Frost gazed at the vaulted expanse a moment, then said:
“So that accounts for the birth-mark?”
“Yes, and partially for her being here. Loyal to that noble slave, she came down and nursed Aunt Judy five weeks, until she followed her boy to that land lit by the everlasting sun. Listen!” The Major heard the piano; taking his handkerchief he wiped his eyes. “Pshaw, tears! why I am as soft as a girl, but that music makes my eyes blur; I am back in my twenties when I hear ‘Marching Through Georgia.’”
“Darwin’s child has been badly used since he died. He left her the small sum of thirty-seven hundred dollars—not much. No, but enough to keep a girl in a modest way. But she was deluded into going away to New York in high society, and she got back here without a cent. She is working now to pay for the burial of Aunt Judy.”
The other did not ask what became of her money, but the Major answered as if he had.
“My wife tells me that a man actually borrowed a part of it; what a contemptible thing for a man to do.”
The singing was still heard, and Frost appeared absorbed in that. He made no answer, but commented:
“What a delicious quality of voice she has. It seems as though it were impregnated with the tender harmony that must reign in her soul. But, pardon me, I must go into Lexington, the carriage is waiting.”
“Won’t you spend the night, Mr. Frost?” asked the Major.
“Thank you, sir, I have greatly enjoyed your hospitality, but I must catch the first east-bound train.”