life on the bloody altar of the lost cause, and his father, broken and
chagrined, died not many years later, leaving the major the last of his
line. He had tried in various pursuits to gain a foothold in the new
life, but with indifferent success until he won the hand of Olivia
Merkell, whom he had seen grow from a small girl to glorious womanhood.
With her money he had founded the Morning Chronicle, which he had made
the leading organ of his party and the most influential paper in the
State. The fine old house in which they lived was hers. In this very
room she had first drawn the breath of life; it had been their nuptial
chamber; and here, too, within a few hours, she might die, for it seemed
impossible that one could long endure such frightful agony and live.

One cloud alone had marred the otherwise perfect serenity of their
happiness. Olivia was childless. To have children to perpetuate the name
of which he was so proud, to write it still higher on the roll of
honor, had been his dearest hope. His disappointment had been
proportionately keen. A few months ago this dead hope had revived, and
altered the whole aspect of their lives. But as time went on, his wife's
age had begun to tell upon her, until even Dr. Price, the most cheerful
and optimistic of physicians, had warned him, while hoping for the best,
to be prepared for the worst. To add to the danger, Mrs. Carteret had
only this day suffered from a nervous shock, which, it was feared, had
hastened by several weeks the expected event.

Dr. Price went downstairs to the library, where a dim light was
burning. An old black woman, dressed in a gingham frock, with a red
bandana handkerchief coiled around her head by way of turban, was seated
by an open window. She rose and curtsied as the doctor entered and
dropped into a willow rocking-chair near her own.