It was late in the afternoon. The sun hung low in the west, looking fiery red, which promised a fair day on the morrow. Once he had his letters, however, Tom paid but scant attention to anything else.
His news from Virginia must have been pleasant, if one could judge from the smile that rested upon his wind and sun-tanned face as he read on. Again in memory he could see those loved ones in the old familiar haunts, going about their daily tasks, or enjoying themselves as usual. And whenever they sat under the well-remembered tree in the cool of the early fall evening, with the soft Virginia air fanning their cheeks, the red and golden hues of frost-touched leaves above them, he knew their talk was mostly of him, the absent one, most fondly loved.
Tom looked up. He thought he had heard a groan, or something very similar, break from the lips of his chum. It startled Tom so that when he saw how troubled Jack looked a spasm of alarm gripped his heart.
"Why, what is the matter with you?" he cried, leaning forward and laying a hand on the other's arm. "Have you had bad news from home?"
Jack nodded his head, and as he turned his eyes his chum saw there was a look of acute anxiety in them.
"No one dead, or sick, I hope, Jack?" continued the other apprehensively.
"No, at least that is spared me, Tom; they are all well. But just the same, it's a bad muddle. And the worst of it is I'm thousands of miles off, held up by army regulations, when I ought to get home for a short visit right away."
"See here, is it anything connected with that Burson property—has that matter come to a head at last?" demanded Tom, as a light dawned upon him.
"Nothing less," assented the other gloomily. "The issue has been suddenly forced, and may be settled any day. If I'm not there, according to the eccentric will of my uncle, Joshua Adams Kinkaid, that property will fall into the hands of my cousin, Randolph Carringford, who, as we both know, is just at present over here acting in a confidential capacity to some Government official."
"Yes, I've seen him," said Tom, frowning. "And to tell the honest truth his face didn't impress me strongly. In fact, I didn't like your cousin. What's the use? All Virginia knows that Randolph Carringford is a black sheep—that no decent man or woman will acknowledge him for a friend. Wonder what Joshua Kinkaid meant, anyhow, by ringing him in. But are the lands worth as much as it was believed, Jack?"