“I reckon so, honey.”

“The brute!  Are you going to pay?”

“No, Jinny.”

“Then they will take away the furniture.”

“I reckon they will.”

“Pa, you must promise me to take down the mahogany bed in your room.  It —­it was mother’s.  I could not bear to see them take that.  Let me put it in the garret.”

The Colonel was distressed, but he spoke without a tremor.

“No, Jinny.  We must leave this house just as it is.”  Then he added, strangely enough for him, “God’s will be done.”

The bell rang sharply.  And Ned, who was cook and housemaid, came in with his apron on.

“Does you want to see folks, Marse Comyn?”

The Colonel rose, and went to the door himself.  He was an imposing figure as he stood in the windy vestibule, confronting the deputy.  Virginia’s first impulse was to shrink under the stairs.  Then she came out and stood beside her father.

“Are you Colonel Carvel?”

“I reckon I am.  Will you come in?”

The officer took off his cap.  He was a young man with a smooth face, and a frank brown eye which paid its tribute to Virginia.  He did not appear to relish the duty thrust upon him.  He fumbled in his coat and drew from his inner pocket a paper.

“Colonel Carvel,” said he, “by order of Major General Halleck, I serve you with this notice to pay the sum of three hundred and fifty dollars for the benefit of the destitute families which the Rebels have driven from their homes.  In default of payment within a reasonable time such personal articles will be seized and sold at public auction as will satisfy the demand against you.”

The Colonel took the paper.  “Very well, sir,” he said.  “You may tell the General that the articles may be seized.  That I will not, while in my right mind, be forced to support persons who have no claim upon me.”

It was said in the tone in which he might have refused an invitation to dinner.  The deputy marvelled.  He had gone into many houses that week; had seen indignation, hysterics, frenzy.  He had even heard men and women whose sons and brothers were in the army of secession proclaim their loyalty to the Union.  But this dignity, and the quiet scorn of the girl who had stood silent beside them, were new.  He bowed, and casting his eyes to the vestibule, was glad to escape from the house.

The Colonel shut the door.  Then he turned toward Virginia, thoughtfully pulled his goatee, and laughed gently.  “Lordy, we haven’t got three hundred and fifty dollars to our names,” said he.

The climate of St. Louis is capricious.  That fierce valley of the Missouri, which belches fitful blizzards from December to March, is sometimes quiet.  Then the hot winds come up from the Gulf, and sleet melts, and windows are opened.  In those days the streets will be fetlock deep in soft mud.  It is neither summer, nor winter, nor spring, nor anything.