Her hand was upon the wall and he gave it a quick, pleased pressure.
“I wish to heaven she could,” he echoed heartily.
“But I shall tell her everything when I write—everything. I shall tell her that you are taller and stronger and that you have been in all the fights and haven't a scar to show. Betty loves scars, you see, and she doesn't mind even wounds—real wounds. She wanted to go into the hospitals, but I came away and mamma wouldn't let her.”
“For God's sake, don't let her,” said Dan, with a shudder, his Southern instincts recoiling from the thought of service for the woman he loved. “There are a plenty of them in the hospitals and it's no place for Betty, anyway.”
“I'll tell her you think so,” returned Virginia, gayly. “I'll tell her that—and what else?”
He met her eyes smiling.
“Tell her I wait my time,” he answered, and began to talk lightly of other things. Virginia followed his lead with her old shy merriment. Her marriage had changed her but little, though she had grown a trifle stately, he thought, and her coquetry had dropped from her like a veil. As she stood there in her delicate lace cap and soft gray silk, the likeness to her mother was very marked, and looking into the future, Dan seemed to see her beauty ripen and expand with her growing womanhood. How many of her race had there been, he wondered, shaped after the same pure and formal plan.
“And it is all just the same,” he said, his eyes delighting in her beauty. “There is no change—don't tell me there is any change, for I'll not believe it. You bring it all back to me,—the lawn and the lilacs and the white pillars, and Miss Lydia's garden, with the rose leaves in the paths. Why are there always rose leaves in Miss Lydia's paths, Virginia?”
Virginia shook her head, puzzled by his whimsical tone.
“Because there are so many roses,” she answered seriously.