The Major, with the fear of apoplexy in his mind, had no answer on his tongue, though a few minutes later he showed his displeasure by ordering his horse and riding to Uplands to talk things over with the Governor.
“I am afraid Molly is breaking,” he thought gloomily, as he rode along. “She isn't what she was when I married her fifty years ago.”
But at Uplands his ill humour was dispelled. The Governor read the letter and declared that Dan was a fine lad, “and I'm glad you haven't spoiled him, Major,” he said heartily. “Yes, they're both fine lads and do you honour.”
“So they do! so they do!” exclaimed the Major, delightedly. “That's just what I said to Molly, sir. And Dan sends his love to the little girls,” he added, smiling upon Betty and Virginia, who stood by.
“Thank you, sir,” responded Virginia, prettily, looking at the old man with her dovelike eyes; but Betty tossed her head—she had an imperative little toss which she used when she was angry. “I am only three years younger than he is,” she said, “and I'm not a little girl any longer—Mammy has had to let down all my dresses. I am fourteen years old, sir.”
“And quite a young lady,” replied the Major, with a bow. “There are not two handsomer girls in the state, Governor, which means, of course, that there are not two handsomer girls in the world, sir. Why, Virginia's eyes are almost a match for my Aunt Emmeline's, and poets have immortalized hers. Do you recall the verses by the English officer she visited in prison?—
“'The stars in Rebel skies that shine
Are the bright orbs of Emmeline.'”
“Yes, I remember,” said the Governor. “Emmeline Lightfoot is as famous as Diana,” then his quick eyes caught Betty's drooping head, “and what of this little lady?” he asked, patting her shoulder. “There's not a brighter smile in Virginia than hers, eh, Major?”
But the Major was not to be outdone when there were compliments to be exchanged.
“Her hair is like the sunshine,” he began, and checked himself, for at the first mention of her hair Betty had fled.