Major Churchill opened his book, looked at it, and tossed it aside; took
The Virginia Federalist from the table, and for perhaps sixty seconds
appeared absorbed in its contents, then with a loud "Pshaw!" threw it
down, and rising walked to a bookcase. "I am reading Swift," he said,
and brought a calf-bound volume to the window. "There was a man who knew
hatred and the _risus sardonicus_! Listen to this, Jacqueline."

Major Churchill read well, and it was his habit to read aloud to
Jacqueline, whose habit it was to listen. Now she sat before the window,
in the old leather chair, her slender face and form in profile, and her
eyes upon the sunset sky. It was her accustomed attitude, and Uncle
Edward read on with growing satisfaction, finding that he was upon a
passage which gave Democracy its due. He turned a page, then another,
glanced from the book, and discovered that his niece was not attending.
"Jacqueline!"

Jacqueline withdrew her eyes from the fading gold, and, turning in her
chair, faced her uncle with a faint smile. She loved him dearly, and he
loved her, and they had not many secrets from each other. Now she looked
at him with a wavering light upon her face, shook her head as if in
answer to some dim question of her own, and broke into silent weeping.

"Bless my soul!" cried Uncle Edward, and started up in alarm. He had a
contemptuous horror of women's tears; but Jacqueline was different,
Jacqueline was not like other women. He could not remember having seen
Jacqueline cry since she was a child, and the sight troubled him
immensely. She wept as though she were used to weeping. He crossed to
the chair by the window and touched her bowed head with his wrinkled
hand. "What is it, child?" he asked. "Tell Uncle Edward."