"Oh, Aunt Ann!"
"Keep quiet, child!"
"You should not have talked politics to me, James."
"But, my God, Ann, this is not politics!" He looked down at her flushed face and with the fatal newspaper in his hand stood still a moment, and then went back to his library. There he stayed before the fire, distressed beyond measure. "Just so," he said, "the South will take it—just so."
Ann Penhallow said, "Where did you leave off, Leila? Go on, my dear, with the book."
"I can't. You were cruel to Uncle Jim—and he was so dear and sweet."
"If you can't read, you had better go to bed." Leila broke into tears and stumbled up the stairs with half-blinded eyes.
Ann sat long, hearing Penhallow's steps as he walked to and fro. Then she let fall her knitting, rose, and went into the library.
"James, forgive me. I was unjust to say such things—I was—"
"Please don't," he cried, and took her in his arms. "Oh, my love," he said, "we have darker days than this before us. If only there was between North and South love like ours—there is not. We at least shall love on to the end—no matter what happens."