“You need not be; I have only tried to do for my people what you are doing for yours—but I should be glad of a guard for Waycross. His grave is in the orchard there.” And with a quiet inclination of the head she turned away into the oak-bordered avenue, walking slowly toward the house which, in a few moments, she must leave forever.
In the late sunshine her bees flashed by, seeking the fragrant home-hives; long, ruddy bars of sunlight lay across grass and tree trunk; on the lawn the old servant still chopped at the unkempt grass, and the music of his sickle sounded pleasantly under the trees.
On these things the fair-haired Southern woman looked, and if her eye dimmed and her pale lip quivered there was nobody to see. And after a little while she went into the house, slowly, head held high, black skirt lifted, just clearing the threshold of her ancestors.
Then the Special Messenger, head hanging, wheeled her horse and rode slowly back to Osage Court House.
She passed the Colonel, who was dismounting just outside his tent, and saluted him without enthusiasm:
“The leak is stopped, sir. Miss Carryl is going to Sandy River; John Deal is on his way. They won’t come back—and, Colonel, won’t you give special orders that her house is not to be disturbed? She is an old school friend.”
The Colonel stared at her incredulously.
“I’m afraid you still have your doubts about that leak, sir.”
“Yes, I have.”
She dismounted wearily; an orderly took her horse, and without a word she and the Colonel entered the tent.