gin still compared to that of England, and all that it needs is
careful cultivation. It seems to me that what Virginia needs is
immigration."

Mr. Gregory looked displeased. It was as though Sir Robert had
criticised Anne Buller's dress. "On the contrary, we wish to keep
Virginia for Virginians," he said slowly. "We have no desire to see it
overrun by a horde of Irish and Dutch, and heaven knows what besides.
The proper place for that kind of people is the West and Northwest. If
we could get _the right class_ of English emigrants, that would be
another matter. But it is scarcely likely that they will come here in
any considerable number, now that the poor old commonwealth offers so
little remunerative return to the most honorable enterprise."

When Sir Robert had quite made up his mind that he would like to possess
the place, he telegraphed imperatively for Mr. Heathcote, who joined him
most reluctantly. Together they walked all over the county, saw a great
many people, and, having bought two hundred acres that marched with,
and, indeed, had formerly been a part of, the Aglonby estate, Sir Robert
made a liberal offer for Heart's Content, expressed his thanks for the
kind and honorable treatment he had received there, and, his terms being
accepted, paid the purchase-money, and begged that the family would suit
their own convenience entirely in giving it up. This settled, he went
his way to the Natural Bridge, which he considered should rank second
only to Niagara in this country in point of interest, and then went on
to Lexington, to visit General Lee's tomb, and from there to see
Stonewall Jackson's grave, which, to his intense astonishment and
indignation, he found half covered with visiting-cards,--the exquisite
tribute of the sentimental tourist to the stern soldier. He could do
nothing until he had cleared the last bit of pasteboard (with "Miss
Mollie Bangs, Jonesville," printed on it) away from the mound. This he
did energetically with his umbrella, after which he sat down quietly to
think of his favorite hero, who seemed to be "resting under the shade of
the trees over the river" rather than there, and fell to repeating
"Stonewall Jackson's Way,"--a very favorite lyric, which he knew by
heart. "'Appealing from his native sod In _forma pauperis_ to God,'
ought to be his epitaph. I think he would like that," he said. "I am
glad England can claim such a son, however indirectly. Fancy 'Miss
Mollie Bangs' leaving a ca