Tryon arrived in the early morning and put up at the Patesville Hotel, a very comfortable inn. After a bath, breakfast, and a visit to the barbershop, he inquired of the hotel clerk the way to the office of Dr. Green, his mother's cousin.  
"On the corner, sir," answered the clerk, "by the market-house, just over the drugstore. The doctor drove past here only half an hour ago. You'll probably catch him in his office."
 
Tryon found the office without difficulty. He climbed the stair, but found no one in except a young colored man seated in the outer office, who rose promptly¹ as Tryon entered.
 
"No, suh," replied the man to Tryon's question, "he ain't hyuh now. He's gone out to see a patient, suh, but he'll be back soon. Won't you set down in de private office an' wait fer 'im, suh?"
 
Tryon had not slept well during his journey, and felt somewhat fatigued². Through the open door of the next room he saw an inviting⁴ armchair, with a window at one side, and upon the other a table strewn with papers and magazines.
 
"Yes," he answered, "I'll wait."
 
He entered the private office, sank into the armchair, and looked out of the window upon the square below. The view was mildly interesting. The old brick market-house with the tower was quite picturesque⁵. On a wagon-scale at one end the public weighmaster was weighing a load of hay. In the booths under the wide arches several old negro women were frying fish on little charcoal⁶ stoves—the odor would have been appetizing to one who had not breakfasted. On the shady side stood half a dozen two-wheeled carts, loaded with lightwood and drawn⁷ by diminutive⁸ steers⁹, or superannuated¹⁰ army mules¹¹ branded on the flank with the cabalistic letters "C. S. A.," which represented a vanished dream, or "U. S. A.," which, as any negro about the market-house would have borne witness, signified a very concrete fact. Now and then a lady or gentleman passed with leisurely¹² step—no one ever hurried in Patesville—or some poor white sandhiller slouched listlessly along toward store or bar-room.
 
Tryon mechanically counted the slabs¹³ of gingerbread on the nearest market-stall, and calculated the cubical contents of several of the meagre loads of wood. Having exhausted¹⁴ the view, he turned to the table at his elbow and picked up a medical journal, in which he read first an account of a marvelous surgical¹⁵ operation. Turning the leaves idly, he came upon an article by a Southern writer, upon the perennial¹⁶ race problem that has vexed¹⁷ the country for a century. The writer maintained that owing to a special tendency of the negro blood, however diluted¹⁸, to revert¹⁹ to the African type, any future amalgamation²⁰ of the white and black races, which foolish and wicked Northern negrophiles predicted as the ultimate result of the new conditions confronting the South, would therefore be an ethnological impossibility; for the smallest trace of negro blood would inevitably²¹ drag down the superior race to the level of the inferior, and reduce the fair Southland, already devastated²² by the hand of the invader²³, to the frightful²⁴ level of Hayti, the awful example of negro incapacity. To forefend their beloved land, now doubly sanctified by the blood of her devoted²⁵ sons who had fallen in the struggle to maintain her liberties and preserve her property, it behooved²⁶ every true Southron to stand firm against the abhorrent²⁷ tide of radicalism²⁸, to maintain the supremacy²⁹ and purity of his all-pervading, all-conquering race, and to resist by every available means the threatened domination of an inferior and degraded people, who were set to rule hereditary³⁰ freemen ere they had themselves scarce ceased to be slaves.
 
When Tryon had finished the article, which seemed to him a well-considered argument, albeit³¹ a trifle bombastic³², he threw the book upon the table. Finding the armchair wonderfully comfortable, and feeling the fatigue³ of his journey, he yielded to a drowsy³⁴ impulse, leaned his head on the cushioned back of the chair, and fell asleep. According to the habit of youth, he dreamed, and pursuant to his own individual habit, he dreamed of Rena. They were walking in the moonlight, along the quiet road in front of her brother's house. The air was redolent with the perfume of flowers. His arm was around her waist. He had asked her if she loved him, and was awaiting her answer in tremulous but confident expectation. She opened her lips to speak. The sound that came from them seemed to be:—
 
"Is Dr. Green in? No? Ask him, when he comes back, please, to call at our house as soon as he can."
 
Tryon was in that state of somnolence³⁵ in which one may dream and yet be aware that one is dreaming,—the state where one, during a dream, dreams that one pinches one's self to be sure that one is not dreaming. He was therefore aware of a ringing quality about the words he had just heard that did not comport³⁶ with the shadowy converse³⁷ of a dream—an incongruity³⁸ in the remark, too, which marred³⁹ the harmony of the vision. The shock was sufficient to disturb Tryon's slumber⁴⁰, and he struggled slowly back to consciousness. When fully³³ awake, he thought he heard a light footfall descending⁴¹ the stairs.
 
"Was there some one here?" he inquired of the attendant in the outer office, who was visible through the open door.
 
"Yas, suh," replied the boy, "a young cullud 'oman wuz in jes' now, axin' fer de doctuh."
 
Tryon felt a momentary⁴² touch of annoyance⁴³ that a negro woman should have intruded⁴⁴ herself into his dream at its most interesting point. Nevertheless, the voice had been so real, his imagination had reproduced with such exactness the dulcet⁴⁵ tones so dear to him, that he turned his head involuntarily and looked out of the window. He could just see the flutter of a woman's skirt disappearing around the corner.
 
A moment later the doctor came bustling⁴⁶ in,—a plump, rosy⁴⁷ man of fifty or more, with a frank, open countenance⁴⁸ and an air of genial⁴⁹ good nature. Such a doctor, Tryon fancied, ought to enjoy a wide popularity. His mere⁵⁰ presence would suggest life and hope and healthfulness.
 
"My dear boy," exclaimed the doctor cordially, after Tryon had introduced himself, "I'm delighted to meet you—or any one of the old blood. Your mother and I were sweethearts, long ago, when we both wore pinafores, and went to see our grandfather at Christmas; and I met her more than once, and paid her more than one compliment, after she had grown to be a fine young woman. You're like her! too, but not quite so handsome—you've more of what I suppose to be the Tryon favor, though I never met your father. So one of old Duncan McSwayne's notes went so far as that? Well, well, I don't know where you won't find them. One of them turned up here the other day from New York.
 
"The man you want to see," he added later in the conversation, "is old Judge Straight. He's getting somewhat stiff in the joints⁵¹, but he knows more law, and more about the M............