Virginia set down the tray.
“'A house divided against itself,'” said Miss Carvel, with a sweep of her arm, “'cannot stand. I believe that this Government cannot endure permanently, half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union to dissolve—I do not expect the house to fall—but I do expect it will cease to be divided.' Would you like any more?” added Miss Virginia.
“No,” cried the Colonel, and banged his fist down on the table. “Why,” said he, thoughtfully, stroking the white goatee on his chin, “cuss me if that ain't from the speech that country bumpkin, Lincoln, made in June last before the Black Republican convention in Illinois.”
Virginia broke again into laughter. And Stephen was very near it, for he loved the Colonel. That gentleman suddenly checked himself in his tirade, and turned to him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said; “I reckon that you have the same political sentiments as the Judge. Believe me, sir, I would not willingly offend a guest.”
Stephen smiled. “I am not offended, sir,” he said. A speech which caused Mr. Carvel to bestow a quick glance upon him. But Stephen did not see it. He was looking at Virginia.
The Colonel rose.
“You will pardon my absence for a while, sir,” he said.
“My daughter will entertain you.”
In silence they watched him as he strode off under the trees through tall grass, a yellow setter at his heels. A strange peace was over Stephen. The shadows of the walnuts and hickories were growing long, and a rich country was giving up its scent to the evening air. From a cabin behind the house was wafted the melody of a plantation song. To the young man, after the burnt city, this was paradise. And then he remembered his mother as she must be sitting on the tiny porch in town, and sighed. Only two years ago she had been at their own place at Westbury.