“For what?”
“Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan’s men.”
“What would he do? Hang me, if he could?” asked Calhoun, bitterly.
“No, no, but—oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he sees you it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to New Lisbon; but they will be at home presently.”
With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he and Joyce enjoyed an hour’s sweet converse before her father and aunt returned.
When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said: “Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville, Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He has come to thank us for the kindness shown him.”
Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, “Mr. Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long since been forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor us by remaining and partaking of the repast with us.”
Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcome guest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope for the best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulously polite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talk and appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was glad when the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawford said: “Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversation with Mr. Pennington.” Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew that what was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of a flaming cannon.
The first question asked nearly took Calhoun’s breath away, it was so sudden and unexpected. It was, “Young man, why am I honored with this visit?”
“As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while an enforced guest in your house,” answered Calhoun, and then he mentally cursed himself for his cowardice.