The poor, softhearted, grateful man, whose dark skin covered a heart
as pure as snow, still sobbed at the remembrance of the martyred
Lincoln, and I made him lay his head upon my breast, where he sobbed
unrestrainedly as I drove the mules myself the rest of the way to
Vereton.
* * * * *
Vereton was a typical Southern home. I had been informed that the
DeVere family were still very wealthy, in spite of having lost a great
deal during the rebellion, and that they still lived in the true
aristocratic planter style.
The house was two-storied and square, with big white pillars in front.
Large verandahs ran entirely around the house, about which climbed
dense masses of ivy and honeysuckle.
As I alighted from the ambulance, I heard a chattering and saw a large
mule run out the front door, driven by a lady with a broom. The mule
lay down on the verandah and the lady advanced to meet me.
"Ah you Miss Cook?" she asked, in the soft slurring accent.