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There
were hours in the lavender-tinted twilights of spring, or on autumn
afternoons, while the shadows quivered beneath the burnished leaves and
the sunset glowed with the colour of apricots, when the watcher might
catch a fleeting glimpse of the past. It may have been the drop of dusk
in the arched recess of a Colonial doorway; it may have been the faint
sunshine on the ivy-grown corner of an old brick wall; it may have been
the plaintive melody of a negro market-man in the street; or it may have
been the first view of the Culpeper's gray and white mansion; but, in
one or all of these things, there were moments when the ghost of the
buried village stirred and looked out, and a fragrance that was like the
memory of box and mint and blush roses stole into the senses. It was
then that one turned to the Doric columns of the Culpeper house,
standing firmly established in its grassy lawn above the street and the
age, and reflected that the defeated spirit of tradition had entrenched
itself well at the last.


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