"I have forgotten that one too."

"Why does your breath come long like that, Jacqueline? I have gotten my
feet wet. Will you tell Mammy Chloe not to whip Miranda? Here is Uncle
Edward!"

Major Edward Churchill entered from the garden, for which he had an
attachment almost comparable to his love for the old Fontenoy library
and the Fontenoy stables. He was a gentleman of the old school, slight,
withered, high-nosed and hawk-eyed, dressed with precision and carrying
an empty sleeve. The arm he had lost at Yorktown; a temper too hot to
hold he daily lost, but he had the art to keep his friends. There were
duels to his account, as well as a reputation for great courage and
coolness during the late war. Under the name of Horatius he contributed
to The Virginia Federalist diatribes of a polished ferocity against the
Democrat-Republicans and their chief, and he owned Mustapha, the noblest
race-horse of the day. He was a bachelor, a member of the Cincinnati, a
Black Cockade, a friend of Alexander Hamilton, a scholar, and a sceptic;
a proud, high, fiery man, who had watched at the death-bed of many
things. He made his home with his brother, the master of Fontenoy; and
his niece Jacqueline, the daughter of a younger, long dead brother, was
to him youth, colour, music, and romance.

"The moss-rose is in bloom," he announced, standing in the parlour door.
"Come see it, Jacqueline."

They went out into the garden and stood before the moss-rose bush. "Oh,
beautiful!" exclaimed Jacqueline, and touched the rose with her lips. It
was sunny in the garden, and the box smelled strong and sweet. The Major