the world sheltered and to some extent secluded from the general
movement and progress of life.

This plantation, then, was Gordon's world. The woods that rimmed it were
his horizon, as they had been that of the Keiths for generations; more
or less they always affected his horizon. His father appeared to the boy
to govern the world; he governed the most important part of it--the
plantation--without ever raising his voice. His word had the convincing
quality of a law of nature. The quiet tones of his voice were
irresistible. The calm face, lighting up at times with the flash of his
gray eyes, was always commanding: he looked so like the big picture in
the library, of a tall, straight man, booted and spurred, and partly in
armor, with a steel hat over his long curling hair, and a grave face
that looked as if the sun were on it. It was no wonder, thought the boy,
that he was given a sword by the State when he came back from the
Mexican War; no wonder that the Governor had appointed him Senator, a
position he declined because of his wife's ill health. Gordon's wonder
was that his father was not made President or Commander-in-Chief of the
army. It no more occurred to him that any one could withstand his father
than that the great oak-trees in front of the house, which it took his
outstretched arms six times to girdle, could fall.

Yet it came to pass that within a few years an invading army marched
through the plantation, camped on the lawn, and cut down the trees; and
Gordon Keith, whilst yet a boy, came to see Elphinstone in the hands of
strangers, and his father and himself thrown out on the world.

His mother died while Gordon was still a child. Until then she had not
appeared remarkable to the boy: she was like the atmosphere, the
sunshine, and the blue, arching sky, all-pervading and existing as a