"I thank God that it is yours. It was left you by Becky--by your mother.
It is in a railroad company in New York, and safe, Jinny."

"Oh, Pa, you know that I do not care," she cried. "It shall be yours and
mine together. And we shall live out here and be happy."

But she glanced anxiously at him nevertheless. He was in his familiar
posture of thought, his legs slightly apart, his felt hat pushed back,
stroking his goatee. But his clear gray eyes were troubled as they sought
hers, and she put her hand to her breast.

"Virginia," he said, "I fought for my country once, and I reckon I'm some
use yet awhile. It isn't right that I should idle here, while the South
needs me, Your Uncle Daniel is fifty-eight, and Colonel of a Pennsylvania
regiment.--Jinny, I have to go."

Virginia said nothing. It was in her blood as well as his. The Colonel
had left his young wife, to fight in Mexico; he had come home to lay
flowers on her grave. She knew that he thought of this; and, too, that
his heart was rent at leaving her. She put her hands on his shoulders,
and he stooped to kiss her trembling lips.

They walked out together to the summer-house, and stood watching the
glory of the light on the western hills. "Jinn," said the Colonel, "I
reckon you will have to go to your Aunt Lillian. It--it will be hard. But
I know that my girl can take care of herself. In case--in case I do not
come back, or occasion should arise, find Lige. Let him take you to your
Uncle Daniel. He is fond of you, and will be all alone in Calvert House
when the war is over. And I reckon that is all I have to say. I won't pry
into your heart, honey. If you love Clarence, marry him. I like the boy,