each with his bow or her curtsy. Mammy paused a
moment to deliver her pronunciamento. "Don' you fret, marster! I ain'
gwine let er soul _tech_ one er my chillern!" Julius followed her.
"Dat's so, marster! An' Gawd Ermoughty knows I'se gwine always prohibit
jes' de same care ob de fambly an' de silver!"

When they were gone came the leave-taking of the guests, of all who were
not to sleep that night at Greenwood. Maury Stafford was to stay, and
Mr. Corbin Wood. Of those going Cousin William was the only one of
years; the others were all young,--young men, young women on the edge of
an unthought-of experience, on the brink of a bitter, tempestuous,
wintry sea. They did not see it so; there was danger, of course, but
they thought of splendour and heroism, of trumpet calls and waving
banners. They were much excited; the young girls half frightened, the
men wild to be at home, with plans for volunteering. "Good-bye, and
good-bye, and good-bye again! and when it's all over--it will be over in
three months, will it not, sir?--we'll finish the 'Virginia Reel!'"

The large, old coach and the saddle horses were brought around. They
drove or rode away, through the April night, by the forsythia and the
flowering almond, between the towering oaks, over the bridge with a
hollow sound. Those left behind upon the Greenwood porch, clustered at
the top of the steps, between the white pillars, stood in silence until
the noise of departure had died away. Warwick Cary, his arm around
Molly, his hand in Judith's, Unity's cheek resting against his shoulder,
then spoke. "It is the last merry-making, poor children! Well--'Time and
tide run through the longest day!'" He disengaged himself, kissed each
of his daughters, and turned toward the lighted hall. "There are papers
in the library which I must go over to-night. Edward, you had best come
with me."

Father and son left the porch. Miss Lucy, too, went indoors, called
Julius, and began to give directions. Ready and energetic, she never
wasted time in wonder at events. The event once squarely met, she
struck immediately into the course it demanded, cheerfully, without
repining, and with as little attention as possible to forebodings. Her
voice died away toward the back of the house. The moon was shining, and
the lawn lay chequered beneath the trees. Corbin Wood, who had been
standing in a brown study, began to descend the steps. "I'll take a
little walk, Judith, my dear," he said, "and think