auze scarf, and filmy gloves,
then brought her slippers of morocco and a thin, flowered house-dress,
narrow and fine as an infant's robe.

"Has Joab gone to the post-office?" asked Jacqueline.

"Yaas'm. De Williamsbu'gh stage done come, fer I heah de horn more'n an
hour ago. Dar Joab now!"

Mammy Chloe put down the blue china ewer, left the room, and returned
with a letter in her hand. "Dar, now! Marse Lewis ain' neber gwine
fergit you! Ef de sun shine, or ef hit don' shine, heah come de letter
jes' de same!"

Jacqueline took the letter from her. "Yes, Mammy, yes," she said, with a
sweet and tremulous laugh. "He's a good master, isn't he?"

"Lawd knows I ain' neber had a better," assented Mammy Chloe. "He
powerful stric' to mek you min', is Marse Lewis, but he am' de kin' what
licks he lips ober de fac' dat you is a-mindin'! I ain' gwine say,
honey, an' I neber is gwine say, dat he's wuth what de Churchills is
wuth, but I's ready to survigerate dat he's got he own wuth. An' ef
hit's enough fer you, chile, hit's enough fer yo' ole mammy. Read yo'
letter while I puts on yo' slippers."

Jacqueline broke the seal and read:--

JACQUELINE:--I am kept here for an uncertain time--worse luck, dear
heart! Do not send what letters may have come for me, as I may
leave sooner than I think for, and so would pass them on the road.
Open any from the court in Winchester, where I have a case
pending--if the matter seems pressing, take a copy, and send copy
or original to me by to-morrow's stage. I am expecting a letter
from Washington--an important one, outlining the Embargo measures.
I looked for it before I left Richmond. If it has arrived, open it,
dear heart, and glance through it to see if there be any message or
enquiry which I should have at once. It is very hot, very dusty,
very tiresome in the court room. I will leave Tom Mocket here to
wind things up, and will get home as soon as I can. Then, as soon
as the hurly-burly's over, we'll go to Roselands for a little
while--to the calm, the peace, bright days and white nights! While
I write here in the Apollo, you are at church in Saint John's.
Shall I say, "Pray for me, sweet saint?" You'll do that without my
asking. So I'll say instead, "Think of me, dear wife, and love me
still."

Thine, LEWIS.

Jacqueline stood up in her faintly coloured gown, all rich light and
rose bloom.