Buell Hampton. Emerson Willis George

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      “I hope to see much of you, Mr. Stanton,” she said, with her most bewitching smile. “Are you fond of society?”

      Hugh confessed that he knew but little of the social world, having led a rather busy and secluded life.

      “Well, you will not see much society in southwestern Kansas,” observed Mrs. Osborn.

      “My dear, you must introduce him to the Hortons,” ventured the captain.

      “With pleasure,” replied his wife. “Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton and I are very close friends. We but recently returned from England, where her daughter, Ethel, was graduated last June. We have many friends across the water.”

      The old captain looked deep into his cup of tea, while an ironical smile played across his face. “Our English cousins,” he remarked, “are very partial to American dollars.”

      “Oh, Captain,” exclaimed his wife, while her smiles disappeared and a look of displeasure replaced them, “I have before observed on numerous occasions that you know nothing of England, her customs or her people, and light remarks about my English friends are not relished, I assure you.”

      The captain laughed good-naturedly, as he winked at Hugh, and said, “I beg your pardon, Lucy, my dear, I was only quoting a view I saw expressed recently in the Financial Gazetteer.”

      “Yes, in the Financial Gazetteer,” repeated his wife, contemptuously, “you are competent to judge things only from a strictly commercial standpoint, and it would be much better for you not to speak than to make such stupid remarks.”

      She again relaxed and turned toward Hugh with a charming graciousness. “Yes, I shall be pleased, Mr. Stanton, to introduce you to the Hortons. Miss Ethel is a delightful young lady; but mind,” said she, coquettishly shaking her finger at him, “you must not lose your heart, as she is already spoken for.”

      “Oh, indeed!” replied Hugh, “how unfortunate for me!”

      “What,” said the captain, “is Miss Ethel to be married?”

      “Now, Captain,” and the tiger’s claw protruded just a little as she spoke, “you must not ask direct questions. At present it is quite a secret; but as a friend I was only warning Mr. Stanton, and ‘forewarned is forearmed,’ you know.”

      “Very well,” said Hugh, “I know I shall be delighted to meet them, as they are such friends of yours.”

      “Oh, thank you,” replied Mrs. Osborn, bowing at the compliment.

      “Friends of ours, too,” remarked the captain. “Think of John Horton’s fat bank account.”

      “Oh, Captain,” cried his wife, with an exasperated expression of countenance, “won’t you – can’t you divorce, for one short evening, the coarseness of business from the refinements of social intercourse? It seems impossible for the captain to rise above his bank counter,” said she, apologetically, to Hugh.

      “Not a bad level to maintain,” replied the husband, “and a good many people would feel quite content if they were on a level with the Meade National Bank counter.”

      “I do not say anything against your business, Captain, but please do not try to step outside the beaten path with which you are familiar. It is unbecoming in you, and makes you appear quite ridiculous, I assure you.” The captain winced, in silence.

      Shortly after they had arisen from the table, Mrs. Osborn went driving, and the captain and Hugh sat on the broad veranda and smoked their cigars, while the veteran told reminiscences of the war. The infinite tenderness with which the captain held his boy was touching to Hugh. The little fellow nestled contentedly on his father’s knee, where he soon fell asleep. When the captain finally arose to carry him within, the child murmured in his dreams, “Papa an’ I is lovers – is lovers.”

      “Did you hear that?” exclaimed the old captain to Hugh, and a tear fell from the bronzed face of the father, and rested like a benediction on the soft cheek of the sleeping boy.

      CHAPTER VI. – MAJOR BUELL HAMPTON

      MAJ. BUELL HAMPTON, editor and proprietor of the Patriot, called at the bank one morning and was introduced to Hugh by Captain Osborn.

      “I am indeed delighted,” said the major, as he extended his hand, “to meet any one who is Captain Osborn’s friend. The captain and I were both for humanity during the late unpleasantness, acting our parts, however, in different ways; and now we are neighbors and friends, both believing in the same government and respecting the same flag, although I must say we offer up our devotions at different political shrines.”

      The major laughed good-naturedly, when Captain Osborn said, “Yes, we believe in the same government, but we have different professions of faith.”

      The major was an exceptional specimen of manhood. He was six feet two inches tall, straight as an Indian, splendidly proportioned, and weighed, perhaps, two hundred and forty pounds. His broad-brimmed slouch hat was suggestive at once of the South.

      On the silk lapel of his Prince Albert coat was a dainty carnation boutonnihre. This little flower was in keeping with the tenderness of the man’s heart. A heavy gold chain, with many a link, encircled his neck as a watch-guard. To those who knew him best, this chain was symbolic of his endless donations to the poor. Like the chain, his charities seemed linked together – without a beginning, without an end. His carefully polished shoes and neatly arranged necktie denoted refinement and good taste. These outward evidences of genteel breeding were not offensive to the poor, but, rather, inspired them with confidence and courage to accept alms from this man. His long, dark hair and flowing mustache were streaked with gray, his nose was large, his forehead knotted, and the wrinkled lines of his face were noticeable, – strong, deep-cut. There was a thoughtfulness, a gentleness, a kindness beaming from his gray eyes and from every lineament of his rugged face, and, indeed, from every motion of his powerful frame, that forced a conviction into the heart that here was one upon whom God had set his seal of greatness – of goodness.

      There were times, however, when in deep meditation, that his eyes seemed resting afar off on some unraveled future. An observer might fancy that a cloud had obscured the radiance of his soul, leaving in its stead only dissolving shadows of sadness. Then the lines of his face would deepen and his soul would seem far away on some errand of mercy. It was in such moods that he became patriarchal in appearance, and the observer might well have exclaimed, “Here is one over whom an hundred winters have blown their fierce north winds,” but, when he turned again, with his inspiring smile of benevolence, to answer perhaps the simplest question of the simplest questioner, few would have judged him to have seen more than half a century. At such times the soul-light seemed illuminating his classic yet gentle race with kindly interest for the little things of earth, and his years would then have been reckoned by summers and south winds – not by hoary winters.

      “By the way,” said the major, turning to Hugh, “what is your political belief?”

      “I am a Republican,” replied Hugh, “but I trust, though differing politically, that our social relations may be most pleasant.”

      “Thank you,” replied the major, with urbane courtliness, “I share your wishes, but I may as well tell you now, as later, that the Republican party is bound to be snowed under, root and branch, in our local election this fall.”

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