delivered to the devil from the office.

She departed quietly, taking Mrs. Matilda and Caroline with her.

And for still another hour the major continued to push his pen rapidly
across the paper, then he settled down to the business of reading and
annotating his work.

For years Major Buchanan had been the editor of the _Gray Picket_, which
went its way weekly into almost every home in the South. It was a quaint,
bright little folio full of articles of interest to the old Johnnie Rebs
scattered south of Mason and Dixon. As a general thing it radiated good
cheer and a most patriotic spirit, but at times something would occur to
stir the gray ashes from which would fly a crash of sparks. Then again
the spirit of peace unutterable would reign in its columns. It was
published for the most part to keep up the desire for the yearly
Confederate reunions--those bivouacs of chosen spirits, the like of which
could never have been before and can never be after. The major's pen was
a trenchant one but reconstructed--in the main.

But the scene at the Country Club in the early afternoon was, according
to the major's prediction, far from peaceful in tone; it was confusion
confounded. Mrs. Peyton Kendrick was there and the card-tables were
deserted as the players, matrons and maids, gathered around her and
discussed excitedly the result of her "ways and means for the reunion"
mission to the city council, the judge's insult and David Kildare's
reply. They were every mother's daughter of them Dames of the Confederacy
and their very lovely gowns were none the less their fighting clothes.

"And then," said Mrs. Payt, her cheeks pink with indignation, and the