It was the morning succeeding the trial, one of those southern days that the late fall steals from summer and tempts the birds to sing in the woodlands. Gen. Evan had borne Virdow and Edward in triumph to The Cedars and, after breakfast, Edward had ridden over to The Hall, leaving the two old men together. Virdow interested his host with accurate descriptions of the great battles between the Germans and the French; and Evan in turn gave him vivid accounts of the mighty Virginia struggles between Federals and Confederates.

When they finally came to Edward as a topic the German was eloquent. He placed him beside himself in learning and ahead of all amateurs as artist and musician.

"Mr. Morgan agreed with me in his estimate of Edward," Virdow said. "They were warm friends. Edward reciprocated the affection bestowed upon him; in Europe they traveled much—"

"Of what Mr. Morgan do you speak?" The general was puzzled.

"The elder, Mr. John Morgan, I think. But what am I saying? I mean Abingdon."

"Abingdon? I do not know him." Virdow reflected a moment.

"Abingdon was the name by which Edward knew John Morgan in Europe. They met annually and were inseparable companions."

"John Morgan—our John Morgan?"

"Yes. I am told he was very eccentric, and this was probably a whim. But it enabled him to study the character of his relative. He seems to have been satisfied, and who wouldn't?"

"You astound me. I had never heard that John Morgan went to Europe. I did hear that he went annually to Canada, for the summer months; that is all."

"Edward never knew of the connection until he came here and saw a picture of John Morgan, drawn by Gerald. We both recognized it instantly." Evan was silent, thinking upon this curious information. At last he asked:

"Was Edward Mr. Morgan's only intimate companion?"

"The only one."

"Did you ever hear why Mr. Morgan concealed his identity under an assumed name?"

"No. We did not connect Abingdon with John Morgan until letters were returned with information that Abingdon was dead; and then Gerald drew his picture from memory."

And as these two old gentlemen chattered about him, Edward himself was approaching the Montjoys.

He found Mary upon the porch; his horse's feet had announced his coming. Her face was flushed and a glad light shone in her eyes. She gave him her hand without words; she had intended expressing her pleasure and her congratulations, but when the time came the words were impossible.

"You have been anxious," he said, reading her silence.

"Yes," she replied; "I could not doubt you but there are so many things involved, and I had no one to talk with. It was a long suspense, but women have to learn such lessons," and then she added, seeing that he was silent: "It was the most unhappy day of my life: papa was gone, and poor mamma's eyes have troubled her so much. She has bandaged them again and stays in her room. The day seemed never-ending. When papa came he was pale and haggard, and his face deceived me. I thought that something had gone wrong—some mistake had occurred and you were in trouble, but papa was ill, and the news—" She turned her face away suddenly, feeling the tears starting.

Edward drew her up to a settee under a spreading oak, and seating himself beside her told her much of his life's story—his doubts, his hopes, his fears. She held her breath as he entered upon his experience at Ilexhurst and Gerald's life and identity were dwelt upon.

"This," said he at last, "is your right to know. It is due to me. I cannot let you misjudge the individual. While I am convinced, that does not make a doubt a fact and on it I cannot build a future. You have my history, and you know that in the heart of Edward Morgan you alone have any part. The world holds no other woman for me, nor ever will; but there is the end. If I stayed by you the day would come when this love would sweep away every resolution, every sense of duty, every instinct of my mind, except the instinct to love you, and for this reason I have come to say that until life holds no mystery for Edward Morgan he will be an exile from you."

The girl's head was sunk upon her arms as it rested upon the settee. She did not lift her face. What could she answer to such a revelation, such a declaration? After a while he ceased to walk the gravel floor of their arbor, and stood by her. Unconsciously he let his hand rest upon the brown curls. "This does not mean," he said, very gently, "that I am going away to mope and wear out life in idle regrets. Marion Evan lives; I will find her. And then—and then—if she bids me, I will come back, and with a clean record ask you to be my wife. Answer me, my love, my only love—let me say these words this once—answer me; is this the course that an honorable man should pursue?"

She rose then and faced him proudly. His words had thrilled her soul.

"It is. I could never love you, Edward, if you could offer less. I have no doubt in my mind—none. A woman's heart knows without argument, and I know that you will come to me some day. God be with you till we meet again—and for all time and eternity. This will be my prayer."

Without object, the silent couple, busy with their thoughts, entered the living-room. The colonel was sitting in his arm-chair, his paper dropped from his listless hand, his eyes closed. The Duchess in his lap had fallen asleep, holding the old open-faced watch and its mystery of the little boy within who cracked hickory nuts. They made a pretty picture—youth and old age, early spring and late winter. Mary lifted her hand warningly.

"Softly," she said; "they sleep; don't disturb them." Edward looked closely into the face of the old man, and then to the surprise of the girl placed his arm about her waist.

"Do not cry out," he said; "keep calm and remember that the little mamma's health—"

"What do you mean?" she said, looking with wonder into his agitated face as she sought gently to free herself. "Have you forgotten——"

"This is sleep indeed—but the sleep of eternity."

She sprang from him with sudden terror and laid her hand upon the cold forehead of her father. For an instant she stared into his face, with straining eyes, and then with one frightful scream she sank by his side, uttering his name in agonized tones.

Edward strove tearfully to calm her; it was too late. Calling upon husband and daughter frantically, Mrs. Montjoy rushed from her room into the presence of death. She was blindfolded, but with unerring instinct she found the still form and touched the dead face. The touch revealed the truth; with one quick motion she tore away the bandages from her face, and then in sudden awe the words fell from her:

"I am blind!" Mary had risen to her side and was clinging to her, and Edward had assisted, fearing she might fall to the floor. But with the consciousness of her last misfortune had soon come calmness. She heeded not the cries of the girl appealing to her, but knelt with her white face lifted and said simply:

"Dear Father, Thou art merciful; I have not seen him dead! Blest forever be Thy Holy name!" Edward turned his back and stood with bowed head, the silence broken now only by the sobs of the daughter. Still sleeping in the lap of the dead, her chubby hand clasping the wonderful toy, was the Duchess, and at her feet the streaming sunlight. The little boy came to the door riding the old man's gold-headed cane for a horse and carrying the cow horn, which he had pushed from its nail upon the porch.

"Grandpa, ain't it time to blow the horn?" he said. "Grandma, why don't grandpa wake up?" She drew him to her breast and silenced his queries.

And still with a half-smile upon his patrician face—the face that women and children loved and all men honored—sat the colonel; one more leaf from the old south blown to earth.

The little girl awoke at last, sat up and caught sight of the watch.

"Look, gamma. Little boy in deir cackin' hickeynut," and she placed the jewel against the ear of the kneeling woman.

That peculiarly placid expression, driven away in the moment of dissolution, had returned to the dead man; he seemed to hear the Duchess prattle and the familiar demand for music upon the horn.

Isham had responded to the outcry and rushed in. With a sob he had stood by the body a moment and then gone out shaking his head and moaning. And then, as they waited, there rang out upon the clear morning air the plantation bell—not the merry call to labor and the sweet summons to rest, which every animal on the plantation knew and loved, but a solemn tolling, significant in its measured volume.

And over the distant fields where the hands were finishing their labors, the solemn sounds came floating. Old Peter lifted his head. "Who dat ring dat bell dis time er day?" he said, curiously; and then, under the lessening volume of the breeze, the sound fell to almost silence, to rise again stronger than before and float with sonorous meaning.

At long intervals they had heard it. It always marked a change in their lives.

One or two of the men began to move doubtfully toward the house, and others followed, increasing their pace as the persistent alarm was sounded, until some were running. And thus they came to where old Isham tolled the bell, his eyes brimming over with tears.

"Old marster's gone! Old marster's gone!" he called to the first, and the words went down the line and were carried to the "quarters," which soon gave back the death chant from excited women. The negroes edged into the yard and into the hall, and then some of the oldest into the solemn presence of the dead, gazing in silence upon the sad, white face and closed eyes.

Then there was a tumult in yard and hall; a shuffling of feet announced a newcomer. Mammy Phyllis, walking with the aid of a staff, entered the room and stood by the side of the dead man. Every voice was still; here was the woman who had nursed him and who had raised him; hers was the right to a superior grief. She gazed long and tenderly into the face of her foster-child and master and turned away, but she came again and laid her withered hand upon his forehead. This time she went, to come no more. In the room of the bereaved wife she took her seat, to stay a silent comforter for days. Her own grief found never a voice or a tear.

One by one the negroes followed her; they passed in front of the sleeper, looked steadily, silently, into his face and went out. Some touched him with the tips of their fingers, doubtfully, pathetically. For them, although not realized fully, it was the passing of the old regime. It was the first step into that life where none but strangers dwelt, where there was no sympathy, no understanding. Some would drift into cities to die of disease, some to distant cabins, to grow old alone. One day the last of the slaves would lie face up and the old south would be no more.

None was left but one. Edward came at last and stood before his host. Long and thoughtfully he gazed and then passed out. He had place in neither the old nor the new. But the dead man had been his friend. He would not forget it.