He paused, and I still lingered, thinking he might have something more to add.
“Are you one of the Waynes of Charlottesville?” he asked gravely.
“Colonel Richard Wayne was my father, sir.”
“Ah, indeed! I remember him well”; and his face lit up with a most tender smile. “We were together in Mexico. A Virginia gentleman of the old school. He is dead, I believe?”
“He was killed, sir, the first year of the war.”
“I remember; it was at Antietam. And your mother? If my memory is not at fault she was a Pierpont?”
“She is now in Richmond, sir, and the old plantation is but a ruin.”
“War is indeed sad,” he said slowly; “and I often feel that our Southern women are compelled to bear the brunt of it. What heroines they have proven! History records no equal to the daily sacrifices I have witnessed in the past three years. God grant it may be soon ended.”
Then, as if suddenly moved by the impulse of the moment, he again extended his hand.
“Well, lad,” he said kindly, the same grave smile lighting his face, “our country needs us. We must not waste time here in conversation. I am very glad to have been permitted to meet the son of my old friend, and trust you will remember me to your mother. But now good-bye, Captain, and may He in whose hand we all are guide and guard you. I know that a Wayne of Virginia will always do his duty.”