She was as proud as Lucifer;
yet she went through life -- the part that I knew of -- bearing the pity
of the great majority of the people who knew her.
She lived at an old place called "Woodside", which had been in the family
for a great many years; indeed, ever since before the Revolution.
The neighborhood dated back to the time of the colony,
and Woodside was one of the old places. My cousin Fanny's grandmother
had stood in the door of her chamber with her large scissors in her hand,
and defied Tarleton's red-coated troopers to touch the basket
of old communion-plate which she had hung on her arm.
The house was a large brick edifice, with a pyramidal roof, covered with moss,
small windows, porticos with pillars somewhat out of repair, a big, high hall,
and a staircase wide enough to drive a gig up it if it could have turned
the corners. A grove of great forest oaks and poplars densely shaded it,
and made it look rather gloomy; and the garden, with the old graveyard
covered with periwinkle at one end, was almost in front, while the side
of the wood -- a primeval forest, from which the place took its name --
came up so close as to form a strong, dark background. During the war
the place, like most others in that neighborhood, suffered greatly,
and only a sudden exhibition of spirit on Cousin Fanny's part saved it
from a worse fate.
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