The very leaves over Chad's head danced suddenly, and yet the girl was so simple and frank and kind that the springing hope in his breast was as quickly chilled.
"Did he ever speak of me except about business matters?""Never at all at first," said Margaret, blushing again incomprehensively, "but he forgave you before he died.""Thank God for that!"
"And you will see what he did for you--the last thing of his life."They were crossing the field now.
"I have seen Melissa," said Margaret, suddenly. Chad was so startled that he stopped in the path.
"She came all the way from the mountains to ask if you were dead, and to tell me about--about your mother. She had just learned it, she said, and she did not know that you knew. And I never let her know that I knew, since I supposed you had some reason for not wanting her to know.""I did," said Chad, sadly, but he did not tell his reason. Melissa would never have learned the one thing from him as Margaret would not learn the other now.
"She came on foot to ask about you and to defend you against--against me. And she went back afoot. She disappeared one morning before we got up. She seemed very ill, too, and unhappy. She was coughing all the time, and I wakened one night and heard her sobbing, but she was so sullen and fierce that I was almost afraid of her. Next morning she was gone. I would have taken her part of the way home myself. Poor thing!" Chad was walking with his head bent.
"I'm going down to see her before I go West.""You are going West--to live?"
"Yes."
They had reached the yard gate now which creaked on rusty hinges when Chad pulled it open. The yard was running wild with plantains, the gravelled walk was overgrown, the house was closed, shuttered, and dark, and the spirit of desolation overhung the place, but the ruin looked gentle in the moonlight.
Chad's throat hurt and his eyes filled.
"I want to show you now the last thing he did," said Margaret. Her eyes lighted with tenderness and she led him wondering down through the tangled garden to the old family graveyard.
"Climb over and look, Chad," she said, leaning over the wall.
There was the grave of the Major's father which he knew so well; next that, to the left, was a new mound under which rested the Major himself. To the right was a stone marked "Chadwick Buford, born in Virginia, 1750, died in Kentucky"--and then another stone marked simply:
Mary Buford.
"He had both brought from the mountains," said Margaret, softly, "and the last time he was out of the house was when he leaned here to watch them buried there. He said there would always be a place next your mother for you. 'Tell the boy that,' he said." Chad put his arms around the tombstone and then sank on one knee by his mother's grave. It was strewn with withered violets.
"You--YOU did that, Margaret?"
Margaret nodded through her tears.
. . . . . . .
