It was many months before Dorothea saw Val Tracy again and in the quiet days that followed the departure of all the men in the May household, she and Miss Imogene often speculated over what had happened to young Larry Stanchfield. There was no answer to their problem, but this common secret brought a close intimacy between the two.
It was not to be wondered at that the girl should find her heart drawn to this gentle, white-haired little lady; and the elder woman, perhaps because of her past memories, took a special interest in the child of her old friend.
Miss Imogene, looking back upon the days of her girlhood, regarded the life about her with the kindly eyes of that romantic time. Indeed the love affairs of the young people she knew seemed to interest her more than the momentous events that were happening in the world.
Stirring tales of Forrest’s raids, or of victory nearer home, such as the brilliant Confederate General Johnston’s defeat of Palmer, which roused April to wild enthusiasm, drew from her only an anxious inquiry about one or other of the young officers whose love secrets had been poured into her sympathetic ear.
“I wouldn’t like anything to happen to Bennie Hardee till he had made it up with Myrtle Clay,” she would murmur anxiously; or, knitting her brows, “Every General ought to talk seriously to his young officers about writing home the minute a battle is over. Emmie Polk hasn’t heard from Will Cary and she is half crazy with anxiety.”
“If Cousin Immie had her way all love stories would have a happy ending,” April had said and turned away, half bitterly.
Miss Imogene watched her go, then addressing Dorothea with a sigh, “It is so easy to miss the best things in life,” she told her. “When we are young how little we know where our real happiness lies. And, oh, how foolish are those who will not listen to what their hearts tell them.”
Dorothea knew well enough that Miss Imogene was thinking of April. The elder lady did not conceal the fact that she had little patience with her beautiful cousin’s attitude toward Lee Hendon, though she was wise enough not to force her opinions upon the girl herself.
“When one has missed the greatest happiness because of a coquettish whim—ah, then, my dear, a lifetime of regret is hard to bear,” she went on. “I know what I am talking about, Dorothea, my child. You remember Larry Stanchfield?”
“Yes, indeed,” Dorothea answered. “I’ve never ceased to wonder what has happened to him.”