shadows haunting the veranda and outer offices--former slaves and still
attached house-servants, arrested like lizards in breathless attitudes
at the approach of strange footsteps, and still holding the brush,
broom, duster, or home implement they had been lazily using, in their
fixed hands. From the doorway of the detached kitchen, connected by a
gallery to the wing of the mansion, "Aunt Martha," the cook, gazed also,
with a saucepan clasped to her bosom, and her revolving hand with the
scrubbing cloth in it apparently stopped on a dead centre.

Drummond, whose gorge had risen at these evidences of hopeless
incapacity and utter shiftlessness, was not relieved by the presence of
Mrs. Reed--a soured, disappointed woman of forty, who still carried in
her small dark eyes and thin handsome lips something of the bitterness
and antagonism of the typical "Southern rights" woman; nor of her two
daughters, Octavia and Augusta, whose languid atrabiliousness seemed a
part of the mourning they still wore. The optimistic gallantry and good
fellowship of the major appeared the more remarkable by contrast with
his cypress-shadowed family and their venomous possibilities. Perhaps
there might have been a light vein of Southern insincerity in his good
humor. "Paw," said Miss Octavia, with gloomy confidence to Courtland,
but with a pretty curl of the hereditary lip, "is about the only
'reconstructed' one of the entire family. We don't make 'em much about
yer. But I'd advise yo' friend, Mr. Drummond, if he's coming here
carpet-bagging, not to trust too much to paw's 'reconstruction.' It
won't wash." But when Courtland hastened to assure her that Drummond
was not a "carpet-bagger," was not only free from any of the political
intrigue implied under that baleful title, but was a wealthy Northern
capitalist simply seeking investment, the young lady was scarcely more
hopeful. "I suppose he reckons to pay paw for those niggers yo' stole?"
she suggested with gloomy sarcasm.