"
As he walked away the Colonel thought he heard his name mentioned by
General Braxton, and although the words were inaudible, the tone was sharp
and commanding. He turned and glanced back. The girl's face was flushed,
and she looked excited, something unusual to her self-contained, reposeful
manner. As they moved out of hearing, the General was still talking with
great earnestness, and a feeling of uneasiness began to oppress him. This
feeling had not altogether departed when he galloped into Lexington that
night, his long-tailed, white linen duster buttoned up to his chin, the
brim of his soft black hat pulled down over his eyes.
The Elms, a roomy old-fashioned house encircled by wide verandas, the home
of the Braxtons for generations, was one of the landmarks of Lexington. A
long stretch of lawn filled with shrubbery and clumps of trees protected
its inmates from the city's dust and turmoil and almost concealed the house
itself from view. The Colonel, to whom the Elms was perfectly well known,
never drew rein till he was before it, and then, checking his horse so
suddenly that a less intelligent animal would have turned a somersault,
swung himself out of the saddle with the ease of one who had spent the
greater part of his life there, fastened the bridle to a ring in a great
oak-tree by the curbing, and opening the big iron gate, strode up the
gravelled walk which wound through the shrubbery.
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