Leila looked on in surprise. Her aunt's astounding indifference to the
results of defeat for her beloved South when she learned of her husband's
injury left the younger woman utterly bewildered. Nothing in her own
nature, as she thought it all over, enabled her to understand it, nor was
her aunt's rapid gain in health and cheerfulness during the next few days
more easy to explain. At first with effort, but very soon with increase
of ability, she gradually became more and more her old self.
Ann Penhallow spent the remainder of the next day in one of those
household inspections which let no failure in neatness or order escape
attention. James Penhallow's library was to be cleaned and cared for in
a way to distress any man-minded man, while Leila looked on. Had her
aunt's recent look of ill-health represented nothing but the depressing
influence of a year of anxiety? And, if so, why under the distress of a
nearer and more material disaster should she grow so quickly active,
and apparently strong in place of becoming more feeble. She followed
her aunt about the house trying to be helpful, and a little amused at
her return to some of the ways which at times annoyed Penhallow into
positive revolt. As she thought of it, Ann was standing over a battered
army-chest, open and half full of well-worn cavalry uniforms.
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