home. He lived in the best house in or about Pendleton and his father
was its wealthiest citizen. George Kenton, having inherited much land
in Kentucky, and two or three plantations further south had added to
his property by good management. A strong supporter of slavery, actual
contact with the institution on a large scale in the Gulf States had not
pleased him, and he had sold his property there, reinvesting the money
in his native and, as he believed, more solid state. His title of
colonel was real. A graduate of West Point, he had fought bravely with
Scott in all the battles in the Valley of Mexico, but now retired and a
widower, he lived in Pendleton with Harry, his only child.

Harry approached the house slowly. He knew that his father was a
man of strong temper and he wondered how he would take the news from
Charleston. All the associations of Colonel Kenton were with the
extreme Southern wing, and his influence upon his son was powerful.

But the Pendleton home, standing just beyond the town, gave forth
only brightness and welcome. The house itself, large and low, built
massively of red brick, stood on the crest of a gentle slope in two
acres of ground. The clipped cones of pine trees adorned the slopes,
and made parallel rows along the brick walk, leading to the white
portico that formed the entrance to the house. Light shone from a
half dozen windows.

It seemed fine and glowing to Harry. His father loved his home, and so
did he. The twilight had now darkened into night and the snow still
drove, but the house stood solid and square to wind and winter, and the
flame from its windows made broad bands of red and gold across the snow.
Harry went briskly up the walk and then stood for a few moments in the
portico, shaking the snow off his overcoat and looking back at the town,