heart by reminding her that he, too, had lost kindred and property. By
delicate efforts he had sought to show the futility of clinging to a dead
past, and a cause lost beyond hope, but Mara would only become grave and
silent when such matters were touched upon.

Clancy had been North repeatedly on business, and had never discovered a
particle of hostility toward him or his section in the men with whom he
dealt and associated. They invited him to their homes; he met the women of
their families, from whom he often received rather more than courtesy, for
his fine appearance and a certain courtliness of manner, inherited from
his aristocratic father, had won a thinly veiled admiration of which he
had been agreeably conscious. Since these people had no controversy with
him, how could he continue to cherish enmity and prejudice against them?
His warm Southern nature revolted at receiving hearty good-will and not
returning it in kind. There was nothing of a "we-forgive-you" in the
bearing of his Northern acquaintances, nor was there any effusiveness in
cordiality with an evident design of reassuring him. He was made to feel
that he was guilty of an anachronism in brooding over the war, that it had
been forgotten except as history, and that the present with its
opportunities, and the future with its promise, were the themes of
thought. The elements of life, energy, hopefulness with which he came in
contact had appealed to him powerfully, for they were in harmony with his
youth, ambition, yes, and his patriotism. "The South can never grow rich
and strong by sulking," he had often assured himself, "and since the old
dream is impossible, and we are to be one people, why shouldn't we accept
the fact and unite in mutual helpfulness?"

Reason, ambition, and policy prompted him to the divergence of view and
action which was alienating Mara. "Imitation of her example and spirit
would be political and financial suicide on our part," he broke out. "I