sently quoted a line or two of poetry about
the beauty of the autumn morning, and his companion stood listening
with respectful attention, but he observed by contrast the hard,
warriorlike lines of the Colonel's face. He could well believe that,
until sorrow had softened him, a fiery impatient temper had ruled this
Southern heart. There was a sudden chatter and noise of voices, and
they both turned to see a group of negroes, small and great, coming
across the lawn with bags and baskets, and after a few muttered words
the old master set forth hurriedly to meet them, Tom following.

"Be still, all of you!" said the Colonel sternly. "Your mistress is
still asleep. Go round to Milton, and he will attend to you. I'll come
presently."

They were almost all old people, many of them were already infirm, and
it was hard to still their requests and complaints. One of the smaller
children clasped Colonel Bellamy about the knees. There was something
patriarchal in the scene, and one could not help being sure that some
reason for the present poverty of Fairford was the necessity for
protecting these poor souls. The merry, well-fed colored people, who
were indulging their late-won liberty of travel on the trains, had
evidently shirked any responsibilities for such stray remnants of
humanity. Slavery was its own provider for old age. There had once
been no necessity for the slaves themselves to make provision for
winter, as even a squirrel must. They were worse than children now,
and far more appealing in their helplessness.

The group slowly departed, and Colonel Bellamy led the way in the
opposite direction, toward the ruins of the great house. They crossed
the old garden, where some ancient espaliers still clung to the broken
brick-work of the walls, and a little fruit still clung to the knotted
branches, while great hedges of box, ragged and uncared for, traced
the old order of the walks. The heavy dew and warm morning sun brought
out that antique fragrance,--the faint pungent odor which wakes the
utmost memories of the past. Tom Burton thought with a sudden thrill
that the girl with the sweet eyes yesterday had worn a bit of box in
her dress. Here and there, under the straying boughs of the shrubbery,
bloomed a late scarlet poppy from some scattered seed of which such
old soil might well be full. It was a barren, neglected garden enough,
but still full of charm and delight, being a garden. There was a fine
fragrance of grapes