m, falling warmly upon antique
furniture about us, upon by-gone worthies on the wall, and (quite as
naturally, it seemed) upon a colonial girl, who now smilingly appeared
in the doorway. Bringing the finishing touch of life to the old-time
setting, she came, a curl of her dark hair across a white shoulder and
her gown a quaintly fashioned silk brocade.

This eighteenth century presentment was in kindly compliance with a
wish that we had expressed on that rainy day when we were looking over
Brandon treasures. It was Brandon's daughter in the court gown of her
colonial aunt, Evelyn Byrd. And we thought in how few American homes
could this charming visitor from the colonies so find the colonial
waiting to receive her.

[Illustration: MISS HARRISON IN THE COURT GOWN OF HER COLONIAL AUNT,
EVELYN BYRD.]

Nowhere in the world, it is said, are there so many new, comfortable
homes built for the passing day as in America; but also in no civilized
country are there so few old homes. More and more, as this fact comes
to be realized, will Americans who care for the permanent and the
storied appreciate such colonial homesteads as Brandon, the ancestral
home of the Harrisons.

CHAPTER XIV

A ONE-ENGINE RUN AND A FOREST TOMB

By the time we had finished our visit at Brandon, we were in the midst
of the beautiful Virginia autumn. Though much of the warmth of summer
was yet in the midday hours, the mornings were often crisp and the
evenings seemed to lose heart and grow chill as they saw the sun go
down.

Part of the houseboat was heated by oil stoves, but the forward cabin
had a wood stove, and above it on the upper deck was our little
sheet-iron chimney. It had a hood that turned with the wind and creaked
just enough for company. So, during mornings and evenings and wet days,
Gadabout smoked away, cozy and comfortable.

She was smoking vigorously on the day that we bade good-bye to Chippoak
Creek. That was a glorious morning--one of those mornings when the sun
tries to warm the northwest wind and the northwest wind tries to chill
the sun, and between the two a tonic gets into the air and people want
to do things. We wanted to "see the wheels go round" (not knowing then
that only one would go round); and we prepared to start for Kittewan
Creek, a few miles farther up the James.

Kittewan Creek is no place in particular, but near it are two old
plantations that historians and story-writers have talked a good deal
abo