owls
might shriek from the chimneys of Fairford, and the timid wild hares
course up and down the weed-grown avenues on an autumn night like
this, but a welcome from the Bellamys was a welcome still. It seemed
to the young imaginative guest that the old motto of the house was
never so full of significance as when he fancied it exchanged between
the Colonel and himself, Southerner and Northerner, elder and younger
man, conquered and conqueror in an unhappy war. The two old portraits,
with their warped frames and bullet-holes, faded and gleamed again in
the firelight; the portrait of an elderly man was like the Colonel
himself, but the woman, who was younger, and who seemed to meet Tom's
eye gayly enough, bore a resemblance which he could only half recall.
It was very late when the two men said good-night. They were each
conscious of the great delight of having found a friend. The candles
had flickered out long before, but the fire still burned, and struck a
ray of light from the cup on the table.

VII.

The next morning Burton waked early in his tiny sleeping-room. The
fragrance of ripe grapes and the autumn air blew in at the window, and
he hastened to dress, especially as he could hear the footstep and
imperious voice of Colonel Bellamy, who seemed to begin his new day
with zest and courage in the outer room. Milton, the old gray-headed
negro, was there too, and was alternately upbraided and spoken with
most intimately and with friendly approval. It sounded for a time as
if some great excitement and project were on foot; but Milton
presently appeared, eager for morning offices, and when Tom went out
to join the Colonel he was no longer there. There were no signs of
breakfast. The birds were singing in the trees outside, and the sun
shone in through the wide-opened door. It was a poor place in the
morning light. As he crossed the room he saw an old-fashioned
gift-book lying on the couch, as if some one had just laid it there
face downward. He carried it with him to the door; a dull collection
enough, from forgotten writers of forgotten prose and verse, but the
Colonel had left it open at some lines which, with all their faults,
could not be read without sympathy. He was always thinking of his
wife; he had marked the four verses because they spoke of her.

Tom put the old book down just as Colonel Bellamy passed outside, and
hastened to join him. They met with pleasure, and stood together
talking. The elder man pre