an with a Purpose,--and that was the Purpose of the South.

"They have dared to nominate that dirty Lincoln," he said.--"Do you think
that we will submit to nigger equality rule? Never! never!" he cried. "If
they elect him, I will stand and fight them until my legs are shot from
under me, and then I will shoot down the Yankees from the ground."

Virginia's heart had leaped within her at the words, and into her eyes
had flashed once more the look for which the boy had waited and hoped in
vain. He had the carriage of a soldier, the animation and endurance of
the thoroughbred when roused. He was of the stuff that made the
resistance of the South the marvel of the world. And well we know,
whatever the sound of it, that his speech was not heroics. Nor was it
love for his cousin that inspired it, save in this: he had apotheosized
Virginia. To him she was the inspired goddess of the South--his country.
His admiration and affection had of late been laid upon an altar. Her
ambition for him he felt was likewise the South's ambition for him.

His mother, Virginia's aunt, felt this too, and strove against it with
her feeble might. She never had had power over her son; nor over any man,
save the temporal power of beauty. And to her mortification she found
herself actually in fear of this girl who might have been her daughter.
So in Virginia's presence she became more trivial and petty than ever. It
was her one defence.

It had of course been a foregone conclusion that Clarence should join
Company A. Few young men of family did not. And now he ran to his room to
don for Virginia that glorious but useless full dress,--the high bearskin
rat, the red pigeon-tailed coat, the light blue trousers, and the
gorgeous, priceless shackle. Indeed, the boy looked stunning. He held his
big rifle like a veteran, and his face was set with a high resolve there
was no mistaking. The high color of her pride was on the cheek of the
girl as he brought his piece to the salute of her, his mistress. And yet,
when he was gone, and she sat alone amid the roses awaiting him, came
wilfully before her another face that was relentless determination,--the
face of Stephen Brice, as he had stood before her in the summer house at
Glencoe. Strive as she might against the thought, deny it to herself and
others, to Virginia Carvel his way become the face of the North. Her
patriotism and all that was in her of race rebelled. To conquer that face
she would have given he