ts breath in cheerful
expectation of the bursting of a long predicted storm.

"This," said Cary's clear and even voice, not raised, but smoothly
distinct,--"this is a challenge, sir. I take it rightly, Mr. Rand?"

"You take it rightly, Mr. Cary. I shall presently send a friend to wait
upon you."

"He will find me, sir, at the Swan. As the challenged party, it is my
prerogative to name hour and place. You shall shortly be advised of
both."

"I am going to my office, sir, where I will await your messenger. You
cannot name an hour too soon, a place too near for me."

"Of that I am aware, Mr. Rand. I will make no delay that I conceive to
be unnecessary. I am, sir, your very humble servant."

"I am yours, Mr. Cary."

The two bowed profoundly and parted company, making their several ways
through the throng to the Swan and to the office with the green door.
With them went their immediate friends and backers. The crowd of
spectators, talking loud or talking low, conjecturing, explaining, and
laying down the law, jesting, disputing, hotly partisan, and on the
whole very agreeably excited, finally got itself out of the Court House
and the Court-House yard, and the autumn stillness settled down upon the
place.

At Roselands, in the late afternoon, Jacqueline came out upon the
doorstone and sat there, listening for Selim's hoofs upon the road. The
weather was Indian summer, balmy, mild, and blue with haze. On the great
ring of grass before the stone yellow beech leaves were lying thick, and
the grey limbs of the gigantic, solitary tree rose bare against the
blue. Jacqueline sat with her chin in her hand, watching the mountains,
more visible now that the leaves were gone. She saw the cleft through
which ran the western road, and she thought with pleasure of the days
before her. She loved the journeys to Richmond, and this one would be
more beautiful, and new. They would be gone ten days, perhaps,--ten days
of slow, bright travel through sumptuous woods, of talk close and dear.
She was exquisitely happy as she sat there with her eyes upon the Blue
Ridge. The last fortnight of her stay at Fontenoy had been almost a
blissful time. Her uncles changed, and no longer passed her with averted
eyes, or, when they spoke, used so cold a ceremony as to chill her
heart. They grew almost natural, they seemed even tender of her. Uncle
Dick had once again called her "My little Jack," though he groaned
immediately afterwards and, getting u