rich. "Remarkable! Good-morning,
Mrs. Yarebrough. Most remarkable!" he kept repeating to himself as he
walked home. "He is not afraid, of that I am certain. Why, then, does
he delay? Remarkable!"

VII

In the Southern Appalachians

It was five o'clock, and a pretty girl, Katrina Wendell, was standing
at one of the long windows of the drawing-room at Oakwood, looking out
upon the storm.

She had not Sydney's unusual beauty, nor had she her imperious manner,
the heritage to Southern women from generations of slave-holding
ancestors; but she had charm and a certain distinction, and she had the
stamp with which New York seals her daughters imprinted upon every tuck
and frill of her clever gown.

"Katrina, it isn't polite to look so bored," said her brother John, who
was amusing himself with Sydney's help by drawing caricatures of the
men of the day.

Katrina flushed. She _was_ bored, but John was a beast to mention it.
She had just brought her first season to an ignominious close by
falling in love with the worst match of the year,--Tom Schuyler,
handsome, irrepressible, and penniless. Mrs. Wendell promptly had
refused her consent to the engagement, and, with equal decision and
what Tom called "disgusting alacrity," had sent her daughter South
under her brother's care to accept the hospitality of Mrs. Carroll, a
life-long friend.

Under the circumstances it was not strange that the prospect from the
window did not appeal to Katrina.

John, on the other hand, was reaping his reward for the self-sacrifice
that had made him accept the duty of escorting his sister to North
Carolina. Unlike the martyrs of old who went unprotesting to their
doom, he had obeyed his mother's commands in no submissive spirit. It
was a relief to the keenness of his martyrdom to kick against the
pricks, and kick he did from New York to Flora, during all such parts
of the twenty-four hours as were not occupied in attending to the wants
of his admirable appetite, or in yielding to the refreshment of such
repose as a sleeping-car can offer. Even he felt that his recompense
was undeservedly great when he found himself welcomed at the little
Flora flag-station by Sydney. He was twenty-eight, and at that age a
pretty girl still stands far up on the list of diversions. No,
decidedly, John was not bored.

Katrina made no answer to her brother's accusation.

"Poor Katrina," said Sydney, going to the window and standing beside
her guest.