herself so thoroughly on exhibition as then. Her figure, her air—both of which were singularly graceful and refined—her gown which was Paris-made—all were minutely examined by hundreds of eyes that had not seen her since, as a pretty, half-grown girl, she went to church and paid visits under the charge of a demure governess. After they had crossed the white track, they were greeted by numerous gentlemen who sauntered back and forth about the quarter-stretch. Colonel Berkeley was elaborately gracious, and Olivia was by nature affable—to all except the Hibbses. But when they passed that inoffending family, the Colonel stalked on pointedly oblivious, and Olivia's slight bow was not warming or cheering.
People moved up to shake hands with them—girls of Olivia's age, soft voiced, matronly women, elderly men, a little shaky and broken, as all the old men looked after the war—and young men with something of the camp hanging to them still. Olivia was all grace, kindness, and tact. She had forgotten nobody.
Meanwhile Petrarch, who had followed them, managed to edge up to her and whisper:
"Miss 'Livy, ain't dat ar Marse French Pembroke an' he b'rer Miles? Look a-yander by de aige o' de bench."
Olivia glanced that way, and a slight wave of color swept over her face—and at that moment "Marse French's b'rer Miles" turned his full face toward her.
