Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant
Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site
of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's
thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to
a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among
the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime.
Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he
felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his
dead wife became an angel's face, far--so far away.

He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded his
business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child came,
and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her sons
to the service of the Republic.

Five simple, happy years--then war. A black war of conquest which, like
many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory beckoned,
honor called--or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the profession
of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice farewell and
steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri regiment. The young
wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn Carvel been selfish?

Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange
sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress.
Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime service
of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, the
Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.

Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his chair,
while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye on his