"Ah, but you shall see her as a young lady! There's a portrait of her in the old house, taken not long before she went away, that does everything but speak and move. Indeed, I used to imagine that it did both, when I had it in my quarters out here, as I did for a time. But it gave me the blues so, to look at it, and think how things used to be, and see how they had altered, that I finally sent it back to its old place in the portrait gallery. But how did you get here, at this hour?"
"I walked from Savalla, leaving my baggage—except this portmanteau—to come on by stage to-morrow."
"Walked! A nice little tramp of thirteen miles or more! Why in the name of sense didn't you ride?"
"I was too late for the stage, and could not readily find a hack. To be sure, I wasted but little time in looking for one; I do not mind walking, I am used to it."
"That may do very well for the West. But you'll lose caste, my boy, if you walk here. You must have a horse."
"When I can afford it," replied the young man, lightly shrugging his shoulders. "Meanwhile, doubtless I shall find my western habit useful, if vulgar. But I am not prepared to admit that it is vulgar. A young English nobleman, who spent some months in our neighborhood, was a practised walker; he thought nothing of fifteen or twenty miles, on occasion. And if it was 'caste' for him, why not for me?"
"Humph! we Southerners boast a good deal of our English ancestors, but we don't feel called upon to imitate them!"
With the softening recollections of his youth, the Major had also laid aside his unwonted gentleness of manner; and the freezing satire of his last words, though it was doubtful whether he meant it for himself or his nephew, pained the young man's ear. Instinctively he dropped the discussion.
"I forgot to mention," said he, "that I did not walk quite the whole distance. A queer old character whom I overtook, insisted upon giving me a lift to Berganton."
"To Berganton! What had you to do with Berganton, I should like to know?"