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The quaint old house, and the straggling, half-*kept grounds at Isleham were never lovelier than that spring. Sometimes the extreme quiet and repose had weighed upon Olivia's spirits as it would upon any other young and vigorous nature. But now she had a good deal of a certain sort of excitement. She was country-bred, and naturally turned to the country for any home feeling she might have. The Colonel and Petrarch were a little bored at first. Both missed the social life at Washington. Pete had been a success in his own circle. His ruffled shirt-front, copied from his master's, had won infinite respect among his own color. As for the natty white footmen and coachmen, their opinion and treatment, even their jeers, he regarded with lofty indifference, and classed them as among the poorest of poor white trash.

His religion, too, had struck terror to those of the Washington darkies to whom he had had a chance to expound it. His liberal promises of eternal damnation, "an' sizzlin' an' fryin' in perdition, wid de devil bastin' 'em wid de own gravy," had not lost force even through much repetition. "Ole marse," Petrarch informed Olivia, "he cuss 'bout dem dam towns, an' say he aint had nuttin' fittin' ter eat sence he lef' Verginny. Ole marse, he jis'