arm was like lead.  The young man, although he showed no signs of excitement, reddened too as he came forward and took off his hat.  But the sight of him had acurious effect upon Virginia, of which she was at first unconscious.  A sense of security came upon her as she looked at his face and listened to his voice.

“Mr. Brinsmade has gone to the hospital, Miss Carvel,” he said.  “Mrs. Brinsmade asked me to come here with your man in the hope that I might persuade you to stay where you are.”

“Then the Germans are not moving on the city?” she said.

In spite of himself, Stephen smiled.  It was that smile that angered her, that made her rebel against the advice he had to offer; that made her forget the insult he had risked at her hands by coming there.  For she believed him utterly, without reservation.  The moment he had spoken she was convinced that the panic was a silly scare which would be food for merriment in future years.  And yet—­was not that smile in derision of herself—­of her friends who were running away?  Was it not an assumption of Northern superiority, to be resented?

“It is only a malicious rumor, Miss Carvel,” he answered.  “You have been told so upon good authority, I suppose,” she said dryly.  And at the change in her tone she saw his face fall.