the loss of his gayety and the languor of his blood, and, as he drifted
further from the middle years, he had at last yielded to tranquillity with
a sigh. In his day he had matched any man in Virginia at cards or wine or
women--to say nothing of horseflesh; now his white hairs had brought him
but a fond, pale memory of his misdeeds and the boast that he knew his
world--that he knew all his world, indeed, except his wife.

"Ah, there's nothing like youth!" he sighed over to himself, and the child
looked up and laughed.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"You will know some day," replied the Major. He drew himself erect in his
tight black broadcloth, and thrust out his chin between the high points of
his collar. His long white hair, falling beneath his hat, framed his ruddy
face in silver. "There are the lights of Uplands," he said suddenly, with a
wave of his hand.

Betty quickened her pace to his, and they went on in silence. Through the
thick grove that ended at the roadside she saw the windows of her home
flaming amid the darkness. Farther away there were the small lights of the
negro cabins in the "quarters," and a great one from the barn door where
the field hands were strumming upon their banjos.

"I reckon supper's ready," she remarked, walking faster. "Yonder comes
Peter, from the kitchen with the waffles."

They entered an iron gate that opened from the road, and went up a lane of
lilac bushes to the long stuccoed house, set with detached wings in a grove
of maples. "Why, there's papa looking for me," cried the child, as a man's