to tell secrets. When he was sure we were alone he took from his
trunk a long, flat box. Inside was the most wonderful shirt I have
ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a
shirt-waist. It was of homespun linen. The bosom was ruffled and
tucked, all done by hand,--such tiny stitches, such patience and skill.
Then he handed me an old daguerreotype. I unfastened the little golden
hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember. It was dim, yet
clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow
twilight of long ago. The sweet, elusive smile,--I couldn't tell where
it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were
smiling. All that was visible of her dress was the Dutch collar, just
like what is being worn now. It was pinned with an ugly old brooch
which Zebbie said was a "breast-pin" he had given her. Under the glass
on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper. The
writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it
said: "Pauline Gorley, age 22, 1860."

Next he showed me a note written by Pauline, simply worded, but it held
a world of meaning for Zebbie. It said, "I spun and wove this cloth at
Adeline's, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which I made. It is
for the wedding, else to be buried in. Yours, Pauline." The shirt, the
picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in Mothie's
care. And now I will tell you the story.

Long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a
feud. Unfortunately the Gorleys were on one side and the Parkers on the
other. That it all happened before either Zebbie or Pauline was born
made no difference. A Gorley must hate a Parker always, as also a
Parker must hate a Gorley. Pauline was the only girl, and she had a
regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the
slightest pretext to shoot a Parker. So they grew up, and Zebbie often
met Pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of
non-partisans. He remembers her so perfectly and describes her so
plainly that I can picture her easily. She had brown eyes and hair. She
used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her "nigger" boy Caesar on
behind to open and shut plantation gates. She wore a pink calico
sunbonnet, and Zebbie says "she was just like the pink hollyhocks that
grew by mother's window." Isn't that a sweet picture?

Her mother and father were both dead, and she and he