“Why?” Duff asked from the back seat. Jack had offered to let him drive, but Duff had never been much interested in driving.

“To tell you the truth, some of the people around here didn’t like your great-­great-­grandfather. He wasn’t a very popular fellow.”

“You never told me that,” I said.

“I guess the subject never came up. Anyway, the old man was hard to get along with, as I understand it. He had a lot of disputes over property lines and water rights—there’s a creek that borders the farm—and his dogs killing neighbors’ chickens or their dogs killing his chickens, things like that. He was just plain cantankerous, I guess. Of course, on the plus side, he was a Civil War hero.”

“A hero?” shrieked Franny, who had just begun to take an interest in American history.

“Well, he was a general anyway.”

“An army general?”

“Yep, a brigadier. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I, Duff?”

“I think you may have,” said Duff diplomatically. Duff could never work up any enthusiasm for warfare more recent than Greek or Roman.

“You were named after your great-­great-­grandfather. I’m sure you knew that.”

“What battles was he in, Dad?” Franny wanted to know.

“Let’s see. Shiloh, I guess. Chickamauga maybe. There are books at the house that will tell you all about his career.”

We came upon the farm suddenly then, coming up to the Caine mailbox and the lane from a dip in the road. The lane was narrow and rutted. Not many cars had ever driven over it, I thought, as we bounced along. It had been made for wagons and carriages and never improved.

The house was a surprise. It was half hidden behind a grove of trees and we didn’t get a good look at it until we were almost on it. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. Maybe I thought it would be a Victorian monstrosity, with towers and turrets and shutters creaking in the wind.

Well, it looked Victorian all right, but not like a Victorian house. It looked like a nineteenth century factory or warehouse. It was built in unequal parts of brick, stone and wood, as though the builder, having run out of one material, made do with another.

Jack shut off the motor. “What do you think of it? It’s supposed to look like Libby Prison.”

“What’s that?”

“A Confederate prison in Richmond. The old man was captured and confined there during the war. I guess his stay made such an impression on him that later he built this house to look like it. The first house was a log cabin.”

“I’ve seen pictures of Libby Prison and there is a resemblance,” Duff said.

“I’m sure General Caine would be pleased at your approval,” said Jack grinning. He seemed happier than he had been for weeks.