“Let me get inside,” said Betty, quickly. Her face had gone white, but she thanked Jack when he picked up the shawl she dropped, and went steadily into the coach. “We may as well go back,” she added with a little laugh.
Mrs. Lightfoot threw an anxious look into her face.
“We must consider the horses, my dear,” she responded. “Mr. Hicks, will you see that the horses are well fed and watered. Let them take their time.”
“Oh, I forgot the horses,” returned Betty apologetically, and patiently sat down with her arm leaning in the window. There was a smile on her lips, and she stared with bright eyes at the oak trees and the children playing among the acorns.
XIV. — THE HUSH BEFORE THE STORM
The autumn crept into winter; the winter went by, short and fitful, and the spring unfolded slowly. With the milder weather the mud dried in the roads, and the Major and the Governor went daily into Leicesterburg. The younger man had carried his oratory and his influence into the larger cities of the state, and he had come home, at the end of a month of speech-making, in a fervour of almost boyish enthusiasm.
“I pledge my word for it, Julia,” he had declared to his wife, “it will take more than a Republican President to sever Virginia from the Union—in fact, I'm inclined to think that it will take a thunderbolt from heaven, or the Major for a despot!”
When, as the spring went on, men came from the political turmoil to ask for his advice, he repeated the words with a conviction that was in itself a ring of emphasis.