The little perfumed notes she
had received from her first beaux--invitations to buggy rides, concerts,
and parties, and all of them beginning, "Compliments of"--had been
profaned by dirty greasy fingers. Some were torn into little bits and
scattered over the room, others were ground into the floor by hobnails
in heavy boot heels.
Her last letter from Socola was stolen--to be turned over to the
commander for inspection no doubt. And then she broke into a foolish
laugh. The strain was over. What did it matter--this clutter of goods
and chattels on the floor--she was young--it was the morning of life and
she had met her fate!
In a sudden rush of emotion she threw her arms around her grandmother's
neck and cried:
"Thank the good Lord, grandma, they didn't shoot you!"
The sweet old lady was strangely quiet, and her eyes had a queer set
look. She bore the strain without a break until they entered the wreck
of the stately parlor. She saw the slashed portrait of the Colonel lying
on the floor and sank in a heap beside it without a word or sound.
Jennie succeeded at last in obtaining a pass to New Orleans, consigning
the body to Judge Roger Barton. She stepped on board the little steamer
absolutely alone. Every servant had gone to the camp of the soldiers or
had entered the service of the crowd of marauders who decided to return
to Fairview and occupy the house.
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