The woman looked about the yard to see if there were any evidences of carelessness. She had tried to keep it clean. The row of flowers that flamed in the beds beside the door was the finest in the county. She knew that. She was an expert in the culture of the prolific tall cosmos that blooms so beautifully in the Indian summers of Old Virginia.
A cur dog barked.
"Get under the house, sir!" she commanded.
The dog continued to look down the road at the coming horseman.
"Get under the house, I say—" she repeated and the dog slowly obeyed.
She advanced to meet her visitor. He hitched his horse to a swinging limb outside the gate and hurried in.
No introduction was necessary. The Colonel had known her husband for years and he had often lifted his hat to his wife in passing.
He extended his hand and grasped hers in quick sympathy.
"I'm sorry to learn of your great misfortune from your fine boy, Mrs.
Doyle."
The woman's eyes filled with tears in spite of her firm resolution to be dignified.