“That Jack has run away—has gone South, we think. Perhaps,” she cried, “perhaps he may be dead.” And tears came into the girl's eyes.
It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence. She drew Anne to the sofa and kissed her.
“No, he is not dead,” she said gently, but with a confidence in her voice of rare quality. “He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have heard.”
Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade's eye upon her. He looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those whom he honored. A life of service to others had made him guess that, in the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some kind.
“Virginia is right, Anne,” he said. “John has gone to fight for his principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember that this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because we think differently.” He paused, and came over to Virginia. “There is something I can do for you, my dear?” said he.
She rose. “Oh, no, Mr. Brinsmade,” she cried. And yet her honesty was as great as Anne's. She would not have it thought that she came for other reasons. “My aunt is in such a state of worry over Clarence that I came to ask you if you thought the news true, that the prisoners are to be paroled. She thinks it is a—” Virginia flushed, and bit a rebellious tongue. “She does not believe it.”
Even good Mr. Brinsmade smiled at the slip she had nearly made. He understood the girl, and admired her. He also understood Mrs. Colfax.
“I'll drive to the Arsenal with you, Jinny,” he answered. “I know Captain Lyon, and we shall find out certainly.”
“You will do nothing of the kind, sir,” said Virginia, with emphasis. “Had I known this—about John, I should not have come.”
He checked her with a gesture. What a gentleman of the old school he was, with his white ruffled shirt and his black stock and his eye kindling with charity.