e wore a large, white beaver hat, the broad brim
half-shading the clear-cut, strongly outlined features. When he lifted
it, even Beauty could not fail to notice the high and noble forehead,
the quick, eager eye, and the delicate flush that swept across the
patrician features. "General Jackson, I have come in the name of
charity. No, no, you need not take out your wallet. We are not asking
money."

A smile played across the strong, thin lips. "How?" said he, "doesn't
charity always mean 'money'? I was of the impression the terms were
synonymous."

"Then for once own yourself in the wrong," laughed Beauty. "We have
come to ask the privilege of a charity ball at the Hermitage."

"A _what_?"

"A charity ball; and at the Hermitage."

A most comically pleased expression came into the earnest eyes of the
master for an instant. Only an instant, and then a heavy frown
contracted his forehead. A flash of scorn in the clear eye, and a curl
of the proud, sensitive lip, told of the suppressed anger that had
suddenly smitten him.

"The Hermitage," said he, "is the home of my wife. _She_ is its
mistress, and to her is confided its honor and the honor of its
master. To her belongs, and to her alone, the right to choose its
guests, and to open its doors to _her_ friends. I am surprised you
should come to _me_ with your request."

Ah! she was forearmed; how fortunate. Beauty smiled triumphantly. "But
your servant who opened the gate, told us that Mrs. Jackson was not at
home."

"Ah!" the frown instantly vanished, and the hand ever ready to strike
for her he loved with such deathless devotion was again lifted to the
broad old beaver.

"I think," said he, "in that case I may answer for Mrs. Jackson, and
pledge for her the hospitality of the Hermitage for--_charity_."

Again he lifted his hat; across the fields the sound of a whistle had
come to him, and a servant waited, with polite patience, near by with
the horse that was to carry his master down to the river where the
boats were waiting to be inspected--the new boats which, like
everything pertaining to the master of the Hermitage, were to have a
place in history.

"Ladies," said he, "charity is not the only voice calling upon the
Hermitage farmer. Our country,"--he waved his hand toward the river
where the boats were being builded,--"or one who nobly represents her,
is calling for those vessels now in the course of construction
yonder."

"_Will there be war?_"

How