She not only hated the North but accepted as gospel truth all the misleading theories of the South: that cotton was king; that slavery was a divine institution; that in any enterprise one Southern man was a match for six Northern men.
On these points we had many contentions.

When the break came she went South with her family.

The last I saw of her was crossing Long Bridge in a lumbering family carriage waving a tiny Confederate flag.
Forty-five years intervened.

I had heard of her from time to time wandering aimlessly over Europe, but had not met her until the preceding winter in a famous Southern homestead.

There she led me into a rose garden, and seated beneath its clustered greeneries she said with an air of triumph, "Now you see, my dear old friend, that I was right and you were wrong all the time." Startled, and altogether forgetful, I asked in what way.
"Why," she answered, "at last the South is coming to its own." Still out of rapport with her thought I said something about the obliteration of sectionalism and the arrival of political freedom and general prosperity.