“I should think it would altogether depend on what replaces us,” said the other, dryly.

“And that,” said Peter, “altogether depends upon you, doesn’t it?  It’s in your power to shape it, you know.  However, if you’ll notice, things somehow manage to right themselves in spite of us.  Now, over home in Carolina we haven’t come out so very badly, all things considered.”

“Got jolly well licked, didn’t you?” asked the Englishman, whose outstanding idea of American military history centered upon Stonewall Jackson.

“Just about wiped off the slate.  Had to begin all over, in a world turned upside down.  Yet, you see, here I am!  And I assure you I shouldn’t be willing to change places with my grandfather.”  With a shy friendliness he laid his fingers for a moment on his host’s arm.  “Your grandson won’t be willing to change, either, because he’ll be the right sort. That’s what your kind hands down.”  He spoke diffidently, but with a certain authority.  Each man is a sieve through which life sifts experiences, leaving the garnering of grain and the blowing away of chaff to the man himself.  Peter had garnered courage to face with a quiet heart things as they are.  He had never accepted the general view of things as final, therefore he escaped disillusionment.

“They thought the end of the world had come—­my people.  So it had—­for them.  But not for us.  There’s always a new heaven and a new earth for those who come after,” he finished.

The Englishman smiled twistedly.  After a while he said unexpectedly: 

“I wish you’d have a try at my portrait, Mr. Champneys.  I think I’d like that tentative grandson of mine to see the sort of grandfather he really possessed.”

“Why, I haven’t had any training!  But if you’ll sit for me I’ll do some sketches of you, gladly.”

“Why not now?” asked the other, coolly.  “I have a fancy to see what you’ll make of me.”  He added casually:  “Whistler used the north room over the stables when he stayed here.  You’ve seen his pastels, and the painting of my father.”

“Yes,” said Peter, reverently.  And he stared at his host, round-eyed.

“We’ve never changed the room since his time.  Should you like to look over it now?  You’ll find all the materials you are likely to need,—­my sister has a pretty little talent of her own, and it pleases her to use the place.”

“Why, yes, if you like,” murmured Peter, dazedly.  And like one in a dream he followed his stocky host to the room over the stables.  One saw why the artist had selected it; it made an ideal studio.  A small canvas, untouched, was already in place on an easel near a window.  One or two ladylike landscapes leaned against the wall.

“She has the talent of a painstaking copyist,” said her brother, nodding at his sister’s work.  “Shall you use oils, or do you prefer chalks, or water-colors?”