It
gave him another picture of the old regime. They sat on the great
pillared front porch looking out on the silvery surface of the moonlit
river. Jennie's grandfather. Colonel James Barton, a stately man of
eighty-five, who had led a regiment with Jefferson Davis in the Mexican
War, though at that time long past the age of military service, honored
them with his presence to a late hour.
His eyes were failing but his voice was stentorian. Its tones had been
developed to even deeper power during the past ten years owing to the
deafness of his wife. This beautiful old woman sat softly rocking beside
the Colonel, answering in gentle monosyllables the questions he roared
into her ears.
To escape the volume of the Colonel's conversation Socola asked Jennie
to walk to the river's edge.
They sat down on a bench perched high on the bluff which rose abruptly
from the water at the lower end of the grounds. The scene was one of
memorable beauty.
He laughed at the folly of his schemes to learn the inner secrets of the
South. These people had no secrets. They wore their hearts on their
sleeves. He had only to ask a question to receive the answer direct
without reserve.
"Your three younger brothers will fight for the South, of course, Miss
Jennie?"
"Of course--I only wish I were a man!"
"You have an older brother in New Orleans, I believe?"
"Judge Barton, yes.
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