"All I know is this: General Quintard was a conspicuous man in
these parts fifty years ago; that was before my time, Mr.
Crenshaw, and I take it, too, it was before yours; he married a
Beaufort."

"So he did," said Crenshaw, "and there was one child, a daughter;
she married a South Carolinian by the name of Turberville. I
remember that, fo' they were married under the gallery in the
hall. Great folks, those Turbervilles, rolling rich. My father
was manager then fo' the general--that was nearly forty years
ago. There was life here then, sir; the place was alive with
niggers and the house full of guests from one month's end to
another." He drummed on the desktop. "Who'd a thought it wa'n't
to last for ever!"

"And what became of the daughter who married Turberville ?"

"Died years ago," said Crenshaw. "She was here the last time
about thirty years back. It wa'n't so easy to get about in those
days, no roads to speak of and no stages, and besides, the old
general wa'n't much here nohow; her going away had sort of broken
up his home, I reckon. Then the place stood empty fo' a few
years, most of the slaves were sold off, and the fields began to
grow up. No one rightly knew, but the general was supposed to be
traveling up yonder in the No'th, sir. As I say, things ran
along this way quite a while, and then one morning when I went to
my store my clerk says, 'There's an old white-headed nigger been
waiting round here fo' a word with you, Mr. Crenshaw.' It was
Joe, the general's body servant, and when I'd shook hands with
him I said, 'When's the master expected back?' You see, I