As he left his room and started down the stairs, the chatter of women's
voices struck his ears. Then he saw two women standing with Mr. Beecham
before the fire. One of them was elderly, and the other was a girl--about
his own age, Tom thought. She was strikingly pretty, standing there in the
glow of the fire, glancing up out of the corners of her eyes, as though she
could not restrain her curiosity.

"May I present Mr. Burns, my dear," said Mr. Beecham. "My wife and my
niece, Miss Marjorie, Mr. Burns."

Tom bowed, muttering "Mrs. Beecham, Miss Marjorie." When he caught the
girl's eyes, he saw a twinkle of amusement. Then he remembered his clothes,
and he blushed. The formalities of introduction over, they turned to the
dining-room, where two negro girls were already arranging breakfast. It was
a feast: coffee, hot cakes, eggs ... everything that Shadrack in his
wildest moments of hunger could have dreamt of.

Mr. Beecham's conversation about the war, conditions in the South, his
hatred of the North and the abolitionists, occupied most of Tom's
attention. It was difficult to play the role of Southerner; he wanted to
protest against some of the things the older man said. There was slight
opportunity for him to reply, however, and so he simply nodded, apparently
agreeing heartily.

"Did you ride far last night?" asked Miss Marjorie finally.

"From Wartrace," he said. "I came through the lines there."

"And weren't there any Union sentries?"