“‘Good nature and good sense must ever join;
To err is human; to forgive, divine.’”
“I reckon, however,” answered the lady, dryly, “that you never heard him connect that sentiment with the Yankees.”
The Major chuckled.
“Deftly countered, madam!” he said. And then, taking advantage of the little smile of gratification which he saw: “But this is a subject which you and I, Miss India, can no more agree upon than could your brother and myself. Let us pass it by. But grant me this favor. Remain at Waynewood until this Mr. Winthrop arrives. See him before you judge him, madam. Remember that if what he writes gives a fair exposition of the case, he is little better than an invalid and so must find sympathy in every woman’s heart. There is time enough to go, if go you must, afterwards. It is scarcely likely that Mr. Winthrop could find better tenants. And no more likely that you and Holly could find so pleasant a home. Do this, ma’am.”
And Miss India surrendered; not at once, you must know, but after a stubborn defence, and then only when mutineers from her own lines made common cause with the enemy. Before the allied forces of the Major’s arguments and her own womanly sympathy she was forced to capitulate. And so when a few moments later Holly, after a sharp skirmish of her own in which she had been decisively beaten by Curiosity, appeared at the door, she found Aunt India and the Major amicably discussing village affairs.
III.
Robert Winthrop, laden with bag, overcoat and umbrella, left the sleeping-car in which he had spent most of the last eighteen hours and crossed the narrow platform of the junction to the train which was to convey him the last stage of his journey. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon—for the Florida Limited, according to custom, had been two hours late—and Winthrop was both jaded and dirty; and I might add that, since this was his first experience with Southern travel, he was also somewhat out of patience.
Choosing the least soiled of the broken-springed, red-velveted seats in the white compartment of the single passenger car, he set his bag down and sank weariedly back. Through the small window beside him he saw the Limited take up its jolting progress once more, and watched the station-agent deposit his trunk in the baggage-car ahead, which, with the single passenger-coach, comprised the Corunna train. Then followed five minutes during which nothing happened. Winthrop sighed resignedly and strove to find interest in the view. But there was little to see from where he sat; a corner of the station, a section of platform adorned with a few bales of cotton, a crate of live chickens, and a bag of raw peanuts, a glimpse of the forest which crept down to the very edge of the track, a wide expanse of cloudless blue sky. Through the open door and windows, borne on the lazy sun-warmed air, came the gentle wheezing of the engine ahead, the sudden discordant chatter of a bluejay, and the murmurous voices of two negro women in the other compartment. There was no hint of Winter in the air, although November was almost a week old; instead, it was warm, languorous, scented with the odors of the forest and tinged at times with the pleasantly acrid smell of burning pitch-pine from the engine. It was strangely soft, that air, soft and soothing to tired nerves, and Winthrop felt its influence and sighed. But this time the sigh was not one of resignation; rather of surrender. He stretched his legs as well as he might in the narrow space afforded them, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He hadn’t realized until this moment how tired he was! The engine sobbed and wheezed and the negroes beyond the closed door murmured on.