"Not if he is a Jackson Democrat?" broke in the usually gentle Alice
Durand, fired with a ready defiance of all heterodox policy, common, if
not peculiar, to that region.

"Oh, but he is not; he is a good Whig instead--a Clay man, as we call
such."

"Not a Calhoun man, though, I suppose, so I would not give a snap of my
fingers for him or his poetry! It is very natural, for you, Miss Harz,"
in a somewhat deprecating tone, "to praise your partisans. I would not
have you neutral if I could, it is so contemptible."

A little of the good doctor's spirit there, under all that exterior of
meekness and modesty, I saw at a glance, and liked her none the less for
it, if truth were told. And now we were nearing the gate, with its
gray-stone pillars, on one of which, that from which the marble ball had
rolled, to hide in the grass beneath, perchance, until the end of all, I
had seen the joyous figure of Walter La Vigne so lightly poised on the
occasion of my last exodus from Beauseincourt. A moment's pause, and the
difficult, disused bolts that had once exasperated the patience of
Colonel La Vigne were drawn asunder, and the clanking gates clashed
behind us as we emerged from the shadowed domain into the glare and dust
of the high-road.

Here Major Favraud, accompanied by Duganne, awaited us, seated in state
in his lofty, stylish swung gig (with his tiny tiger behind), drawn
tandem-wise by his high-stepping and peerless blooded bays, Castor and
Pollux. Brothers, like the twins of Leda, they had been bred in the
blue-grass region of Kentucky and the vicinity of Ashland, and were