Still stand the narrow, thatched cottages, immersed in honeysuckle and
ivy, that sheltered the fathers of the Constitution; still wind the
beaten roads over which rolled their coaches in days before the
American historical novel was more than a remote probability. Heroes
of a later war than that which gave us our freedom come now to this
sequestered spot, men whose grandfathers fought with our George
against the George of England. But, as their forefathers came, still
come they, and will come for generations, for this is the ancient
Mecca of Virginia gentlefolk to whom tradition is treasure and
companionship wine.
Late in the spring of 1880, when the dogwood was repainting the
hillsides and wild-flowers were weaving a new carpet of many hues for
the feet of wandering lovers, the company of guests assembled at the
Springs--as yet numerically small--included no fewer than a dozen
girls whose beauty was famed from one side of the Southland to the
other. Attendant upon these dainty American princesses, there were
again as many young men, rivals all for favors small.
A chill, moist wind of a certain evening blew down from the mist-
shrouded ridge, driving all guests to the glow of the fireplaces or to
the seclusion of coveted nooks in shadowy halls, where staircases held
secrets as tenderly inviolate now as on the nights of a dim, forgotten
past.
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