friends, welcome back to Georgia!" And tears
started to his eyes and choked his utterance. Thus was my conjecture
confirmed. I never felt so thrilled, so elated, by any presence.

There was a momentary pause after this fervent greeting, emotional on
one part only.

"But why did you not meet me at Milledgeville?" asked Mr. Calhoun. "Most
of my friends in this vicinity sustained me there. I have been
discussing the great question[3] again, Favraud, and I should have been
glad of your countenance."

"I have been detained at home of late by a cruel necessity," was the
faltering reply, "or I should never have played recreant to my old
master."

"Good fortune spoiled me a fine lawyer in your case, Victor! But
introduce me to your wife. Remember, I have never had the pleasure of
meeting Madame Favraud," advancing, as he spoke, toward me, with his
hand on Major Favraud's shoulder (above whom he towered by a head),
courteously and impulsively.

"Miss Harz, Miss La Vigne, Miss Durand--Mr. Calhoun," said Major
Favraud, pale as death now, and trembling as he spoke. "These ladies are
friends of mine--one, a distant relative"--he hesitated--"within the
last six weeks I have had the misfortune to lose my wife, Mr. Calhoun.
You understand matters better now."

All conversation was cut short by this sudden announcement. Deeply
shocked, Mr. Calhoun led Major Favraud aside, with a brief apology to me
for his misapprehension, and they stood together, talking low, at the
extreme end of the apartment, affording me thus an admirable opportunity
for observing the _personnel_ of the great Southern leader, during the
brief space of time accorded by the change of stage-horses. For, with
his friends, he was then _en route_ for another appointment. He was
canvassing the State, with a view to a final rally of its resources,
preparatory to his last great effort--to scotch the serpent of the
North, which finally, however, wound its insidious folds around the
heart of brotherly affection, stifling it, as the snakes of fable were
sent to do the baby Hercules.

No picture of Mr. Calhoun has ever done him justice[4], although his
was a physiognomy that an artist could scarcely fail to make an extern
likeness of, from its remarkable characteristics. It was truly an
iron-bound face, condensed, powerful in every nerve, muscle, and
lineament, and fraught, beyond almost all others, with intellect and
resolution. But the glory and power of that glance