m, a room not unlike the drawing room at
Vernons, but larger and giving a view of the garden where the oleanders
and cherokee money and the crescent leaves of the blue gum trees were
moving in the wind. Colonel Seth, despite the war, had plenty of roses and
Grangersons was kept up in the old style. Just as in Nuremberg and
Vittoria we see mediaeval cities preserved, so to speak, under glass, so at
Grangersons one found the old Plantation, house and all, miraculously
intact, living, almost, one might say, breathing.

The price of cotton did not matter much to the Colonel, nor the price of
haulage. This son of the Southerner who had refused to be beaten by the
North in the war, cared for nothing much beyond the ring of sky that made
his horizon. Twice a year he made a visit to Charleston, driving in his
own carriage, occasionally he visited Richmond or Durham, where he had an
interest in tobacco; New York he had never seen. He loathed railways and
automobiles, mainly, perhaps, because they were inventions of the North,
that is to say the devil. He had a devilish hatred of the North. Not of
Northerners, but just of the North.

The word North set his teeth on edge. It did not matter to him that
Charleston was picking up some prosperity in the way of phosphates, or
that Chattanooga was smelting ore into money, or that industrial
prosperity was abroad in the land; he was old enough to have a
recollection of old days, and from the North had come the chilly blast
that had blown away that age.

A servant brought in cake and wine to stay the travellers till dinner
time, refreshment that Miss Pinckney positively refused at first.

"You will stay the night," said the Colonel, as he helped her, "and Sarah
will show you to your rooms when we have had a word together."

Miss Pinckney, sipping her wine, made no reply, then placing the scarcely
touched glass on the table and with her bonnet strings thrown back, she
turned to the Colonel.

"Do you see the likeness?" said she.

"What likeness?" asked the old gentleman.

"Why, God bless my soul, the likeness to Juliet Mascarene. Phyl, turn your
face to the light."

The Colonel, searching in his waistcoat pocket, found a pair of folding
glasses and put them on.

"She gets it from her mother's side," said Miss Pinckney, "the Lord knows
how it is these things happen, but it's Juliet, isn't it?"

The Colonel removed his glasses, wiped them with his handkerchief, and
returned them