riding gloves from my
pocket I reached up my hands, somewhat soiled with the encounter, and so
helped her down to earth once more. And once more her gaze, soft and not
easily to be mistaken, rested upon me.

"Tell me, Jack Cowles," she said, "is there anything in the world you
are afraid to do?"

"At least I'm not afraid to give a lesson to any little Sir Jonas that
has forgot his manners," I replied. "But I hope you are not hurt in any
way?" She shook her head, smoothing out her gown, and again raised her
eyes to mine.

We seated ourselves again upon our fallen apple tree. Her hand fell upon
my coat sleeve. We raised our eyes. They met. Our lips met also--I do
not know how.

I do not hold myself either guilty or guiltless. I am only a man now. I
was only a boy then. But even then I had my notions, right or wrong, as
to what a gentleman should be and do. At least this is how Grace
Sheraton and I became engaged.

CHAPTER VI

A SAD LOVER

I shall never forget the scene there under the oak of the Sheraton front
yard, which met my gaze when Miss Grace and I came about the corner of
the house.

Before us, and facing each other, stood my father and Colonel Sheraton,
the former standing straight and tall, Colonel Sheraton with tightly
clenched hand resting on his stick, his white hair thrown back, his
shaggy brows contracted. My mother sat in the low rocker which had been
brought to her, and opposite her, leaning forward, was Mrs. Sheraton,
tall, thin, her black eyes fixed upon the men. Orme, also standing, his
hands behind him, regarded the troubled men intently. Near at hand was
the Sheratons' Jim, his face also fixed upon them; and such was his own
emotion that he had tipped his silver tray and dropped one of the
Sheraton cut glass julep glasses to the sod.

It was mid-afternoon, or evening, as we call it in Virginia, and the
light was still frank and strong, though the wind was softening among
the great oaks, and the flowers were sweet all about. It was a scene of
peace; but it was not peace which occupied those who made its central
figures.

"I tell you, Cowles," said Colonel Sheraton, grinding his stick into the
turf, "you do not talk like a Virginian. If the North keeps on this
course, then we Southerners must start a country of our own. Look,
man--" He swept about him an arm which included his own wide acres and
ours, lying there shimmering clear to the thin line of the old Blue
Ridge--"We must