Ludwell Cary was with her. When she bowed to Rand, Cary had looked
surprised, but his hat was instantly off. Rand bowed in return, and
passed them, going on to the Court House. He had not seen her again
until four days ago, when he opened his eyes upon her face. The golden
finger on his bed became a shining lance that struck across to the wall.
There were ivy and a climbing rose about the window through which he
looked to the shimmering poplars and the distant hills. Many birds were
singing, and from the direction of the quarters sounded the faint
blowing of a horn. A bee came droning in to the pansies in a bowl.
Rand's dark eyes made a journey through the room, from the flowered
curtains to the mandarin on the screen, from the screen to the willowed
china and the easy chair, from the chair to the picture of General
Washington on the wall, the vases on the mantel-shelf, and the green
hemlock branches masking for the summer the fireplace below. Over all
the blue room and the landscape without was a sense of home, of order
and familiar sweetness. It struck to the soul of a too lonely and too
self-reliant man. Suddenly, without warning, tears were in his eyes.
Raising his uninjured arm, he brushed them away, settled his bandaged
head upon the pillows, and stared at the clock. The half-shut door of a
small adjoining room opened very slowly and softly, and Joab entered on
tiptoe, elaborate caution surrounding him like an atmosphere.

"You, Joab," said Rand. "It's time you were in the field."

Joab's preternaturally lengthened countenance became short, broad, and
genial. He threw back his head and breathed relief. "Dar now! What I
tell em? Cyarn Selim nor no urr boss kill you, Marse Lewis! Mornin',
sah. I reckon hit is time I wuz in de field, but I reckon I got to stay
heah to tek care of you. How yo ahm, Marse Lewis?"