aren't you, Phil?" asked the lady.

"I like you already," replied Phil gallantly. "You are a very nice
lady. What shall I call you?"

"Call her Miss Laura, Phil--it is the Southern fashion--a happy union
of familiarity and respect. Already they come back to me, Laura--one
breathes them with the air--the gentle Southern customs. With all the
faults of the old system, Laura--it carried the seeds of decay within
itself and was doomed to perish--a few of us, at least, had a good
time. An aristocracy is quite endurable, for the aristocrat, and
slavery tolerable, for the masters--and the Peters. When we were
young, before the rude hand of war had shattered our illusions, we
were very happy, Laura."

"Yes, we were very happy."

They were walking now, very slowly, toward the gate by which the
colonel had entered, with little Phil between them, confiding a hand
to each.

"And how is your mother?" asked the colonel. "She is living yet, I
trust?"

"Yes, but ailing, as she has been for fifteen years--ever since my
father died. It was his grave I came to visit."

"You had ever a loving heart, Laura," said the colonel, "given to duty
and self-sacrifice. Are you still living in the old place?"

"The old place, only it is older, and shows it--like the rest of us."

She bit her lip at the words, which she meant in reference to herself,
but which she perceived, as soon as she had uttered them, might apply
to him with equal force. Despising herself for the weakness which he
might have interpreted as a bid for a compliment, she was glad that he
seemed unconscious of the remark.

The colonel and Phil had entered the cemetery by a side gate and their
exit led through the main entrance. Miss Laura pointed out, as they
walked slowly along between the elms, the graves of many whom the
colonel had known in his younger days. Their names, woven in the
tapestry of his memory, needed in most cases but a touch to restore
them. For while his intellectual life had ranged far and wide, his
business career had run along a single channel, his circle of
intimates had not been very large nor very variable, nor was his
memory so overlaid that he could not push aside its later impressions
in favour of those graven there so deeply in his youth.

Nearing the gate, they passed a small open space in which stood a
simple marble shaft, erected to the memory of the Confederate Dead.

A wealth of fresh flowers lay at its base. The colonel took off his