CHAPTER VI

A SAD LOVER


I shall never forget the scene there under the oak of the Sheraton front
yard, which met my gaze when Miss Grace and I came about the corner of
the house.

Before us, and facing each other, stood my father and Colonel Sheraton,
the former standing straight and tall, Colonel Sheraton with tightly
clenched hand resting on his stick, his white hair thrown back, his
shaggy brows contracted. My mother sat in the low rocker which had been
brought to her, and opposite her, leaning forward, was Mrs. Sheraton,
tall, thin, her black eyes fixed upon the men. Orme, also standing, his
hands behind him, regarded the troubled men intently. Near at hand was
the Sheratons' Jim, his face also fixed upon them; and such was his own
emotion that he had tipped his silver tray and dropped one of the
Sheraton cut glass julep glasses to the sod.

It was mid-afternoon, or evening, as we call it in Virginia, and the
light was still frank and strong, though the wind was softening among
the great oaks, and the flowers were sweet all about. It was a scene of
peace; but it was not peace which occupied those who made its central
figures.

"I tell you, Cowles," said Colonel Sheraton, grinding his stick into the
turf, "you do not talk like a Virginian. If the North keeps on this
course, then we Southerners must start a country of our own. Look,