The Southerner. Jr. Thomas Dixon
months later the faithful old man came in answer to his request and preached her funeral sermon. Something in the lad's wistful eyes that day fired him with eloquence. Through all life the words rang with strange solemn power in the Boy's heart:
"O Death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory! Blessed are they that die in the Lord! Death is not the chill shadow of the night—but the grey light of the dawn—the dawn of a new eternal day. Lift up your eyes and see its beauty. Open your ears and hear the stir of its wondrous life!"
When the last friend had gone, the forlorn little figure stood beside the grave alone. There was a wistful smile on his lips as he slowly whispered:
"I'll not forget, Ma, dear—I'll not forget. I'll live for you."
Nor did he forget. In her slender figure a new force had appeared in human history. The peasant woman of the old world has ever taught her child contentment with his lot. And patient millions beyond the seas bend their backs without a murmur to the task their fathers bore three thousand years ago.
Free America has given the race a new peasant woman. Born among the lowliest of her kind, she walks earth's way with her feet in the dust, her head among the stars.
This one died young in the cabin beside the deep woods, but not before her hand had kindled a fire of divine discontent in the soul of her son that only God could extinguish.
The Story
CHAPTER I
THE MAN OF THE HOUR
"It's positively uncanny——"
Betty Winter paused on the top step of the Capitol and gazed over the great silent crowd with a shiver.
"The silence—yes," Ned Vaughan answered slowly. "I wondered if you had felt it, too."
"It's more like a funeral than an Inauguration."
The young reporter smiled:
"If you believe General Scott there may be several funerals in Washington before the day's work is done."
"And you don't believe him?" the girl asked seriously.
"Nonsense! All this feverish preparation for violence——"
Betty laughed:
"I'm afraid you're not a good judge of the needs of the incoming administration. As an avowed Secessionist—you're hardly in their confidence."
"Thank God, I'm not."
"What are those horses doing over there by the trees?"
"Masked battery of artillery."
"Don't be silly!"
"It's true. Old Scott's going to save the Capital on Inauguration Day any how! The Avenue's lined with soldiers—sharpshooters posted in the windows along the whole route of the Inaugural procession, a company of troops in each end of the Capitol. He has built a wooden tunnel from the street into the north end of the building and that's lined with guards. A squad of fifty soldiers are under the platform where we're going to sit——"
"No!"
"Look through the cracks and see for yourself!" Vaughan cried with scorn.
The sparkling brown eyes were focused on the board platform.
"I do see them moving," she said slowly, as a look of deep seriousness swept the fair young face. "Perhaps General Scott's right after all. Father says we're walking on a volcano——"
"But not that kind of a volcano, Miss Betty," Vaughan interrupted. "Senator Winter's an Abolitionist. He hates the South with every breath he breathes."
Betty nodded:
"And prays God night and morning to give him greater strength with which to hate it harder—yes——"
"But you're not so blind?"
"There must be a little fire where there's so much smoke. A crazy fool might try to kill the new President."
Ned Vaughan's slender figure stiffened:
"The South won't fight that way. If they begin war it will be the most solemn act of life. It will be for God and country, and what they believe to be right. The Southern people are not assassins. When they take Washington it will be with the bayonet."
"And yet your brother had a taste of Southern feeling here the night of the election when a mob broke in and smashed the office of the Republican."
"A gang of hoodlums," he protested. "Anything may happen on election night to an opposition newspaper. The Southern men who formed that mob will never give this administration trouble——"
"I'm so anxious to meet your brother," Betty interrupted. "Why doesn't he come?"
"He's in the Senate Chamber for the ceremonies. He'll join us before the procession gets here."
"He's as handsome as everybody says?" she asked naïvely.
"I'll admit he's a good-looking fellow if he is my brother."
"And vain?"
"As a peacock——"
"Conceited?"
"Very."
"And a woman hater!"
"Far from it—he's easy. He may not think so, but between us he's an easy mark. I've always been afraid he'll make a fool of himself and marry without the consent of his younger brother. He's a great care to me."
The brown eyes twinkled:
"You love him very much?"
Ned Vaughan nodded his dark head slowly:
"Yes. We've quarrelled every day since the election."
"Over politics?"
"What else?"
"Love, perhaps."
The dark eyes met hers.
"No, he hasn't seen you yet——"
Betty's laugh was genial and contagious.
He had meant to be serious and hoped that she would give him the opening he'd been sparring for. But she refused the challenge with such amusement he was piqued.
"You're from Missouri, but you're a true Southerner, Mr. Vaughan."
"And you're a heartless Puritan," he answered with a frown.
She shook her golden brown curls:
"No—no—no! My name's an accident. My father was born in Maine on the Canada line. But my mother was French. I'm her daughter. I love sunlight and flowers, music and foolishness—and dream of troubadours who sing under my window. I hate long faces and gloom. But my father has ambition. I love him, and so I endure things."
Ned Vaughan looked at her timidly. For the life of him he couldn't make her out. Was she laughing at him? He half suspected it, and yet there was something sweet and appealing in the way she gazed into his eyes. He gave it up and changed the subject.
He had promised to bring John to-day and introduce him. He had been prattling like a fool about this older brother. He wished to God now something would keep him. The pangs of jealousy