When Eugenia came downstairs she found the family seated at dinner, Miss
Chris and her father beaming upon each other across a dish of fried
chicken and a home-cured ham. Bernard was on Miss Chris's right hand,
and on the other side of the table Eugenia's seat separated the general
from Aunt Griselda, who sat severely buttering her toast before a brown
earthenware teapot ornamented by a raised design of Rebecca at the well.
Aunt Griselda was a lean, dried-up old lady, with a sharp, curved nose
like the beak of a bird, and smoothly parted hair brushed low over her
ears and held in place by a tortoise-shell comb. There were deep
channels about her eyes, worn by the constant falling of acrid tears,
and her cheeks were wrinkled and yellowed like old parchment.

Twenty years ago, when the general had first brought home his young
wife, before her buoyancy had faltered, and before the five little
head-boards to the five stillborn children had been set up amid the
periwinkle in the family graveyard, Aunt Griselda had written from the
home of her sister to say that she would stop over at Battle Hall on her
way to Richmond.

The general had received the news joyfully, and the best chamber had
been made ready by the hospitable hands of his young wife. Delicate,
lavender-scented linen had been put on the old tester-bed and curtains
of flowered chintz tied back from the window seats. Amelia Battle had
placed a bowl of tea-roses upon the dressing table and gone graciously
down to the avenue to welcome her guest. From the family carriage Aunt
Griselda had emerged soured and eccentric. She had gone up to the best
chamber, unpacked her trunks, hung up her bombazine skirts in the
closet, ordered green tea and toast, and settled herself for the