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The Primes and their neighbors Ten tales of middle Georgia

by

Richard Malcolm Johnston

Dedication

TO
Memories of
POWELTON,
MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

With "The Durance of Mr. Dickerson Prime," which now appears for the first time, the author has been encouraged to put forth another collection of stories, containing some of those which have been printed recently in the magazines.

While these sketches, like their predecessors, are imaginary, except as to the scenes and certain characteristics which have been selected here and there, they are in harmony with the rural society which the author remembers as a lad, and later as a young lawyer whose practice took him into several counties in middle Georgia.

To him it is a very grateful solace to recall persons whose simplicity has been much changed by subsequent conditions, chiefly the Confederate War. Growth of inland towns and multiplication of outside acquaintance have served to diminish, or at least greatly modify, striking rustic individualities; and labor, become more exacting in its demands, has made life more difficult, and therefore more earnest.

Of the present collection, Mr. Gibble Colt's Ducks appeared in Harper's Magazine, The Humors of Jacky Bundle in Harper's Weekly, New Discipline at Rock Spring in Harper's Bazar, The Experiment of Miss Sally Cash, Travis and Major Jonathan Wilby, and The Self-Protection of Mr. Littlebury Roach in The Century, and the others in The Cosmopolitan.

To the publishers of these periodicals the author tenders his thanks.

R. M. J.

Baltimore, February 15, 1891.

Chapter 1

I.

Mr. Dickerson Prime had never heard of the exile of Ovidius in Pontus, or of Demosthenes in Ægina. Occasionally he may have been more or less attentive on Sunday-meeting days, when his preacher, in words not learned but in tones meant to be pathetic, made vague allusions to Israel's captivity in Babylon. But fullest acquaintance with all history, profane and sacred, would not have shaken his conviction that, for the extremity of anguish, the world had furnished no instance which either in the individual or the aggregate, could be justly compared with his own. Perhaps this intensity of wofulness seemed the more pitiful from the fact that it took place within a hundred yards of his own dwelling-house, through the windows of which, sometimes on the very piazza, he could observe from between the logs of his prison his family, as its members moved about in profoundest anxiety, not so much for him apparently as for themselves.

He was an extremely tall man, lean, lank, dark, both in complexion and in looks. Some persons,

Indeed, Mrs. Prime habitually bore the looks of a woman who loved and who had the greatest plenty of good things, and was willing for everybody else to have the same. She was short, fat, and fair, approaching to ruddiness. She was even-tempered also in the main; but good wives, like good rules, may have their exceptions, which certify to their goodness in the long run. Mr. Prime knew as well as anybody that he owned a good wife, and he would have been willing to acknowledge it out and out but for his apprehension that she might be led to dispute the fact that nature, gospel, and municipal law had all contributed to make him the head of his family.

They lived in an unpretending one-story house, with the usual shed-rooms, and owned a reasonably good piece of land, out of which, with the help of four negroes--a man, his wife, and two of their half-grown children--they got a living and something over. The surplus would have been larger, but that Mrs. Prime, besides a plenty for all, white and black, would (she often avowed that she just would) have some nice clothes for herself and especially her daughter Cindy. The remonstrances of her husband were kept this side of the limit beyond which experience had taught him to foresee that they

"I do think on my soul that Mr. Prime is the fondest of sickness that I ever heerd tell of anybody. Not, I don't mean, for hisself. Because the littlest thing with him, even to the snufflin' of his nose from a bad cold, mighty nigh skeer out his very liver and lights, and if it weren't his insides is so long, they isn't any telling what would happen after the perfect ocean of physic he seem like it's his bounden duty to take for fears of giving up his final ghost, which he acknowledge he's a decided opposed to for yit a many a year. But which I've tried my verest conscientiousest best to tell him in vain that, if so be in his angzieties, he better mind how he expose hisself to every night a'r that is, and special with them Sprowlses that its his very delights when any o' them gits sick. Why, if a body will believe me, he come a nigher a-laughin' than he ever do when word come that one of the Sprowlses have the fever, and the doctor say the family have got to be keerful, or he can't take the resk of the case. In them solemn and joyful occasion, he'll pick out--Mr. Prime will--he'll pick out the very whitest shirt he has got to his name, and on it will he put, and hisself will he primp the same ef he were goin' to get married a second time, which it is my lone dependence on the good Lord he'll never do, and which of course he'll never be able to do as long as I'm alive, though not as peart and active as I used to be in this vale of tears. And then to the Sprowlses will he shoot. And Mr. Sprowles, that I can't but despise sech ridic'lous

It was but another instance of the sympathy of the weak for the powerful, out of which was made the best literature of former times. The Sprowlses, with their hundred slaves and two thousand acres, accepted such service as one of the items of their dues. Its bestower was thankful that it was as cheap as it was hearty, especially that it was publicly recognized. He loved to be known as a friend of the Sprowlses, with whose family he longed for his own to be joined. Rather than part from such notoriety and the hope of its increase, he would have been glad to sit up every night with their sick and help to bury almost every one of their dead.

Part 2

The Sprowlses lived a mile to the east of the Primes. Their mansion, much finer outside than inside, big and white, stood in the midst of their negro cabins, surrounded by their broad acres. John Sprowls, the head of the family, was long, lean, dark, and money-loving, like his nearest neighbor, but far more successful in money-getting. There were several children among whom this property was to be divided, but not now. The owner had worked too hard for it to be given away to anybody quite yet. Indeed, he had worked hard--so hard that he had never taken the time to learn any better manners than those which he had started with; and he was proud to feel that he had never needed them, and that he did not need them now. He had a rather pleasant sort of pity for his wife, who was always trying to make things in the house and about the yard a little more genteel, and sometimes, not often, let her get what would contribute to that end. He condescended to be worshiped by Mr. Prime, as much as the latter desired. Mr. Prime gloried in being on entirely friendly, almost intimate terms with a man who, no higher born than himself, hardly as high, no more industrious, no more economical, not even as well mannered, had risen so far above him. He must believe that there was a secret in such luck, and his hope was, either to find it out, or in some degree become a participant in its ultimate revealings. His wife and daughter might be ashamed of such servility if they preferred; but he intended to continue paying respect

The one Sprowls whom I have singled out for the little story which I now have in hand, on whom Mr. Prime looked to become the link for such exalted connection, was Jim. None ever called him anything but Jim. He wasn't worth it, and everybody except Mr. Prime knew it; and the fellow might have kept on courting Cindy Prime, and kept on, and he never would have ousted Billy Sams from her affections. There was nothing in the world to recommend Jim Sprowls except his being the son of his father, and just like him in all points but one, and that was industry. He never would work unless when made to do it; and now that he was one-and-twenty, the question was, what next? He answered, saying that he would go over to Mr. Prime's and marry Cindy. For his father had said that, if he would take Cindy Prime, the probability was that he would give him a hundred acres of land adjoining the Primes, and some other property to start with. But Billy Sams was in there before him, and in there to stay, no matter how long things were to be put off by paternal hostility.

Cindy was fair, like her mother, and as for plump, and sweet, and all such as that, there wasn't a single soul among all her acquaintance who, if speaking honestly, wouldn't have said that Cindy Prime had as great a plenty of these as any girl ought to have, or should want to have. Billy's people were poor; but they had a nice tract of good land, which he managed for his widowed mother and his younger brother Bobby, and they were

"Never mind, Billy; it'll come right some time, and then you and Cindy will be glad it didn't come sooner. Its jest that Mr. Prime is so took up with the very name of the Sprowlses that he can't see how no manner of account Jim Sprowls is, and that all his pa's promising what he'll do if Cindy'll take him is jest to palm Jim off himself and on to Mr. Prime, which, even if he didn't Cindy'd no more marry Jim Sprowls than she'd die a old maid first, and that the wrinkliest, and the stringiest, and the scrawniest that ever come about. What more could the mother of a girl say, and try to keep herself dilicate? You go 'long and keep up a stiff upper lip, Billy. It'll come right, and that to my opinion sooner than anybody know a-cording to the very word of Scriptur' which say to them it will in nowise disapp'int."

One day, after yet another exchange of sweet sympathies, she said to him:

"Jim Sprowls have been over here this very mornin', and Cindy say its the dozent or the thirteent time, she say she can't ric'lect which, that she have told him to his face that he needn't pester hisself to come over here on sech a arrant not a nare another time, and she say he say, Jim do, that he ain't; and that he mean to go away into fureign land. And I hope for Mr. Prime's sake, if for nobody else's, that he will. So don't you be down-hearted, Billy. The Scriptur' say, you know, that the Lord will provide to them that knock at the door, and stand a-waitin' patient."

In all this while Mr. Prime had never tried to

III.

Jim Sprowls wasn't at all noted for being as good as his word; but this time he was. On the evening after his last appeal to Cindy (twelfth or thirteenth, whichever it was), he said to his father:

"Cindy's flung me again, and I don't feel like stayin' about here; and, if you'll let me have some money, I'll go away and git my livin' somewhere else."

"If Dick'son Prime would use the athority which the very law give a head o' his family; but--"

He stopped, and after reflecting a few moments, said:

"Jim, I''ll do it, that is to a extent. As you can't

"I think I'll try it in Augusty."

"All right; there's where I struck first when I come from South Callina. I picked up somethin' there, one way and another, enough to start with, then I moved on till right here, where I stuck. You got my egzampul before you, Jim, and, if it's in you, you can do likeways; but it's to be understood betwix us, you don't come back here without you come full-handed."

After three days Jim departed. He said to Mr. Prime, who came over to bid him good-by, that the time would come, and that before so very long, that people would see for themselves what was in him. Mr. Prime said he hoped it, nay, he believed it. Then he went back home, where, if any change in his deportment was remarked, it was somewhat more grave reserve in his family and more emphatic sullenness toward Billy Sams.

Jim, according to the injunction of his mother, wrote to her now and then, every letter boasting, yet

"Jeems," he said, as he was leaving, "what is it have made you look so well and healthy, and shiny in the face?"

"I don't know, Mr. Prime. It's just here for a day or two it's been so. Ma says she ain't sure but what I've takin' the measles. The things had broke out bad in the house I boarded at in Augusty, but I had 'em five or six years ago. Still, I don't feel quite well last night and to-day."

"Psher! It's no measles. It's jest the amount o' healthy you've picked up in your active about business. Come and see us."

"I will, Mr. Prime, before I go."

After he was gone, Jim said he believed he'd lie down awhile.

"Never, in all my lifetime, have I see a boy so pick up in that lenk o' time."

"Yes, Mr. Prime, he have on sto' clothes, and his looks have cert'n had a change, a-providin' he have not took to drink."

"I has no idees of them kind, Kizzy. None of the Sprowlses that anybody know of has ever been drinkin' people. Missis Sprowls says she suspicion he may be a-taken o' the measles; but to my certain 'memb'ance he had his full share o' them, and they were o' the big kind that went all through the settlement five year ago. To my opinion its jest simple ex'cise of good active healths and cons'tution."

The next day, on repairing to Mr. Sprowles's house, Mr. Prime was astonished to find Jim restless, feverish, taking cupful after cupful of tansy bitters, and the measles breaking out as plentiful as blackberrries. Delighted as usual at an opportunity of rendering service to the distinguished family, he went back home and saw to what business was on hand, gave directions for the morrow's work, got out his same whitest shirt, returned, and joined in taking special charge of the sick of the measles. The latter grew worse instead of better. Mr. Prime, understanding all about handling such things, was nigh ecstatic at the thought that he was there to minister to wants and to comfort the anxious mother. For the father, disgusted that Jim had come home in such a plight, had turned him over to the rest of the family and gone to bed before nine o'clock. Mr. Prime, since Jim could neither sleep nor let anybody else have even an occasional furtive nod, about an hour before day, gave in to the mother's saying that she felt that the doctor ought to be sent for.

"It's a expense, Missis Sprowls, that I always in genil

A shade passed over the face of the physician as, not long after the dawn, he entered the room and looked at the patient. A gifted man, educated at the Medical School of Philadelphia, he almost instantly divined the malady. After a brief inspection he rose, and, beckoning to Mr. Prime and Mr. Sprowls, the latter of whom had just risen from his bed and come in, they went out to the piazza, where he said:

"Mr. Sprowls, I am sorry to have to tell you so; but Jim has come home with the small-pox."

IV.

O Clio, Muse of History, holder of the half-opened scroll, inventress of the cithara, through the wrath of Venus unwilling mother of Hyacinthus who was destined to be slain by the discus of Apollo, and--

But no: I am as well aware as anybody that such language is both inappropriate and inadequate; I was momentarily betrayed into attempting some sort of invocation

But I must keep with the people of my story.

Mr. Sprowls was not very much of what people called a "reg'lar-built, tore-down cusser." But, on the report by Dr. Lewis of his diagnosis of Jim's case, he tried out of the abundance of his heart to do his very best, in justice to the subject.

"O Mr. Sprowls!" pleaded his wife, "is this a

"Yes, by bloods and thunders!" roared the husband. "It's been a-comin' ever sence the triflin', no-account creetur come into the world; and now the pot have b'iled over sence he have ruined hisself, my God a'mighty, and everybody else!"

"Well," she replied, submissively, "we must try to make the best of what is sent us, and--"

"Make the best! I say, make the best!--make the worst!--Ab, you Ab!" he roared to a negro in the horse-lot, "you fetch out Bill, and saddle him and bridle him.--Betsy, you and Dickerson and the doctor here, you'll have to tend to this case the best you--"

"Mr. Sprowls," said Dr. Lewis, "I advise, I warn you to countermand that order. If in this extremity you abandon your own son to his mother's sole care, you ought to be, and by the Lord I hope you will be, the first to perish by the disease! And if you run away, and it strikes you, don't send for me; for, before I would raise a finger to help you, I would let you die like a dog! As for Mr. Prime, he must try to take care of himself, both for his own sake and that of his family. You've got to stay here, right here, and by the bedside of Jim, if not to serve him, to assist and strengthen your wife in the service which she has to render. Besides, there's no family, when this case becomes known, as it will be as soon as I can ride to town, that would let you come even inside of their gate.--Mrs. Sprowls, luckily I have in my saddle-bags a small quantity of vaccine matter. It is almost a sure preventive when taken in time, but I must say, in candor,

Vast as was the distance to be traversed, that sleeve went from wrist to shoulder as one with violent hands might tear the skin from an overgrown eel. The doctor for long afterward used to say that he was often haunted by the countenance worn by Mr. Prime during this operation.

"Now return home; but I warn you to take lodging for a while in your cotton-house near the gate. It will not do for your family to become exposed."

People may have seen and been told of strides. But I boldly venture the expression of opinion that not many have ever approximated as near perfection as those made by Mr. Prime while gathering up the space between the Sprowlses and his own front gate. They were the more remarkable because his conscience, only less active than his fright, kept telling him that they ought to have been made in the exact opposite direction and continued unceasingly until they had taken him to the other end of the world. As the doctor was galloping past him, he cried:

"O Lordy, Dock Lewis! please tell Kizzy to please try to forgive me if she possible can, and be as went with me as--as every thing will, and can, and do admit of, when she ought to know that the good Lord know I weren't a no more a-expectin' nor a-lookin' for sech a thing than if the very Bad Man hisself had a-riz out o' his wery bottom abodes with his coals er fire Index his hand, and come a-runnin' up plump ag'in me.

"It's quite enough, what I inserted, Mr. Prime; still, as you have been so much exposed, I'll leave with you a little more."

Giving him directions how to treat himself, and promising to plead for him as requested, the physician spurred his horse onward.

The time had come at last, in the opinion of Mrs. Prime, to let her husband know, if he had not been made fully aware theretofore, of the precise sort of material of which the person whom he regarded a portion of his property was composed. After announcing his news, vaccinating mother and daughter, and making a brief appeal for the coming penitent, the doctor, remounting, hurried on toward the court-house. The first movement made by the lady in furtherance of her purpose was to take down the shot-gun from its pegs. Finding that the pan was even full of good dry powder, she marched out and leaned the weapon against a stump a few feet on this side of the cotton-house which stood on a side of the walk just within the yard. Next she got out some of the most worn of the bedclothes, and, along with a shuck mattress, she and the cook took them to the cotton-house, wherein as comfortable a spread was made as time and the circumstances seemed to allow. Cindy had run over to the Samses, according to the doctor's suggestion, to vaccinate all there. Billy said afterward that it was a sight, and I have not a doubt that it was, to see Cindy blushing all over as she held

But I can't stop to tell about such events as these. My business now is with Cindy's mother. She had barely finished the operation of turning the cotton-house into a hospital, when she felt that her presence would shortly be needed at the gate. Thither, arming herself with the shot-gun, she presently repaired.

V.

Wofully, yet with unslackened speed, Mr. Prime came on, dragging his vast length along! When within a few rods of the gate, it seemed to him that he heard the cocking of some sort of fire-arm. Lifting his forlorn head, he first looked into the muzzle, then halted amain.

"Well, you may stop where you stand!" Loud, firm was the gunner's tone. The breech was at her shoulder, one eye was shut, the other sighting along the barrel.

"Wonder ought to be with everybody that you had the oudacious to come back that fur."

"The good Lord, Kizzy! do, please let up that gun! It's to be hope I ain't goin' to have the things, and, if I am, I ain't prepar'd to die till I can have a little bit o' prip'ration, and--"

"Si-lunce!" The open mouth closed as tightly as an oyster. "Dickerson Prime, it's only a few words I'm a-goin' to waste on you. Hain't I told you more times

"Cotton-house, Kizzy, cotton-house! Do, for the Lord's sake, let her down!"

"Very well, then," she said, taking down the gun and slowly backing.

The door was small, and he had to enter horizontally. Stepping upon the block that stood before it, he thrust in one leg, but instantly withdrew it. As if momentarily reflecting that the expression of beseeching

"Kizzy, if you and the good Lord'll forgive me this time, and I don't die, I'll never do so again; and, if you want me, I'll swar to it."

"Sech as that is too late, Dickerson Prime. All I want to be understood, and it's got to be understood, that you're to move no further toward the house than this here stump, where I'll fetch, my very self, your victuals and a pitcher of water three times a day. That cotton-house is to be your home till the doctor gives the word you can come out, be it a-livin' or be it dead; and as for this gun, which I'm a-holdin' in my hand, it'll be kept a-standing right there behind the front door; because it's Cindy I'll be a-thinking about and not myself, a notwithstanding the good Lord know, and I won't try to disgwige I'm skeered to death o' the things myself, but nothing to the extent I am for poor Cindy."

By reason of the precautionary suggestions of Dr. Lewis, the malady was confined to Jim Sprowls and a case of varioloid with his mother. The father by skillfulest dodging managed to escape. The panic in time subsided. During its continuance a gloom, black as the pall of a coffin, overhung the community. Never, in the whole history of families therein, had there been as much staying in the house on the part of the heads of families, and as many avowed resolves to live, if spared this time, better lives. In imagination men parted from their wives and children, and after languishing in loathsomest lazarettos, perished and were left unburied. Housewives afterward declared that

But this story will not admit of such enlargement as that would require. So, leaving it to the future historian to elaborate, I conclude what I had to say for the Primes, including Billy Sams. Would you like to know what was done by the latter immediately after the vaccination all around by Cindy's deft, tender, compassionate fingers? Reflecting that Jim Sprowls having shown what was in him, it might be as well for Mr. Prime to find out what was in his humble rival, Billy said that he was going right with Cindy straight back home.

"O Billy!" remonstrated Cindy, feeling it was her duty. "It's too dangerous. Besides, you'll be needed here."

"The bigger the danger, the more I'm a-goin'," he answered, looking becomingly stern.

Cindy appealed to his mother, who answered:

"Let him go on, Cindy; the boy'll be jes distracted anyhow if he know you in danger and him not there to f'ward it off. Me and Johnny can manage with him to come over once't a day and look around.--Go long, my son, and take good keer yourself and the rest. The good Lord ain't a-goin' to forsaken them that tries to do right."

They needed not have waited for joining of hands until they had passed one gate, nor parted them on reaching the other, for their love was as pure as it was sweet, the more because of their solemn apprehensions. On their arrival, after a hasty greeting with Mrs. Prime, who was wildly busied and tumultuously flustered, the first thing that Billy did was to march firmly toward the cotton-house, pause, as if only momentarily, at Mr. Prime's dining-stump, and clear his throat loudly.

"Stop where you stand, Billy Sams, if you have any respects of yourself, and your ma, and Johnny, and anybody else to which the everlastin' things could be scattered promiscous. Mister Prime, you goin' to let that boy expoge hisself, that it look like you're been and gone and lost what feelin's you had for other people, besides the little senses is left to your own self? I jes declar' that things have got to a pass if they never done it before."

The appeal affected the exile, who upon his knees was putting up the best he had in his repertory of prayers and supplications. Feebly he began to rise, his ascent not wholly unlike the slow, cautious letting out of a vast telescope. When the extreme length was attained, with abject pitifulness he said:

"Mayby you better stop there at the stump, Billy. Kizzy say so, and I reckon she knows. But if you ever see a poor, lonesome creetur', that I'm thankful to be this nigh to a human of some sort, a bein' clean shet out where the good Lord know, if he know my heart, he know I were never a-wantin' of it, nor a-expect-in' it."

"I'm sorry for you, Mr. Prime," said Billy. "Indeed I am, and I come over to tell you that I'll tend to what you want done in your business, and see to things, and, if you git sick, which it's to be hoped you won't, I'll take the resk of Mrs. Prime and Cindy, and wait on you same if you was my own father."

"God a'mighty bless you, my son! and if I ever do git out o' this place, and I'm a-livin', I'll be a father to you, Billy--that is, in reason."

"Thanky, Mr. Prime."

That night, during a short visit to his own home, Billy said to his mother: "Ma, not to go no further, I do think Mr. Prime were the solemncholomst, the woe-begondest, and the very raggidifacedest human you ever let eyes on. He were powerful thankful I come, and he said things that Dr. Lewis told me, if it was him 'stid o' me, he'd act on 'em, he would."

Then he hastened back. He was as good as his word. If it hadn't been for him, there is no telling how things would have gone to pieces. He made up his mind that, so far as he was concerned, others must be as good as their word also, provided he could make them.

That same night, while Billy was away, Cindy put to her mother a very pointed question. "The laws me,

She went off to bed.

Greater people have had trysts perhaps more fit for poets' lays, but Billy and Cindy in their allotted hour never even thought of that. When the clock struck ten, Cindy, however reluctant she may have been, rose and retired. Billy went out to the stump, and listened until his ear caught the prolonged, profound snorings that were issuing between the logs of the cotton-house. Then he repaired noiselessly to the other shed-room on the back piazza opposite that in which Cindy lay, and both, awake and asleep, dreamed of things of which no poet could justly write or tell.

What remains shall be told by Mr. Prime, who was never tired of talking about it all.

"Yes, I'll jes' acknowledge to all survivin' friends, and people of all sort, that when I come to die good an' all, out an' out, an' no mistake, my everlastin' hopes has been, an' is, that I ain't to be tore up in my mind like I were on all them solemn occasion. When Dock Lewis brung out word that Jeems have fotch the small-pok home with him, I come a mighty nigh a drappin' dead in my tracks right thar in the Sprowls' peazer. An' as I went on home, seem like to me I were skearder o' Kizzy than I were of hit; because, if so be she's a ruther a small female, an' calm accordin' in gen'l, yit, when she git mad an' skeard, to boot, it ain't everybody that they hadn't ought to git out her way for the time a-bein'. And so, lo an' behold, when I have arriv' at

"But Kizzy she say atterwards, she hain't no notions o' pullin' the trigger on me, an' were only a jes' a-hintin' the abs'lute necess'ty o' me gittin' in the cotton-house amejiant, which nare rat that ever had a hole ever tuck to it quicker. An' it's jes' not worth while for me to try to make people understand what I went thro in that same cotton-house, let alone night, but the very daytime, when here was me, jes' me, by my lone self, and outside there was Kizzy, an' Cindy, an' Billy, an' the niggers, all a-movin' aroun' same if I been dead, an' they settlin' up my estates. An' as for the lint o' that cotton, well now, honest', it do seem like to me I never will git it out, not clar, I mean, out my eyes, an' my nose, an' my very throat an' bres. An' then, you know, I might nigh as well a had the things theyself, for the eefeck o' keepin' a constant a-punchin' in my arms o' that stuff Dock Lewis give me, which Kizzy'll tell you herself they weren't a place on nare arm you could lay down a silver dollar whar it hadn't took.

"Now, Billy--well, as for Billy Sams, when he come over thar so amejiant, and say he come to take the resk o' me and all on the place, I used words to the full extents of which to Billy was not my meanin'; but the very next day him and Cindy they whirled in and got married! Kizzy say aterwards, if I have anybody to git mad with, it were Dock Lewis, which it wer him that saved my life, an' he told Billy he had the rights from what I have promus'd with my own mouth; and

"And as for Jeems Sprowls, I don't 'member as I ever seen as many people, special females, of all age, to not be glad the small-pok never kill't him. When he got up at last I never went anigh him; but them that see him say he were scaly in the face as a pine-burrer, an' knotty same as a cowcummer. Atter that, seem like to him, an' everybody else, that he better leave them coast; and my sispicion is, may be his ma know, but they an't nobody else know whar Jeems Sprowls is."

Chapter 2

"You must of ben too young to 'member Len Cane, weren't you?" said my old friend Mr. Pate one day while I was on a visit to the old settlement.

I answered that I remembered having seen him once or twice, though then he had far passed his prime. In his day he was well known; indeed, somewhat famous throughout a limited territory bordering on the creek and the mill-pond. Diminutive, long-headed, thin-headed, with the blackest of hair and the brightest of eyes, he looked old when he was young, and rather young when he was old.

"Yes, sir," Mr. Pate would say, "the older he growed arfter he got what growth he did git, 'pear'd like the littler and the younger he got. He were a curosity, Len were. But everybody liked him, because, though he were one o' the silentest and say-nothin'est creeters you ever see, yet he were one of the best natured and one o' the commodatin'est."

The account given by my old friend was so circumstantial that I feel that I must often abridge so as to keep within reasonable limits.

Mr. Cane, though remarkably taciturn, was always

"Was he a married man, Mr. Pate? I was so young at the time of his passing away that I do not remember as to that."

"Married? Len Cane? Bless your soul, not he. I don't supposen that Len Cane never had the 'motest idea o' ever tryin' to get married. He used to say that he was borned a bach'lor. They used to sorter joke him about wimming and gurls, and, exceptin' in the case o' Jim Rakestraw, he allays tuck it in good part. One day he says to me--for him an' me was allays friendly, and even ruther thick, that is as fur as he could git thick with anybody--says he:

"'S'her', Mr. Pate, 'tain't no use for people to be wastin' their words a-talkin' to me 'bout marryin'. I weren't borned to git married. I'd a never of suited no woman, even ef I had of thought I could of got one that might of suited me. Ausbon have a wife and a whole pile o' children, and them's enough for the Cane folks; much as Ausbon can do, with me to help him, to s'port them, let alone the fetchin' in more mouths to feed.'

"Jim Rakestraw, when he ever plagued him about his constant a bachelorin', Len 'd in general say about so:

"'Jim, they's some men, and they's more of wimming, that would of done better than they done ef they hadn't of got married, and special to them that they tuck up with.'

"Sech as that would sort of shet up Jim Rakestraw, because you see it flung the laugh on to him."

Mr. Cane's ostensible home was with his younger

"Yes, sir; yes, sir," Mr. Pate said with emphasis, "Len Cane, it seem to me, that he were a creeter o' the creek. The same, in an' about, as ef he'd of ben a otter, er a mussrat, er a wild duck. They weren't no tellin' what he'd of come to if he'd ef ben borned an' raised in a high, dry, open settlement. My 'pinions allays has been that he'd of jes' come to nothin', er he'd jes' drindled and drindled from the word go down to nothin'. As it were, he derweloped, you may say, up to bein' the best ducker and fisherman we he had among us by a long shot. Not that he never got squirrels, pigeons, and other dry-land things, and killed hawks and blackbirds and sech, but he done that for a 'commodatin' o' the neighbors a' most in general; for everybody, a possible a exceptin' o' Jim Rakestraw, liked Len Cane, an'

"'Dunno how 'tis people can't keep off their own hawks, 'stid o' sendin' for me, an' takin' me away from my business. Now, in course, as fer minks, that's another thin', an' which nobody can be expected to head them off excepin' it's them that knows their ways.'

"With jes' about such grumblin' he'd answer a call o' one o' the neighbor's wives to her hen-house. He never was knowed to refuse such a call, and he allays went arfterwards and got his part o' the chicken-pie, and which I suppose you know that a chicken-pie were allays the pay to them that killed a hawk er cotch a mink.

"As for hawks, people said that none o' them ever went nigh Ausbon Cane's, because they weren't one of 'em that didn't know, if he knowed anything, that he could never go to them preemisses but once't. And as for minks, people 'lowed that the minks found out that they and Len Cane couldn't live in the same settlement, and as Len he wouldn't never move away, the minks they concluded they would; that is, them the hides of which he didn't have stretched an' hangin' in his Brer Ausbon's back peazer.

What Mr. Cane called his business was the mill-pond or the lowlands bordering about, and the creek whose waters formed it. An inconsiderable stream the latter was, coursing leisurely through a level of some extent that was covered densely with reeds, willows, bays, and other growth. A lofty dam had gathered quite a body of water, to the head of which wild duck used to resort in large numbers. There they were able to hide themselves from most hunters among the numerous thick copses. Few besides Len and none like him could hunt this game with much satisfaction. It seemed too expensive to have to wade so far in the early mornings, and get so little for the pains. But the very difficulties were most attractive to him, although he was fond of catering thus to the appetites of his neighbors, for which, seldom for his own, he pursued his avocation.

"The cunniner, and the slyer, and the sneakiner a varmint were," said Mr. Pate, "the keener Len were to run 'em down an' head 'em off. He natchel loved to show 'em, it 'peared like, that smart as they wus, he were smarter'n them. He'd thes lay round the mill-pond, not only of a day, but many a time of a night. He have a gun, a old, single-barrel, flint-an'-steeler, an' I supposen she were the longest shot-gun you ever see, and when he put in her what he call a buck load, you better believe she lumbered when he fired her off. By daybreak, or maybe before, he'd be down thar a-creepin' smooth an' silent as a snake, nigh about knee-deep, and hip-deep in the water. And you know, sir, he never shot at 'em a-flyin, as some does these days, because he were powerful stingy with his powder an' shot, even

"Ner he'd never give a load for jes' one single, lone duck jes' so by itself, and ef the poor things had of had sense enough to know how stingy he were with his ammunition, an' a diwided themselves when he were a-comin', they's more of 'em a dodged him. But you see now thar it was. They never knowed when he were a-comin'. He'd steal upon 'em at their roost, an' when they weren't much as even dreamin' o' sech a thing, blaze away on 'em in a lump, an' come out o' the water with a great pile of 'em.

"Some people used to say they believed them ducks knowed him, an' some went so fur as to say they knowed his actuil name, though maybe in their outlandish langwidges, and because they in general had their nose stopped up with bad colds because of their bein' so much in the water, they called him Led Cade, instid o' his raal name, which it were Len Cane, in course. But in course Len he never acknowledge to sech as that; for he were a truth-tellin' little feller, and he let people run on and have their jokes."

At all events, with all the knowledge the ducks had of Mr. Cane, his knowledge of them was greater, and he seldom, if ever, came back from a hunt without booty.

"Now when you come to talk about the fish in that mill-pond," said the historian, "it actuil did 'pear like that the simple fact of the business were that Len Cane have studied them fish untwell he know 'em same as he know his Brer Ausbon's children, an' some said he tuck in 'em an intrust ekal to Ausbon's children, but

His favorite mode of taking the fish was with the basket. This was made of white-oak splits, and was four or five feet long, ten or twelve inches in average diameter, narrowing at top and widening at bottom. Into the mouth was inserted a funnel, also of splits, wide, closely woven at the opening and narrowing to a small orifice, beyond which the weaving stopped, and the splits projecting and sharpened at end converged almost to a point. Considerable time would be expended and much pains in enticing the fish to the various holes he had chosen. He had his cat-holes, his sucker-holes, and others. When all was ready, these holes would be left unbaited for a day, and then baskets, well supplied, tied underneath the bank by ropes or grape-vines, would be let in the water. The fish, eager for the bait, would push their way through the pliant splits, which, closing upon their entrance, would hinder with their sharp points the retreat.

The only man in the neighborhood whom Mr. Cane did not like was Jim Rakestraw, a huge, lazy, lubberly giant, whose foot was so big that some said it had no business to be called a foot at all, and so they

"Well, as I ric'lect, ef I don't disremember, it were Billy Pritchett's wife that started it, though she wern't to blame no more'n you are this minute. Billy and her hadn't been long married, and she got into a complainy way, though she were a monstous fine young 'oman, and she told Billy one day that she wanted a mess of stewed cat-fish, and that the facts of the business were she believed she weren't goin' to git well till she got it. Now, that very day, Billy, an' Len, an' Jim Rakestraw, they all happened accidental to be at the mill, an' when Billy norated to Len the kinditions o' his wife, Len ups he does an' says:

"'Why for pity's sake Billy, why yes, in course. You tell your wife she shall have them fish for dinner to-morrow, if I'm spared to go to my cat-hole thar, 'jes below the cornder o' Jimmy Sharp's bottom field. Wish I'd of knew before of her a-wantin' of 'em.'

"Jes' like him, jes' like Len Cane for the world; for he were as perfec' a 'commodatin' man, and special to the sick, as you ever knowed of.

"But now, come to the serous part o' the business. When Len come to his cat-hole next mornin', soon as he gethered holt o' the grape-vine, he know from the way his basket pull that somebody or somethin' else ben thar. And sure enough, when he drawed her to the bank, every bit of his bait to the very last scrap were eat up, an' nary cat, an' if a body might want to make a joke about such a thing, I might say nary kitten to show for it.

"And who you reckin it were that done it? Why, nobody but Jim Rakestraw.

"Len, though he never let on to nobody, yet he know it were him the minute he see the empty basket, because he see the print o' his old thirteen-incher where he turned out o' the road at the ford, and he see it agin not fur below whar he turned up toward Jimmy Sharp's fence arfter he robbed the basket. And what made it dead on him, Len picked up the pine bark which the triflin' feller have tied on when he were at the cat-hole to keep his track, which he knowed everybody knowed from bein' saw.

"Well, sir, you believe me, Len Crane were warm, and he have made up his mind that sech as that he don't stand from sech a ornary good-for-nothin' as Jim Rakestraw, an' that he were goin' to lay for him. So about two days or sich a matter arfter that, lo and behold! him and Billy Pritchett and Jim they meets at the mill agin. Len up, he did, and 'pologized to Billy like a man for not fetchin' his wife the cat-fish, and he declared that

Not feeling that it would be proper to give Mr. Pate's extended account, I proceed to the culmination.

That night a brief dialogue was held between Mrs. Ausbon Cane and her husband.

"Ausbon," said the former, "Brer Len's gun must be awful rusty."

"Rusty! Why, in gen'l Len keep her monstous bright. What you talkin' about, Mandy?"

"He come to the smoke-house this evening when I was getting out supper, and asked me for a piece of fat meat, because he say he want to swab out his gun. I give a good size piece as I thought; but he say 'twasn't enough, and that the job o' swabbin' he have on hand for the present'll take a great gaub of meat and nothing less. I told him to help hisself, an' he cut off enough, seems to me, to swab out any gun and grease every wheel on the plantation to boot."

"Needn't be afraid he'll waste it. He have a use for it, you may be shore. He talked about gun-swabbin', least ways them's my 'spicions, to keep you from astin' him too many questions, and for him not to have to tell any more stories than were any needcessity fer."

"Humph! I wants not to know Brer Len's business more than he wants to tell me. But something's on Brer Len's mind, Ausbon, and have been for two or three days, and ever sence somebody robbed his fish-basket,

"No, not he. It were some nigger, I s'pose."

By an hour before day the next morning Mr. Cane rose quietly, lit his candle, dressed himself, took down his gun, blew into the barrel, saw that the touch-hole was clear, picked his flint, primed, shut down the lock, and proceeded to load.

My aged historian, with utmost seriousness, told me that it was said afterward that never had that gun received such a charge of powder, probably, except once; and that was when its owner had been sent for by the Widow Keenum, a most excellent lady, to shoot Stiggers's bull, which had broken into her cow-pen, and gored to death two of her yoke oxen. Upon this charge of powder (the latest, I mean) he rammed--well, Mr. Pate or anybody else never did know the quantities of fat meat that were rammed into that long gun-barrel on that eventful morning.

Having finished this operation, he left the house, and, as quickly as his feet could carry him, repaired to his cat-hole. He knew from the feel of the grape-vine that the basket held a most satisfactory catch. Behind him, as he stood upon the bank, some fifteen paces distant, was a dense copse of honey-suckles. In the midst of this he concealed himself and waited for the dawn. As soon as it began to break, his keen eyes perceived the giant form of Jim Rakestraw sneaking clumsily down the creek bank. Having reached the cat-hole, after listening

"Humph!" he grunted, in a low tone, "thar's a foin feller."

He then drew out another.

"Humph! humph!" he grunted again, "thar's another wery foin feller."

At that instant, words, which to Jim Rakestraw it seemed impossible for any human throat to utter in such a tone, filled the circumambient space to an immense distance. The words were:

"And here come another foin one, you mean sneakin' hound, you!"

As these words were spoken the gun was fired. The report--but Mr. Pate said it was useless to undertake to describe that.

"But well, sir, my opinions is that sech a n'ary 'nother skene was never viewed and beholded on that nor n'ary 'nother creek bottom. Ef you'll believe me, that fat meat it tuck o' fire, and it sot Jim Rakestraw afire from the ball o' his head to the very blue of his toenail. He drap the basket, he did, and he ris', and he sot off down the creek a-fightin' the fire an' a-bellerin' same as Stiggers's bull; for he have a woice ekal to him.

"Now you see, 'squire, Len's gun, she have kicked him back an' clean out o' the clump o' bushes whar he have hid hisself. But yit, Len weren't hurt serous; but of all the skeered men a body ever see, exceptin' o' Jim Rakestraw, Len were the skeerdest. Because,

"What then?" I asked when my informant had stopped. "How did they settle it?"

"Oh, that were about all. The thing jes' settled itself. Nobody never knowed agzactly how the thing were, untwell a long time arfterward, an' arfter Jim Rakestraw moved out o' the settlement. Len, arfter he heave him in the creek, dodge behind a tree untwell he come out, and he see he weren't hurt serous, though he were swinged tur'ble. When he tuck the back track for home, Len he gathered the cat-fish, and, good as his word, he tuck 'em to Billy's wife. Thar he never tarried, not even to breakfast; but he have told 'em thar that it seem to him thunder have struck some'rs in the creek bottom from the fuss he have heerd in the elements as he were makin' for his cat-hole; and Billy's wife say she know it must be so, because she heerd it, and it have lift her spang out o' her bed, but she say she feel a heap

"And that's jes' the way the thing went on 'twell Jim went off, which he done soon as his ha'r have sort o' growed back. He have a kind o' sispicion that it were Len; but he never were quite shore in his mind but what the thunder struck him. Then, you know, he couldn't prove it on Len 'ithout Len acknowledgin' it, and which Len Cane no more goin' to do than shoot him agin. Then he know the case out and out all through were against him. So he tuck hisself off out the settlement."

Chapter 3

I.

It used to seem curious to me that the poor make earlier marriages than the rich. Not reared to expect luxuries, knowing that two persons in entire accord can live more cheaply together than apart, usually they mate young. Having little besides themselves and their affections to give, they exchange these brief courtships, and go cheerfully to the work and to the enjoyment of their joined lives, in which there is scarcely anything to lose but much to hope for. The rich, contrariwise, often make delays from one and another cause, less seldom follow the promptings of their own hearts, are more concerned about the conveniences of such alliances, and sometimes are solicitous as to whether or not they may be made to give more than they receive.

Such always heretofore had been the matter with Mr. Littleberry Roach, who, although ever open-mouthed in praise of the other sex, was, at forty-five, still a bachelor. Unfortunately for any conjugal experience of his own, he found himself at twenty-one the inheritor of six negroes and three hundred acres of well-stocked land--a fortune for those times. In spite of the gauntness of his long figure, the absence of smoothness

"Yes, sir; yes, sir; when I see a putty girl it always warm me up, no matter what kind o' weather, and I feel like I were a kind o' breakin' out, like people does 'long o' heat, or the measles. Yes, sir, that's me shore, and I can't he'p it. But you know how it is with a man that he have prop'ty; that he got to keep a' eye on hisself, and not liable to fling hisself away a jes accordin' to his time-bein' feelin's. a-givin' everythin' and a-gittin' nothin'. Yes, sir, 'twer'n't for that, they ain't no tellin' how many times I might 'a' got married, jes betwix' me and you."

During the years passed since coming to his majority he had intimated to several ladies at, and above, and even somewhat below, his standard, his willingness, as he expressed it, to give and take; but all of these, when such hints became serious, had subdued their coquetries and intimated that they were not in the humor to make the exchange proposed. It never seemed to occur to him that his physical imperfections should be taken in abatement of his claims, and so those several disappointments availed not to hinder his keeping one eye upon himself in the midst of all unequal inveiglements, however tempting.

But now at forty-five he was beginning to ponder if

"Yes, sir; yes, sir; I got to positive must; and I wish I'd 'a' done it long ago; and I would 'a' done it exceptin' I were afeard o' bein' tuck in. For jes lo and behold all this prop'ty round me which have been a-increasin' a constant ev'y sence my parents palmed it off on me; and if anybody in this whole section o' country have more kinfolks than me, and them all poor, I should like to know wharbout he live. In course, I know ev'y one o' 'em would be distrested in their mind ef I was to git married and in the courses of times have a lawful ar or ars, male or female, as the case might be, like the Legislatur' say, and ev'y dad-fetchit one of 'em ruther see me at the bottom o' my grave than sech as that. Right thar, as the Scriptur' say, the shoe's a-beginnin' to pinch. And it ain't that, exceptin' for the 'structions o' that Jim Sanky, I'd be a reason'ble riconciled in my mind. I got to perteck myself somehow agin Jim Sanky; and, tell the truth, I feel the n'ces'ty o' perteckin' myself agin my kinfolks, who I wish to gracious some o' 'em had a been borned rich, or married rich, or got rich somehow, so all eyes wouldn't be on me and my death-beds and dyin' hours."

The dwelling of Mr. Roach, not at all fine, but far too good for any old bachelor, was near the Ogeechee, four miles north of our village. His nearest neighbors were the Sankys, half a mile to his right as he stood in his front door, and the Harrells, a mile to his left. Mrs. Sanky, a widow, we will say of thirty-nine, tall, religious, somewhat demure during her married experience, but since the demise of her husband, a year or so back, seeming to notice things theretofore regarded with indifference, had a snug plantation, a small but respectable bunch of negroes, all of whom and of which were encumbered by a twelve-year-old boy named Jim, who in this little story must have more prominence than he deserves.

"The said Jim Sanky," Mr. Roach often said confidentially to a large number of his neighbors, "yes, sir, I has cussed that boy a million o' times, more or less, and it have come to that I got to perteck myself agin him, even ef I have to fetch in the law, the dificulty bein' that Jim have nobody to give him the hick'ry like Tommy Sanky done a endurin' o' his lifetime, and which, as for his poor widder, she don't seem adequate to the above, even if she were so disposed."

To the left the old man Harrell, survivor of his companion of forty-five years, dwelt with his daughter, Pheriby, of about the age of Mrs. Sanky, but fatter, comelier, and, though not confessedly less religious, much more vivacious. Twenty years ago Mr. Roach had sought her in his own ambiguous way; but she had married her cousin of the same name, and after the spending of all their joint property and the death of her husband she had come back to preside over the

Resolved on turning over a new leaf, Mr. Roach felt that it was fortunate there was an unencumbered widow, remanded, as it were, back to girlhood, and heir presumptive to an estate larger than his own, soon to devolve upon her by an aged father, and so he began to pay her the most pointed respects. It seemed to him well to begin with her by eliciting her sympathy for the trouble he endured in the case of Jim Sanky.

"Look like," he said, one early day, "the creetur' have a spite agin me, and the good Lord know for what it is, a-exceptin' in his lifetime I got his pappy to give him the hick'ry for his oudacious. He a constant a-skearin' o' my mules, a-shootin' his gun at birds along the fence where they plowin' in my field anext to their'n, and it 'pear like, when his hounds jump a rabbit, he natchelly love for him and them to run over inter my cotton-patch. But his mother's a female, and she's a widder, and it look like a man hate to fuss with them kind o' people, special when Jim got so big, it take more'n a woman to handle him."

"If such a boy was my child," answered Mrs. Pheriby, "he'd mighty soon find who was who betwixt me and him."

"Thar now! I allays said it, that if it have be'n Missis Pheriby Har'll's lot to have childern, she'd of learnt 'em to know how to behave theirself."

At that very moment crept in Mr. Harrell; so much more feeble than when last seen by Mr. Roach, that, the latter's spirits rising at the sight, he resolved to be as agreeable to the old man as he could.

"How's your healths, Mr. Har'll? You look ruther feeble this mornin'."

"Yes, ruther feeble, Berry; but to them that has faith and their titles is cle'r death ain't the molloncholy it's to them that has no God. How you, Berry? Time a-beginnin' to tell on you too. You mayn't see it yourself, but you're gittin' a heap stringier than what you was. You never was what a body might call fat, at no time; but you' re a-gittin' stringier a-constant."

Mrs. Pheriby made some excuse and left the room. After some moments of preliminary talk, Mr. Harrell disclosed the occasion of his interruption of a chat that Mr. Roach had intended to make specially interesting.

"Berry, the membership in Jooksborough have got too big for the meetin'-house to hold all convenant, and so us all on this side the creek (in another county, to boot) be'n a-thinkin' o' puttin' up another over here if providin' the money can be raised, which is all put up exceptin' fifty dollars and shingles. I'm a mighty anxious to have the meetin'-house put up befo' my departure is at hand, as the 'postle Paul say, and I be'n a-waitin' to see you and ask, in a 'fectionate way, how much from you, a-'memberin' it'd be a-lendin' to the Lord which he's shore to pay back ag'in after many days. What you say?"

Something like a shudder ran all through Mr. Roach, long as he was. He had been persuading himself that, for a worldling, his contribution of two, sometimes three dollars a year, which was fully up to the average, ought to compound for his shortcomings, which mainly had been on the line of profane swearing. Having heard of the scheme, something of neighborhood pride

"Now, pa, I thought I was to have the asking of Mr. Roach about our new church, which I have but very little doubts he'll make up the balance, a-expectin' to git his rewards in various ways."

Mr. Roach, believing that he understood the meaning in her eyes, rapidly going over in his mind the silent clamors of his relatives, feeling that now was the time, and Mrs. Pheriby the person, drew a long breath and answered:

"I'll do it."

He looked at the lady and smiled. She looked at him and smiled. Her father, too far gone to notice such things, said:

"Now, Berry Roach, I know you feel good, jes as well as if I was inside o' you, and my hopes is it may all be blessed to your conviction and your conversion from your many folds o' sin and temptation, and not keep on a constant a-gittin' older and older and stringier and stringier, and not a-layin' holt o' the plan o' salvation, which a man like you that's got no wife it may be hopin' agin hope, because then her pra'ars, if she was a Christian woman, they ain't no tellin' what they might 'a' done in the salvation of your immorchal soul."

It relieved Mr. Roach of some of the embarrassment

"Good-by, Mr. Roach. I'm ever so much obliged."

Her intelligent smile, as she withdrew her hand from his light, affectionate squeeze, made him feel that he never would wish to look upon a lovelier female. When he returned home they told him that Jim Sanky and his hounds had been running rabbits up and down all over the cotton-patch, destroying unknown quantities of cotton; and that two of the men even had to leave their work in the field in order to protect the sheep in the pasture into which these marauders had entered, after their previous destruction.

"Consarn the creetur!" said he; and but for the pleasant memories of his recent visit he would have employed yet stronger words. Mrs. Sanky being a neighbor, and a widow at that, he felt that he ought, in a neighborly way, to ride over, and through her send to him a warning more serious than any yet conveyed to him. Although she had the reputation of being a person with a temper of her own, he had never been witness to its exhibitions. Then Mr. Roach was a man as gallant in feeling as he was long and stringy in bodily shape, and he would have borne far greater outrages from Jim rather than inflict any punishment of which his mother might have just cause to complain.

Seeing his approach, Mrs. Sanky had shifted herself into her next best Sunday frock, and in her haste threw over her shoulders a white cape, looking in the contrast more attractive than Mr. Roach remembered to have noticed for quite a time.

"My!" thought he; but he didn't say so in words.

"Why, the good Lord help my soul, Mr. Roach," she said, when informed of the object of the visit, "what is a body to do in such a case? The poor boy have got no fathers, and I'm nobody but a lone widow, which it seem a'most right hard as young a female as I am should be left in them conditions; and not only will not her own and ownlest son let her keep peace and friendship with neighbors that he know, as well as he know his name is Jeems Sanky, his father always set store by as friends and good neighbors, which it could be did 'twasn't for that boy; and which if ever a boy did miss a person that were strong enough to manage him, it were Jeems Sanky sence he be'n feelin' like he were his own man."

Then she wept, and she did so with such good taste that Mr. Roach was obliged to say that of course boys would be boys, and he had no doubt that as Jim got older, as he must do in the course of time, more or less, he would be another sort of a boy altogether.

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Roach," she answered candidly. "I have talked and pleaded with that boy, and once I took down the hickory, but he looked at me so much like a pitiful orphan, that I hadn't the heart. Yit, yit," removing her handkerchief, and looking at her visitor with moistest, saddest eyes, "I has faith that the promises will not be without effect to the widow, and that the good Lord will provide for her somehow as may seemeth him meet. Have anybody asked you to help us out with our new meetin'-house, Mr. Roach?"

When Mr. Roach, not without some embarrassment,

"Pheriby Harrell! I wouldn't have treated her that way. She know I had you down on my paper as my favorite name whensomever I could catch up with you accidental, and a-living the closetest to you at that. But I s'pose Pheriby know she could git more out o' you than I could, and of course the meetin'-house want all it can git."

"It were her pa that named it first to me, Missis Sanky."

"Ah! then that's deffer'nt. And as for Brer Harrell, he know he might have put up that buildin' by his lone self, er at leastways give that last fifty dollars which he squeezed out o' you. But Brer Harrell, good man as he is, he were always one to push up t'other people and hold back hisself to make up the last--if they was any last to make up, and which sometimes they ain't. Why, Mr. Roach, don't I remember when it come to movin' poor Patsy Daniel and her orphan childern 'way over into Jasper County, whar her old aunt sent words that if the neighbors would make up and send her thar, she'd settle 'em on a piece o' her land, and Brer Harrell he tuck it in hand and he went round in his 'flicted way he have in sech times, a-sayin' to people it were cheaper to palm 'em all off that way on that old 'oman, than have to keep 'em here and support 'em, and he actuil' got ten dollars out o' Mr. Sanky and the lendin' o' our kyart and steers for one blessed, solid week, and me a-scoldin' about it all the time, and come to find out that Brer Harrell his very self didn't give but three dollars and seventy-five cents, which it

"The old man looked very feeble, Missis Sanky, and he acknowledge that he ain't much time left to go on."

Mrs. Sanky laughed.

"Ah, Mr. Roach, that ain't no sign, nor it don't mean anythin' here nor there. I used to think it did, when I've heard him acknowledge the same time and time again, special' when he want people to do somethin', and when they done it, next time you see him, more'n probable, you'll hear him braggin' about his father a-livin' to ninety, and him only thes seb'nty his last birthday, or sixty-nine, or seb'nty-one, as the case might be. That's Brer Harrell, a notwithstandin' he's a righteous good man, and he expect to be deac'n o' our new meetin'-house, which somehow the brothrin and sisters wouldn't make him deac'n over there in Dukesborough; but which he say his time ain't come yit, but it's a-comin'. If ever Brer Harrell do die, and which poor Mr. Sanky used to laugh and say he doubted

Mr. Roach, while drawing a long, sympathetic breath preparatory to his reply to these words, was thus intercepted:

"And if you won't let me pay you, Mr. Roach, which there's the money in the sideboard drawer, please you let the cotton that Jeems Sanky and his hounds have knocked out go on my paper for the meetin'-house, so I mayn't be disapp'inted complete out and out."

"I never felt like I were so complete overtook, not endurin' o' my whole lifetime," Mr. Roach afterward used to say. A feeling even rather majestic came over him as he answered:

"Missis Sanky, I shall not take the money you be'n

"O Mr. Roach! Mister Roach!"

But a prudent, bashful widow like Mrs. Sanky would rather have died, she thought, than to go very far beyond the length of these words.

"You say," asked Mr. Roach, with some sternness, "that you think the old man Harr'll's healths is better than what he call for?"

For a lady almost entirely in black, with an only son who having no fathers was such a varlet, Mrs. Sanky laughed with surprising heartiness. Then she said:

"Why, laws o' me, Mr. Roach! Mr. Sanky used to say that Brer Harrell got his livin' out o' his complainin's about his healths, and it were to his opinions that he'd outlive him and many an other person in the neighborhood; and you see how it all come true in poor Mr. Sanky's case, to go no further, although I has heard him say somethin' about Berry Roach as it 'pear like he ruther name you by name."

"No, ma'am," said Mr. Roach, with confident strength, "I should hopes not, not by a long shot; for a person that has the healths I has and no incumbents o' no sort, sech as that would seem like a pity and entire onexpected."

As he rode along home Mr. Roach pondered much. Here was Mrs. Sanky, during her married life a home-staying and, so far as the outside world knew, a few-worded

II.

When it was noised abroad that the last fifty of the three hundred dollars needed for the new meetinghouse had been subscribed by Mr. Roach, and shingles, people were happy. Passages of Scripture were quoted, and hopes were had that Mr. Roach soon might feel it his duty to walk down into the water and come up out of it a new man. The gentleman himself, extravagant neither in hopes nor in wishes, except in so far as deliverance from Jim Sanky was concerned, enjoyed

It was surprising to the general public, to the members gratifying, that the new meeting-house went up so rapidly. Mr. Harrell, whose rejuvenility was disgusting to Mr. Roach, had examined every stick of lumber, seen to its kiln-drying, inspected every paper of nails, and, what everybody said he ought not to have done, counted and sighted every shingle. Long before anybody had expected, the building was up, and was named Bethel.

Claiming all the honors of the new Babylon that had been founded, yet Mr. Harrell, in view of the fact that hereafter it might require to be ceiled and painted, saw fit to divide with Mr. Roach the honors of its first opening, which was appointed on a Saturday. The flooring, waiting for shrinkage, had not yet been nailed, and the cracks indulged in unrestricted yawnings. A moderately large congregation assembled, and all occupied the benches except Mr. Swinney, the preacher, Mr. Harrell, and Mr. Roach. The first ascended the pulpit, and the other two were seated in front upon splint-bottom

"Brethren and sisters," said the speaker, "there is a person in this house."

He paused for several moments, looking the while hard at Mr. Roach.

"Yes," he continued, "and I will not name his name, although he is settin' in a cheer alongside o' Brer Harrell, and not a thousand mile from the foot o' this pulpit."

He paused again, and there was almost ferocity in the gaze which he fastened upon Mr. Roach. The latter, for a few moments, steadily returned the speaker's look. Then, as if satisfied that he was the person alluded to, he turned his eyes benignantly upon the congregation, lingering somewhat first upon Mrs. Pheriby, then upon Mrs. Sanky. To make himself entirely comfortable and more presentable to observation, he leaned his chair far back, sat upon its very edge, and extended his legs to their full length, resting his heels firmly in the cracks of the floor. Never before in his life, if his recollection was not at fault, had he felt as sweet.

"Yes, brethren and sisters," continued Mr. Swinney; "and the astonishest thing about the whole business is that that same person (and I shall not even name his seck, a-owin' to his presence, which everybody can see for theirself), even ef he ain't a professor o' religion, he have been as lib'l, and he have made hisself a' example to--the good Lord have mercy on us all!"

This ejaculatory finale to the panegyric was not inopportune; for, half a second before its utterance, Mr. Roach, suddenly lifting his right leg, gave a scream, loud, terrific as ever was poured from throat of Indian or of wolf. The women echoed it. Mr. Roach rose instantly, clapped a hand beneath his thigh, looked for a moment

"Gentlemen and ladies, I has be'n stobbed; and that d-d-dangnation bad!"

"Oh my laws!" shouted a hundred female voices. All the men, except the preacher--who, taking a step backward, raised one eye over the pulpit--and young Mr. Hammick, who had been booked for one of the deacons, crowded around the assailed. The last named rushed out, and peering under the house observed a pair of legs that just having emerged on the opposite side were making off with all possible speed. Quickly passing around, he saw those legs as they sought a hiding-place behind a huge red oak that stood some fifty yards distant. In his run thither Mr. Hammick picked up a pine stick, to one end of which, with point projecting, had been fastened a stout brass pin. Approaching softly the oak, he reached around to seize the culprit; but the latter, his coat-tails drawn over his head, eluded the grasp and was fleeing amain.

"Nobody but Jim Sanky! Oh, you may hide yourself with them coat-tails, but you can't fool me, you sarpent! Well! if that weren't a skene in the first openin'. Bethel start herself quare, no doubts about that."

Bringing himself back to proper solemnity, he returned to the house, where the scene had continued interesting. Some young women, in expectation of the sight of streams of blood upon the sacred floor, prepared to faint; and when none appeared they decided to faint notwithstanding. Mr. Roach was overwhelmed with

"Ef," said Mr. Harrell--"ef you feel your time have come, Berry, my advices is to do your level best at prayin' to be forgive' for your sins. Them's my advices."

Looking behind as well as he could, feeling for the murderous gash, finding none, and seeing no blood, Mr. Roach looked up and seemed vaguely vibrating between relief and disappointment. At that moment the young man came in, and, holding aloft the weapon, said aloud:

"A boy have jobbed this here pin into Mr. Roach, and then runned away, a-kiverin' his head with his coat-tails so a body couldn't see how to sw'ar to him."

What else could he say, when there was the mother among the most cordial sympathizers?

"The varmint!" said Mr. Harrell. "'Pears like you got more of a rimnant left than we supposened, Berry; but it's to be hoped you'll take warnin' before it's everlastin' too late."

In the midst of titterings that vainly strove to be repressed the preacher called all to their knees, and, after jerking out some sort of prayer, dismissed the meeting. When the greater part of them had dispersed, Mr. Hammick, having awaited the opportunity, gave information to Mrs. Sanky of Jim's misconduct.

"I was afraid it was him, Brer Hammick. Please go and tell Mr. Roach I'd like to see him for jes' one minute."

"Well, now, Sister Sanky, I ain't quite shore; at leastways for a little while, if I was in your place--"

"Please go and send him here, Brer Hammick."

When Mr. Roach approached her, pale, with tremulous tone, she said:

"Mr. Roach, it were Jeems Sanky that run that pin into you, and if I had my ruthers, I don't know but I'd o' ruther somebody have run a knife into my heart! I see nothin' but for you to pertect yourself and let the law take its course; but I hope you'll tell the judge, and the jury, and the sheriff, and the man that keep the jail, to try to 'member that the poor boy have no fathers, and that they'll all be no harder on him than the law'll allow. If the poor chile have got to be hung, the good Lord know I don't want to live to see it."

"I'm sorry, truly sorry, Missis Sanky," he answered, with unaffected sympathy. "'Pear like I'm sorry for you as I am for myself. In course, I has to try to pertect myself agin Jim, but I shall make it my business to study and try to be leeniwent along o' Jim as I possible can be."

"Thanky! thanky! Poor Mr. Sanky before he died always said you was a good man down at the bottom of your hearts, and now what he say have come true. I can't but hope you'll get your rewards. Good-by, Mr. Roach."

As Mr. Roach turned he was met by Mr. Harrell and Mrs. Pheriby. The former laughingly said:

"I were powerful glad you was skeert a heap worse than you was hurted, Berry. My! my! but didn't you jump and tell the news! But even me, I even jumped a little bit; for, says I, who know but me next, a-settin' right thar by you? You didn't know I could jump so, did you? Oh, yes, sence the new meetin'-house been put up I feel like a colt just weaned. But," assuming

"Mr Roach," lingering, she said: "I was very much frightened at first, and I am very glad indeed that you was hurt no worse. Good-by.--I'm coming, Pa."

The feelings of Mr. Roach during the remainder of that day and night, and for another day and night, he used afterward to characterize as "prob'ble the schupendousest egzitement any man in the whole State o' Georgia ever drapped into for the time a bein'." He pondered and pondered till bedtime, and after that couldn't sleep for a long, long time; and when he awoke next morning found that he had been dreaming about pondering all night. Several poor relatives came there the next day, full of apprehension, anger, vengeance. All of them he dismissed as soon as decency would allow, some of them perhaps rather sooner, comforting them with the assurance that in his body, and even in both of his legs, he had never felt better; and then he went to pondering again. His purpose on the forenoon, of Saturday had been formed to ride home with Mrs. Pheriby after service, and feel, and allow Mrs. Pheriby to feel, their ways among matters that possibly would be

But of course the subject on which Mr. Roach had been pondering the most during these two days and nights was the pressing need of his being protected against Jim Sanky. That boy had to be dealt with in a summary way that would stop his destructive practices. Still, he was the son of a widow, and she had acted so honorably throughout, that he believed that, as a man, a neighbor, and a friend, he should give her notice of his intention, so that her scapegrace, if so minded, might abscond. How best to do this was not perfectly clear to his mind, but it was a thing that could not be delayed, he felt; and so on Monday morning, in a state of some incertitude, he dressed himself uncommonly well for a week-day, and mounted his horse. As he rode along the lane between a fine field of cotton on one side and one of corn as good on the other, in the

Mrs. Sanky, made aware of his slow, apparently thoughtful approach, downcast as she was in heart, felt it not entirely amiss to add another narrow streak of white, and so to dispose her long hair that it might contribute its own portion of help, however inconsiderable, to the suppliant she was about to become. When the visitor entered the house, received the friendly greeting, looked upon the patient face that sorrow, tasteful gear, and a most abundant, well-arranged suit of hair made strikingly interesting, after a few moments, turning his eyes, he surveyed some bright new furniture, which had been received there since his last visit, a month ago.

"Nice," he said; "all very nice."

"I'm glad you think so," answered the lady; then sighed, with great heaviness.

Mr. Roach, startled, said, or tried to say:

"Law bless my--Missis Sanky! I--I can't do anything--in this case a--along o' Jim."

"Oh, can't you, Mr. Roach? Bless your dear--there now! I no business a-usin' that word; but--I forgot myself at the minute." And how she did blush!

"As for puttin' the law onto Jim, like the neighbors advises, I hain't the hearts to do it. And yit, Missis Sanky, a man in my sitooation o' life he owe it to hisself to pertect hisself ef he can."

"Of course he do, Mr. Roach; of course."

"I has took in consideration that, as I've freckwent heered you say with your own mouth, that Jim Sanky have no fathers, at least for the present time a-bein'; and I goes on to say that fathers, or at leastways some of 'em, is what Jim Sanky need, ef any can be found suitable to riggerlate him. Ahem, madam!"

Mrs. Sanky stared up at Mr. Roach, who was now standing, as if he were a ghost; and if not a very awful, at least a very tall one.

"Yes, madam, Missis Sanky, them is who Jim Sanky need, and if it's your consents and your wishes, I'm willin' to be them very them, and only them tell death shall me and you do part."

He had heard somewhere that when a man was discussing with a woman a subject of importance it assisted much to use words of solemn import.

As it was inconvenient to faint with satisfaction in a sitting position, Mrs. Sanky arose, tottered, looked weakly at Mr. Roach, fell into his arms, and after remaining there a few minutes said beseechingly:

"O Mr. Roach! dear Mr. Roach! do, please, let me loose!"

He did so promptly; and when she resumed her seat she said, "Mr. Roach, Mister Roach, I thought all this time--upon my soul, I thought it was Pheriby."

If he was embarrassed by this remark, he determined not to seem so. Smiling in a pleasant disdain, he was silent for a few moments, then said:

"Ah, ha! I knewed it! Polly--as I will call you in a' affectionate way--does you 'member a-tellin' me what--what cert'n people said in their lifetime about old man Har'll, and him a-outlivin' cert'n var'ous people?

Tears came to Mrs. Sanky's eyes, and nothing could have been sweeter to the nostrils of Mr. Roach than the perfume of the handkerchief with which she dried them so pitifully. No woman of delicate feelings would be willing for it to be understood that she could be won so suddenly, as it appeared, by even such a man as Mr. Littleberry Roach, and so she said:

"Berry, up to the time when you come over here about Jeems a-knockin' out your cotton with his hounds, and a-skearin' of your sheep in the pastur', and a-doggin' your hogs in the low grounds, my mind have never not even dwelt on any man person since the widow I've been. But somehow, on that present occasion, when you have come over here, a actuil' dreaned o' fifty dollars by Brer Harrell, and Pheriby to boot, and instid of takin' damages for Jeems and his hounds, you put down and added the actuil shingles for our meetin'-house, then I says to myself, as a dilicate female is obleeged to say to herself, alsobe she mayn't be nothin' but a lone widow, but yit I says to myself, my hopes is, Berry Roach will never ask me to jind him in the banes o' mattermony; cause if he do, I shall be obleeged to give my consents. Oh, me! but I hope them words--Berry, I do hope they excuse me on the awful occasion!"

"'Umph, humph! Yes; I'm glad to hear it. 'Pears like we was ruther nunanimous on them p'ints. Whar's Jim, Polly?"

"Jeems he got uneasy in his mind, and he have went across the river to Cousin Sookey Brazzle's."

"'Umph, humph! Well, Polly, I'm a-gwine on to town; and by as yearly in the atternoon as I can tend

"Mister Roach!"

"You heerd me what I said."

"You are so hasty and--and I may say perfect, actuil' vi'lent."

"Mayby so, mayby so; but a man at my time o' life that he have been a-waitin' this long, he don't feel like he ought natchul' to be made wait no longer. Which do you say, Buck Peek, or the old man Swinney?"

"Why, Brer Swinney in course--if it ain't too inconvenient. Berry Roach, you actuil' astonish me, and you mighty nigh take away a body's breath with your hurry and--vi'lence, I call it. Go 'long off!"

It was a union happy for all. Mr. Roach used with a thankful heart to refer to these last scenes.

"Yes, sir; yes, sir; when my mind were made up, she were made up. Polly she said I were vi'lent, same as a harrikane, and mayby I were. But you see, a-lettin' alone o' that cape, and that smellin' hankercher, and that ha'r, the sleekest and the mostest I ever see hung on top o' a female head, and then thar were Jim, which I have knowed I were jes' obleeged to pertect myself somehow agin Jim Sanky, and it come on me all of a suddent that the best way to do that were to git possessions of his mother. And when Jim come back from his cousin Sookey Brazzle's and found me thar at the head o' things, it cowed him to that, that as everybody know, he whirled in and he made a man o' hisself; nor

Chapter 4

I.

Mr. John Bundle was a person of such good disposition, that ever since he was a little boy until now, when he was thirty, people had been calling him Jacky. He was a lover of good things in general, including a good story, or even a good anecdote, provided it was not very long; but most of all he loved the good wife whom undeservedly, as he often acknowledged, Heaven had sent him. A man of much modesty, he would never undertake the part of narrator--that is, to any extent; yet his native sense of fitness made him quick to detect a flaw in the recital of another, and sometimes by a word or two of brief comment he diverted a laugh from the tale to its teller, and thus, without any degree of ambition in that line, carried off its honors. Nobody could have been more innocent of provoking resentment by what little jocoseness was in him. Yet, so it is, not many persons enjoy having the points of their own stories turned upon themselves. Notably the case was thus with Mr. Reddick Sanders, who had long indulged the belief that perhaps he was the best story-teller in the neighborhood, if indeed a better could be found in

"Red, that's twice't you've told that joke, twice't hand runnin', and it look like right thar's whar you made your mistakes, if anywhars."

The laughter, delayed till now, broke forth in a loud explosion. Yet, if people will believe me, Mr. Sanders, instead of receiving this monitory remark in a thankful spirit, was wrought into high passion, and, shaking his fist at Mr. Bundle, said:

"You incontempible ornary an' egiot! 'Twer'nt for your wife, an' 'twer'nt you got no better sense than to

"Come, now, Red," said one of the company, "Jacky had no idees of hurtin' your feelin's.--Did you, Jacky?"

"Why, no," answered Mr. Bundle, in perfect innocence. "Iv course not. I wouldn't hurt Red Sanders's feelin's, not for his wife's sake, let alone of his'n. I thes wanted to splain to the feller whar he counted wrong in his talk.--I beg your pardon, Red; that's that I beg it for Patsy's sake ef not yourn."

Mr. Sanders accepted the amende; but he intimated that, after having submitted from family considerations to several thousands of such indignities, a very few thousands more would inevitably provoke the punishment which had been delayed so long.

"Ever see sech a hellaballoo about a poor little joke!" said Mr. Bundle, turning away; "and it spile't whut little were in it by tellin' of it twice't hand runnin'. My! me! my!"

They were brothers-in-law, Mrs. Bundle being Nancy, and Mrs. Sanders Patsy, daughters of the widow Lary, who lived on Beaver Dam Creek. The sisters, excellent women both, were devoted to each other, and they got along with almost no complaining at their husbands, although these, the neighbors thought, might have tried harder at least to make it appear that they came somewhere in the neighborhood of deserving such wives. Yet they were moderately industrious, kept out of debt, and except on election-days, muster-days, Fourth-of-July days, and Christmas-days, seldom took too much. Big fellows they were--strong, healthy,

"Sech as that," over and over Mr. Sanders had said in others' hearing, "bound to come to a head some time. For Patsy's sake, and 'special' Nancy's, I ben a-enduren and a-puttin' off. But I ben told, and that by old people that knowed what they talkin' about, that

II.

Hutson's Court ground, three miles southwest of our village, had the honor of being chosen for the muster this fall. The district then was far more densely populated than now. In their fiery energy the first settlers tore up the red soil in this fertile and most fair hill region; and then, believing it exhausted, sold their homesteads at small cash prices, and moved onward to other conquests in the West. After they had gone, and after these lands had rested, the old-field pine took the places of the oak, hickory, walnut, and cucumber, and a new face of the earth showed that exhaustion was a thing that it had never as much as thought of. But this is parenthetical, an unpremeditated expression of admiration for my dear old native region that has kept rich instead of growing poor amid disasters of so many kinds. In the time whereof I am telling this little story, which deals with humble country folk, the battalion could muster five hundred militia, from eighteen to forty-five, variously equipped with implements of war, from fire-arms of every existing species and every condition of dilapidation, to riding-switches cut from the hickory-tree. No store was there, and no other houses,

To the open field beyond the mansion from the court-ground the various companies were marched at such intervals and in such order as officers and men understood and respected. When all were in satisfactory martial array, it was interesting to note the unwarlike, occasional gay composure of privates, even subalterns, compared with the fearful passion of the major, as, clothed in new regalia (suspected of being the occasion for the order for the present parade), lightning in his eye, thunder in his voice, he galloped up and down, and up and down, shouting the while as if all the enemies of the country were at the foot of the

The battalion, thus resolved into its constituent elements, repaired variously as suited their several instincts. The sober-minded set out for their homes; the rest lingered, some to enact and some to witness such interesting scenes as the occasion was likely to improvise. Not a few old misunderstandings and some suddenly risen were settled during that afternoon, and many a game was played at pitching silver dollars, marbles, foot-racing, vaulting, ball, and others. Mr. Sanders was in excellent feather, having discharged his duties of orderly sergeant as satisfactorily as if he had known what they were; Mr. Bundle also, as high a private as any, was conscious of having done all that

"Privick Bundle," said Sergeant Sanders, "you'll obleege me by tryin' to keep some sort o' step with somebody ef you can't do it 'ith yourself."

"Yes, SIR!" answered the delinquent. "I ben a-doin' my level best to keep it along o' you, sargeant, but blest ef you ain't too onreg'lar for me."

The laugh raised by this answer was carried up and down the lines.

"Silence!" shouted the major, and let his steed curvet in admonition.

Notwithstanding this exception, Mr. Bundle felt entire contentment in his mind. Later in the day as he was moving along leisurely past the gate of Mrs. Mohorn's wagon in the direction of one of the ox carts beyond, she said:

"Jacky Bundle, you've already drunk as much sperrits to-day as is good for you. You better stop right here, and spend the thrip or the sev'n pence you got left in your pocket right at this here waggin here than to be a-goin' a-home a-makin' o' Nancy ashamed o' you, an' you a-feelin' to-morrer mornin' a-like your head was a-goin' to bu'st open to boot. Now don't you think so yourself, and in the honest truth?"

Now Mr. Bundle had great respect for Mrs. Mohorn, the greater because of the admiration and affection which he knew that good woman to have for his own dear wife. So he halted, and looking solemnly

Taking from his pocket his remnant of change--a couple of thripensapennies--he peacefully ate his cake, drank his two cups of persimmon, wiped his mouth, rose, and thanked her again, as a gentleman ought. She put the coins in her home-knit woolen purse in the manner of a person who was conscious of having rendered a kind service and been reasonably remunerated.

"And now, Jacky," she added, as he was turning to leave, "if I was in your place I'd go straight to my horse, and I'd onhitch him from the saplin', and I'd git on his back, and I'd go straight on home. I wouldn't wait for Red Sanders, not me. I wouldn't. He's over thar with a passel o' men on them benches behint the court-'ouse, a-tellin' of his tales, and them a-laughin' at 'em, or at him, one or t'other, and there ain't no tellin' when sech as that is a-comin' to a eend, and the wife you've got, Jacky Bundle, oughtn't to not be kep' oneasy about her own husband and companion more than what can be holp. Is them your opinions, Jacky Bundle, er is they not? Answer fa'r and squar'."

"Missis Mohorn," he answered, solemnity now sunk to its profoundest, "they is. A good-evenin' to you, and I thanky agin."

As he moved slowly away, Mrs. Mohorn, more in soliloquy than minding to impart expression of her thoughts to her little granddaughter, whom she had taken with her as a companion, said, looking at the departing form: "As good a man as ever lived, 'twer'n't he will git disgwiseded with too much sperrits; worth a cow-pen full o' sech as Red Sanders."

With as honorable intentions as any man ever had to go on home without delay, Mr. Bundle walked to the spot on the edge of the wood where his horse was standing. He was pleased with the low, affectionate whicker that saluted his approach. But just as he was drawing down the pliant hickory limb to which the halter was attached, shouts of laughter from the court-yard pealed forth so exuberant that he let loose the twig, and said: "Troup, my boy, wait a leetle, thes a leetle longer, on Marse Jacky, tell he go and see whut is the fun at the court-'ouse. He won't be gone a-long, and when we git home you shall have six more year o' corn and a bundle o' fodder more'n common--blamed if you sha'n't!"

Troup replied with a subdued, patient whinny, and his master turned back. Complimenting himself for leaving voluntarily the main crowd that were yet lingering in the various pastimes beyond the mansion, he thought he might take this final indulgence for a brief time, the sun being yet high enough for him to get home some time before its going down. Just as he reached the court-yard, Mr. Sanders, whose back was toward the comer, rose from his seat, overflowing with gleefulness, and said:

"Gentlemen, I hain't yit told you my best story--best thing ever heerd in your life. I got it over in Putman last week. I hain't yit told it even to Jacky Bundle, because Jacky one o' them kind o' fellers that you got to thes ram a good thing into o' him before you can git him to under-- Why, hello! Jacky, that you? I thought you done gone on home. Glad you hain't; I were about tellin' the boys a joke I got 'cross the

Mr. Bundle, regarding his brother-in-law with humblest respect, sat down on a bench, last in the row, and nudging the friend next him, whispered, "Thar it is agin', sp'ilin' his joke, even ef it's a good'n, by braggin' on it hisself, and that before he tell it."

The speaker evidently was set back somewhat by the unexpected apparition of Mr. Bundle, of whom he had just spoken in not respectful terms, and by the smiles at the whispering that he himself had not overheard. However, trusting in his own powers and the merits of his theme, he boldly put forth. The story was about a very green rustic in Putman, who not long back had married a girl so far his superior that for this reason alone he had become jealous. As the narration advanced with irrelevant circumstantiality, Mr. Bundle, more and more intent, moved gradually but most humbly nearer. The audience winked at one another, yet seemed reasonably expectant of the climax, which promised, if it should ever be reached, to be satisfactory.

"Jacky Bundle," suddenly cried Mr. Sanders, in something of a fret, "if you'll try to keep still, I'll go on with my tale."

"Beg your pardon a thousand times, Red," was answered, with deepest humility. "From what you said and from the way you let off from the jump, I see she were a-goin' to be uncommon good, and I were only thes a-tryin' to git as nigh you as I could, so as to not lose none even o' the drippin's. Do, please, for gracious'

The crowd, unable to refrain, burst into loud laughter. Smarting beneath the ridicule thus put on him, Mr. Sanders rushed upon the intruder, and gave him a push that prostrated him upon his back.

Now it seemed unfortunate for Mr. Bundle that at that very instant loud cries from many voices came from the main crowd in the field beyond Hutson's, proclaiming that Robert Hackett and William Giles, the two most noted fighters in the district, were stripped for yet another trial of manhood. To this scene, likely to be far more interesting, every man, save two, at the court-ground rushed, and the brothers-in-law were left to themselves.

III.

Entertaining as it might be to follow the rest, who, with ejaculations of various kinds, were hurrying to the struggle of more doughty combatants, I must linger with Mr. Bundle, upon whom Mr. Sanders had thrown himself in wrath, and was beginning to pay off some of the debt which he felt to be due. Finding himself in such an unexpected and inconvenient situation, Mr. Bundle cried lustily to his neighbors to remove from his breast the superincumbent weight, and let the encounter, if nothing else would satisfy Mr. Sanders, be had upon terms at least approximating equality.

"You, Jake Powers! you, Ab Perkins! you, Joe Askew! Whar in thunder is all of you, that you won't pull this fool off'n me, and let me have a fa'r chance to cope along 'ith him? Whar is you all goned?"

"Goned, sir. Don't you hear the eecho?" said Mr. Sanders, more irate, vengeful, and contemptuous perhaps because of their family relationship. Yet feeling secure from interference during the combat two hundred yards distant, which he judged, from his knowledge of the combatants, would be prolonged, he was deliberate in his inflictions. Mr. Bundle, on the contrary, notwithstanding his generally uniform temper, with pokings among his ribs, and other unpleasant things, was growing impatient, even disgusted.

"Ain't they nobody," he plained from his lowly position, "that have the sense to jerk this everlastin' cuss from off'n top o' me? Is everybody done turned fool and goned away?"

The answer made by echo to these pointed inquiries was to the effect that she knew no person that was adequate, or, if so, was disposed for the desired interference.

Mr. Sanders, in the intervals of his pokings, like other great men who in fully successful situations are prone to vaunt their forbearance and general magnanimity, reminded Mr. Bundle of the pains that he had taken to make something respectable out of him, and of what he had to endure from his stupid indocility and even his occasional impudence, all for the sake of his wife and children. Feeling that he could afford to be generous in the offer of terms, in special consideration of inevitable family ties, at length he said: "Jack Bundle--I

"Red Sanders," answered the fallen man, firm as the ground on which he lay, "you may jolt on if you're mean enough to do it 'ith the' vantage you got o' me suddent and onexpected, but ruther'n I'll make any sech promus, I'll see you in Mexico, by blood! or any t'other o' the tremenjousest islants that the jography books tells about, sir."

The fact is, that Jacky Bundle, for the first time within anybody's recollection, became utterly disgusted with the extremity to which he had been reduced, and, brother-in-law or no brother-in-law, he made up his mind that--

But here I think it well to record some additional friendly interference on the part of Mrs. Mohorn. Hearing the plaining tones that came from the court-yard, leaving everything except her money-purse with her granddaughter, she hastened to the unhappy scene, and was horrified to see Jacky Bundle, whom she well

"The good laws have mercy on us all," she cried, "and 'special' poor Jacky Bundle!" She looked around a moment, presumably for something with which she might help her fallen friend; but finding none, gathered in one hand her skirts, and extending the other on high, she strode toward the field, screaming: "'Ain't you people got no senses and no hearts inside o' you, that Bill Giles and Bob Hackett a-everlastin' a-fightin' make you don't keer for po' Jacky Bundle, that that mean Red Sanders have already beat him to a jelly among them benches behint the court-'ouse, that the po' creeter can't even cherrip? Is this the sort o' country we has to live in, that people is a-goin' to let people be beat to death, and them that has famblies an' is innicint as Jacky Bundle, that I thought, on my soul, he was done goned home tell I heerd his dyin' speeches thar 'mong them benches?"

At the moment of her reaching the field the Giles-Hackett conflict was brought to an end, Mr. Hackett this time handing in his word. At Mrs. Mohorn's appeal, several men, with ejaculations of great surprise, made haste to repair to the court-yard.

In the mean while some changes had taken place in the relations of the couple of gentlemen who had been left to themselves in such interesting and exigent circumstances. Matters had grown so monotonous with Mr. Bundle that at the very moment of Mrs. Mohorn's departure for means for his rescue he said:

"Lookee here, Red Sanders, this business is gittin' tiresome. Let me up. I'm not a-goin' to promus you

"No sir; not after sech words as them."

At this juncture it so happened, that, as the hand which held down his opponent became disengaged momentarily with intent to gain a firmer grip, Mr. Sanders, by a sudden, powerful movement of Mr. Bundle, was overthrown once, yea twice, and then came prone, with his whole front upon the ground, wedged between one of the benches and an oak sapling near by. With neither more nor less haste than necessary, Mr. Bundle put himself astride of Mr. Sanders's back, and then for a brief while seemed to deliberate what he should do next. After sufficient reflection, he pinioned the gentleman's arms beneath his own knees, wound his hands in the long hair beneath, and apparently decided to make a pick of the head it covered.

"Jack Bundle," cried Mr. Sanders, in an interval of resting from the work on hand, "I wouldn't of believed that sech onfeelin' meanness was in any white man, not to say nothin' about a man's own brer-in-law and the companion of his own wife's dear sister, that it do look like a pity that two wimming that love one 'nother like Patsy Lary and Nancy Lary that was, should have to fall out and be sip-rated in this kind o' style; that as for me, I wouldn't treat a dog so, not even a mean sheep-stealin' dog."

Mr. Bundle, a man of fewest words, was not inclined to waste argument on a case already adjudicated after rather troublesome litigation, but continued leisurely to peck the ground with the instrument improvised for the occasion.

"For the Lord's sake, Jacky Bundle," cried Mr. Sanders, at another pause in the operation, "stop this oudacious foolishness, that it's a-puttin' out my eyes out and a-mashin' off my nose off, and ef you don't, I'll put the law on you; I will, pos'tive and perp'ndicklar."

"Oh, I know, Red," answered Mr. Bundle, with a cool sense of security becoming one in his position, "I know how to dig inside o' the law. I thes want to pay back what I owe you, with lawful intrust a-added on to it. I ain't a-nigh done 'ith it yit. But I has kincluded in my mind that ef you'll promise me one thing I'll git off'n you, and ef you don't I'm a-gwine to keep on a-diggin' with your head till I strike water in this court-'ouse yard, hard trod as the ground is by tromplin' for thirty year and better."

"Name your terms, then, and name 'em quick, for I can't stand sech as this much longer; but Jacky," he added, in affectionate, pleading tone, "I should supposen that in sech a onfort'n't kindition a man's own dear brer-in-law mout natchel take in the sitooation o' the case in his mind, and kinsider his own, well as t'other people's latter eend, and to not be too hard on his wife's own dear brer-in-law, which, if I has ever ben flung onexpected intoo jes' sech a case, I don't 'members it."

Mr. Bundle, disengaging his fingers, lifted, spread apart, and cooled them; then taking a yet more hearty hold upon the luxuriant locks, and slightly elevating the head below, thus answered: "Yes, sir. Well, the terms is these and them: that you got to let up for one whole blessed year from this day and date in the tellin' o' your insignifikint tales, that they has wore

He concluded with a tightening of his grip.

"I s'pose I'll have to promise, Jacky, as they ain't no gittin' around it in the fix I'm in."

"'Tain't no havin' to do abont it, sir. It's got to be done, and it's got to be did fa'r and squar,' and no bones. Does you do it? Talk quick."

"I does."

"And sw'ars to it?"

"I does--in them words."

"All right.--Hello, boys!" Mr. Bundle asked, as he rose, of the men who, having followed Mrs. Mohorn, had returned. One of them answered:

"Never see a pootier fight; but Bob had to give in this time. That set Bill two in five, and, as he ris off'n Bob, he told him the next turn would fetch him even 'ith him. Bob laughed, he did, bunged up as he were, and he said: 'All right, Bill; we'll see.' Then they went to Jim Simmons's k'yart to take a drink, which Bill he 'sisted on payin' the expense. But, my goodness, Jacky, what's all been to pay 'twixt you and Red? Misses Mohorn skear'd us all out a year's growth apiece, sayin' Red had you down, and was a-maulin' the breath out o' you. But Red, the way his nose is skin't, look

"No, I supposen not," replied Mr. Bundle. "Soon as you all left, Red he lit on to me, and I hollered for some o' you to take him off tell my throat got sore, and then I accident fetched him a turn, and now we are about even--ain't we, Red?"

Mr. Sanders took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, softly patted his nose, combed his hair with his fingers, and nodded a vague, silent response.

"But, Red," asked Mr. Powers, "you never finished your story. Whatever did become o' that feller?"

"I can't tell you honible, Jake," he answered, solemnly, and, immediately turning away, went for his horse. Indeed, it was time for those who lived several miles away to be gone, yet Mrs. Mohorn would delay Mr. Bundle somewhat longer.

"Come a-right along 'ith me, Jacky," she said, taking him by one of his coat-tails. Having marched him to her wagon and planted him on one of her stools, "Thar!" she said; "ef ever I see a body that he have deserved to have a gingy-cake and a cup of beer free gratis an' for nothin,' it's you, Jacky Bundle"; and she made him eat to the last crumb, and drink to the last drop.

"Not only so," Mr. Bundle said to his wife that night, "but she actuil tuck out her box these couple o' her biggest, brownest thrip cakes, and 'ithout a-even a-openin' o' her mouth about the money, she thes flung 'em in my lap, she did, and she says, 'Jacky, take them cakes home, and give one to Nancy, and diwide the

It was so late when the statute of limitations began to run, after the unsealing of the mouth of Mr. Sanders, that, to the best of my recollection, it was never known precisely what were the results of the conjugal unpleasantness on the other side of the Oconee.

Chapter 5

I.

The front gate of Mr. Singleton Hooks opened almost immediately upon the public road. Several large white-oaks stood just outside the yard, each with its couple of horseshoes, for the accommodation both of visitors and of those who came on business. For one of his negro men constantly worked in the blacksmith's shop at the intersection with the main thoroughfare of a neighborhood road that, coursing alongside the garden and front yard, crossed and continued on in a southeasterly direction toward the county-seat.

Half a mile farther west, equally near to the road, but on the south side of it, dwelt Mr. Matthew Tuggle. Claiming to be only a farmer, yet, by trading in horses and by other speculations, he kept himself about even with his next neighbor in prosperity, and it would not have been easy to say which of the two owned the more valuable property.

Different as they were, good friends they had been always. They ought to have been indeed; for their wives were cousins, and fond to affection of each other, as were their daughters, Emeline Hooks and Susan Ann

The most besetting of Mr. Tuggle's sins was dancing. Mourning, as Mr. Hooks often did, the prevalence of this amusement, even among many leading families, yet he neither would nor could deny that, even after he had become a married man, he had liked both the cotillion and the reel, and sometimes indulged even in the jig. Mortifying as it was to confess, down to this very time, the sound of the fiddle was so pleasing to his ears that he had to keep himself beyond its reach. Yet he was truly thankful that before it was everlastingly too late he had seen himself a sinner in the broad road, and betaken himself to the straight and narrow way. Often, in his affectionate solicitude for Mr. Tuggle, he would say about thus:

"Now there's Matthy Tuggle: as everybody that know Matthy is ableeged to acknowledge, he's a toler'ble, passable, good-hearted creeter, ef he could jes' ric'lect that his young days is over, and a man 'ith a family

Mr. Tuggle, far less loquacious, yet indulged in an occasional antiphon.

"Unk Swingle is a good man, a' excellent good man. Fact, Unk Swing Hooks what I call righteous

Each of the young ladies had inherited her father's most striking characteristics, physical and moral. Miss Hooks, serious, tall, although religious, was rather more charitable than her father toward the worldly-minded. Miss Tuggle, petite and gay, was fond of the dance and other sports that she believed to be innocent. Both were handsome and nearing to twenty years of age. It had come to be understood that whoever was to marry either would have to bring other things besides good looks, good habits, and good social standing. Nobody could have foreseen that the confidence and affection between these young ladies, so fine, so closely knit in sentiment and in kin, would give place to coldness suspicion, and jealousy. Indeed, nobody, however wise and prudent, can foretell upon any sort of persons, to say nothing of young ladies in special, the effect of domestic afflictions on the one hand, and, on the other, the settlement in the neighborhood of a new marriageable man giving promise of a successful career in an interesting business.

Part 2

The plantations, each comprising several hundreds of acres, lay on both sides of the road, and were adjoined, east of Mr. Tuggle, southeast of Mr. Hooks, by that of Miss Sally Cash, near by whose residence led the neighborhood way aforementioned and another, beginning at a point on the main thoroughfare a mile east from Mr. Hooks. Here a country store had been set up lately.

Professing to be as independent a woman as ever drew the breath of life, yet Miss Cash, partly for company's sake, partly for convenience, usually had with her one or another of the young sons of her cousin, Mr. Abram Grice. Left, when a young child, an orphan and poor, with the work of her hands she had paid fully for the care bestowed by her kinsfolk during her minority, and afterward, by industry, economy, and judicious investments, become owner of a good plantation and about a dozen slaves, all paid for. For some years last past upon her countenance and in her deportment had been visible the air of conscious prosperity.

A tall woman was she, somewhat thin, blue-eyed, reddish-haired. It was only lately that had appeared on her cheek the blush that through her earlier years had delayed. This advent was due, she claimed, to release from her most arduous work, but perhaps mainly to the fact of her never having had a man about the house to delve and work for, and try to please, and be hectored over and-so-forths of various sorts. Hitherto she had not been supposed to be or wish herself on the matrimonial

Of late, however, contemporaneously with the new sheen upon her face, the tone of her remarks touching the male sex had begun to show some change. Sometimes, after remarks sounding of sarcasm, she would moderate their sharpness and say about as follows:

"And yit," smiling in the careless manner so common and so secure in ladies of property, "don't you know thes here lately I ben a-studyin', and I ben a-runnin' over in my mind, that ef--that's that I didn't know but what--good oppechunity, you mind--I might make a expeermunt, ef thes only to see what they is in it that make so many women go through what they go through with, ruther than they'll run the resk of being called old maids, and exact' the same of widders when their husbands has died off and left 'em. Now, fur as bein' of dead in love with any man person as ever trod the ground, like warous women that I have knew, and that no matter how much trouble and sickness, and hives and measles, and whoopin'-cough, and the ackuil dyin' o' their offsprings and children, and husbands

Talks like these, new to Miss Cash, but becoming more and more oft repeated, led in time to the suspicion that her mind, however resistant theretofore to love's influences, was approaching a reasonable degree of receptivity thereto. But I advance no opinion on the possible connection between the late diversion in her views touching her own possible change of condition and the unexpected demise of Mrs. Tuggle.

For a time the loss of so dear a companion depressed Mr. Tuggle to a degree that hopes were indulged by Mr. Hooks that his affliction might prove a blessing in disguise, and lead him to knock at the door of the church. Much of his time was spent with the Hooks family, from whom, particularly the ladies, he sought the consolation that his daughter had not the heart to

Mr. Hooks was sorry to have to admit that he was disappointed.

"It do look like," he said one day to his wife and daughter, "that Matthy, 'stid of taken' of warnin' from his affliction and lookin' forrards to his own latter end, is a-makin' of prip'rations for another lease o' his life, which he ought to know he can't count on no great lenks; but it only go to show when a worldly man like him git to be widowers, what they'll be fur up and doin' before grace can git a holt on 'em. Now, I'm not a-denyin' that him and Sally Cash jinds plantations, as both o' 'em jinds along 'ith me; and ef it's their desires to fling both into one, that's their business. And, tell the truth, Sally a good, industrious woman that have a good prop'ty, and I'm not a-findin' fau't 'ith her for sprucin' up so fine lately and carryin' about 'ith her so much red o' one kind and another. For Matthy Tuggle

"Pshaw, Mr. Hooks!" interrupted his wife. "It's easy enough asking questions. The thing is answerin' 'em. As for widowers getting married again, they'll all do it, and them generally does it the quickest that's the surest they won't in their mind when their wives is a-livin'. As for Cousin Matthy, I think he behave very decent, considering, and Emeline think the same. He have told us both that if it mayn't be impossible for him to look out for another companion, he have made up his mind to be keerful; and a better husband no woman ever had than poor Cousin Betsy. But, Mr. Hooks, I wish you wouldn't be supposening you was in Matthy's place."

"I was only a-sayin', my dear wife, how in sech a case it would be grace, and nothin' but grace would let me stand it; and ef I could only make you more keerful about your l--"

"Do, pray, Mr. Hooks, don't begin on that everlast-in' subject."

Then she rose and left the room.

"Pa," said Emeline, "if I was in your place, I wouldn't talk to ma so much about her bad health, and specially what she says you are always bringing up about her liver."

"Emeline, my darlin'," he said with mournful remonstrance, "you know what your ma is to me and you too, and that what make me so anxious, and try to make her take better keer of herself. You think your ma hain't acknowledged to me time and time ag'in, that

III.

The changes in the tone of conversation and other deportment of Miss Cash were followed by another that was particularly gratifying to Mr. Abner Hines, a young man anywhere between thirty and forty, who not long before had come into the community and set up the store aforementioned. The merchant was polite, courteous, sociable, obliging, reasonably easy to be entreated about his prices, and it soon appeared that in time he would do better than had been expected. In the case of Miss Cash, who from the first had regarded the enterprise with considerable interest, her purchases, careful, even stinted at first, lately had been growing notably more generous. Mr. Hines had an ambition to get as much as possible of her ready specie, consistently of course with the rendering of just equivalent, and he began to believe that he had cause to congratulate himself.

"Not," he would say confidently to several customers, one at a time--"it's not that Miss Sally don't yit beat you down in the price, like she always have. But here lately she go for a finer article, and a article that's fashionabler

Mr. Tuggle was one of those who had commented, though always without any sarcasm, on some of the lady's peculiarities. Yet now he spoke of her invariably in terms not only of much respect but of admiration. Respecting his daughter's feelings and neighborhood opinions of decency, he did not yet go to Miss Cash's house; but whenever he saw her riding-nag standing at a neighbor's gate or at the store he would alight, and deport himself as if recently he had been studying manners with special reference to her. Outsiders believed that they could see in both a tendency toward each other that understood itself enough not to be in special haste.

Mr. Tuggle, although improved in his dress, behaved with more decency than is common with widowers. The seriousness that he took on at the beginning of his bereavement continued, and it was gratifying to all the Hookses; for the ladies of the family, like their head, if coming short of his outward degree, were religious. For a man that had not studied the art of music specially, he was a good singer; and often, on Sunday evenings, when perhaps Mr. Hines (who was fond of visiting, particularly at these two houses) may have called on Susan Ann, and their conversation was not very interesting to one in his lonely condition, he strolled to his next neighbor's, and he and Emeline, joined by her mother, when well enough, would spend quite a time in the singing of

"Ef Matthy," he said one evening after Mr. Tuggle had left--"ef he only had the sperrit ekal to his woices, they'd be some hopes of his conwictions and conwersions, in course under grace; for everybody that have studied Scriptur' know that 'ithout grace 'tain't worth whiles for a sinner to try to move one blessed peg. But I do think the idee a man at his time o' life a-wishin' and a-wantin' and a actuil' a-desirin' to git married ag'in--"

"Need'nt talk to me about widowers," abruptly put in Mrs. Hooks. "They're as certain to marry again as the days is long. The thing is for 'em to try and marry suitable."

"Well, ef it's to be Matthy and Sally, the question'll be how she and Susan Ann is to congeal together; because they've both of 'em got a temper o' their own, that nary one of 'em is willin to be runned over, jes dry so."

"My opinions is," said Mrs. Hooks, "that right there'll be the difficulty, and I have told Matthy so in them words."

"What Matthy say?"

"He said nothin'; but he look like he were pestered and jubous in his mind."

"Umph, humph! Well, I'm thankful it ain't me; and I should never expect it to be me ef my adwices would be took for the rig'lations--"

But he again, though reluctantly, suspended when

Many such conversations were had between this loving husband and his wife, always interspersed with affectionate salutary admonitions. Mr. Hooks used to say--that is, before he had become a church-member--that really he had his doubts which he was most cut out for, a lawyer or a doctor; but since that momentous epoch, he was confident in his mind that his proper sphere, had he only known it in time, would have been that the center whereof was the pulpit; and he used almost to intimate what he might do therein even now but for his justice bench, his blacksmith's shop, and his large gin-house, in which a considerable portion of the public had interests co-ordinate with his own.

During all this while Susan Ann Tuggle had grown more and more anxious at the thought of the marriage of her father, especially with Miss Cash. Confidence between parent and child had been checked by the former's prompt rebuke of some sharp words spoken by the latter touching the lady in question, and afterward they had gotten into the habit of carrying their burdens separately to their relations down the road.

"O Emeline! Emeline! If pa brings another woman to our house to hecter over me, and special' old Miss Sally, I leave for the--for the first place I can find a home at with respectable people."

"Be calm, Susan Ann, and don't be scared and go to fretting before the time comes. I think Cousin Matthy have behaved right well so far, considering. I never heard a parrent talk more affectionate of their daughter than he have been talking about you here lately."

"Oh, these widowers can be affectionate enough, but the more affectionate they are, the more they go on the idea that they must have a mother for their orphan children; but I want nobody in ma's place, and special' old Miss Sally. Yet I mean to try to hope for the best; but I tell you now, Emeline, that if it come to the worst, I shall take the first chance that comes that's decent, and get married myself."

More serious, far more pious, than her cousin, Miss Hooks was accustomed to employ Scriptural phrases for her own and others' comfort. With calm earnestness she counseled Susan Ann to possess her soul in patience, and endeavor to remember in all circumstances that afflictions, though they seem severe, are oft in mercy sent.

"And which, Susan Ann," she said in conclusion, "no longer than last Sunday evening, when me and Cousin Matthy were singing for ma, who wasn't well enough to join in with us, and we were a-singing that veriest hymn, and I happen to look at Cousin Matthy, I think I see his eyes water, and I know I see his mouth trimble."

IV.

Profound as was the sense of loss in the breast of Mr. Hooks, when, a few weeks after the events last herein told, his wife followed her cousin on the old-fashioned, unavoidable way, there was no telling to what deeper depths it might have descended but for the merciful fact that he was thoroughly cognizant of

"The de-ficulty 'ith my poor, dear Malviny," with calm melancholy he said often during the season of mourning, "were her liver, that k'yard her off from this spears of action like the thief of a night when no man can work, but people's asleep and a not a-lookin' for no sech. I have saw, and I have freckwent noticed, and that more than a munt before she taken down; and it were her complexions and weak stomach she have for her victuals, because her appetites, ever sence I have knowed her, and special' lately, they has not been large, but they has been resky; and I has told her so time and time ag'in, in course in a affectionate way; and when the doctor have to be sent fur, I told him, plain as I could speak, no matter what he give, 'ithout they'd rig'late her liver they wouldn't fetch her back to her wanted healths. And I give him the credic, he done his lev'lest best; not only bleedin', but calomel and jalap. In course, I'm not a-denyin' that my poor, dear wife had to go when her time come; but yit, I can't but be thankful I knewed the de-ficulty, and I left down no gaps in the tryin' to powide ag'inst it."

The consolations from this benignant source supported Mr. Hooks to a degree that made him extremely thankful. Recognizing that duties to the living could not be paid fully by a man (especially with his various

Singular as was the contrast, the seriousness in the whole being of Mr. Tuggle seemed to deepen after the affliction that had fallen upon the Hooks family.

"The fack is, Emeline," he said one Sunday evening, "sorry as I'm obleeged to be fur myself, I can't help symp'thizin' 'ith you, a-knowin' what your ma were to you, and how you miss her. Now, Susan Ann, poor girl, she look to me like she think less about her ma than about her who's to take her place."

"Cousin Matthy," answered Emeline, "if anybody ever stood in need of symp'thy in this wide and sorrowful world, it's me. Law, Cousin Matthy, you think pa mean anything by his jokes and getting so many Sunday clothes?"

"Less said about 'em, Emeline--that is, by me--soonest mended."

After reflecting awhile, she said, "I think Miss Sally a fine woman, don't you?"

"Remockable, remockable; and so do your pa."

"O Cousin Matthy! Do, pray, please, Cousin Matthy, don't let pa go to courting--at least before poor ma have been in her grave a decent time, and special' that--oh me! What is a poor orphan girl to do like me!"

"What to do, Emeline? Why, wait and see. Your pa not an old man, by no manner o' means, and it's natchel he may not be willin' to pass for one before the time come. But wait and see, and be cool and keerful. Any adwices I can give, you know I'll do it."

Much of other like conversation was had after they had been singing together for some time. For a while Mr. Hooks, while sitting or promenading on his piazza, had listened with more or less interest, until by some chance the selections began to grow extremely sorrowful; when, taking his new hat and his new cane, he walked up the road.

"Evenin', Susan Ann. I left your pa and Emeline a-singin' of hymes. I listened to 'em tell they got on them solemn and solemcholy ones, that somehow don't congeal along 'ith me in the troubles ben on my mind, and I come up here to see ef you couldn't stir up somethin' to help out a feller's feelin's. What's all the live-liest times 'ith you, Susan Ann?"

"Glad to see you, Cousin Sing'ton," Susan Ann said, cordially. "Well, now, let me see. Ay, I've got it! Didn't Miss Sally look nice and young to-day at church with her new red frock, and her new green calash, and her new pink parasol, and her new white crane-tail fan, and her new striped ribbons, and her cheeks that just blazed like a peach, didn't she?"

"That she did! that she did! Miss Sally begin to

Her tone changed instantly.

"Cousin Sing'ton, you don't mean pa? I'm sure--that is, I think--Miss Sally is setting her cap for you, and seem to me she'd suit; she certain' have been more dressy and pink in the face since--since you come on the carpet."

"Well, it only go to show the deffunce they is in people. Now Emeline say she shore in her mind Miss Sally, ef she had to choose betwix' us, she'd lay ch'ice on your pa."

"Did Emeline say that, Cousin Sing'ton?" she asked with darkling brow.

"Now, Susan Ann," with prudent tone, "I don't say them was her wery langwidge, and I don't know as I were ad-zactly in order to name to you them words o' Emeline, because it would seem like a pity fur you and her not to keep on o' bein' the affection't' couples you've always ben."

"If Emeline Hooks is trying to marry off pa to that--the fact of the business, it isn't fair all round, nowhere, Cousin Sing'ton."

"As for suitin' all-parties, fur your pa and Sally to jind in banes, Susan Ann, I might have my doubts--that is, in my own minds, and not a-expressin' 'em. Thar, right thar, they is a deffunce, and I shouldn't wish by no manner o' means for even these few priminary remarks to be named, either to Emeline or your pa."

Susan Ann was silent for a while, then said, "Don't you think, Mr. Hines wants to court Emeline, Cousin Sing'ton?"

"Well, now, Susan Ann," he answered, in the manner of one desirous to avoid full disclosures of family secrets, "ef Mr. Hines do, him ner Emeline haint named sech to me. I wouldn' be thunderstruck surprised ef he might desires sech a thing ef he had the prop'ty to put it through. They both know, I supposen, that a man that have the prop'ty I pay taxes on, and it a-increasin' every constant in warous way, I should expect a son-in-law to fetch ef he can't fetch land, fur him, besides of what goods he have wisible in his stow, to fetch along a reason'ble, size'ble pile o' niggers. These would be my adwices to Emeline and to all young wimming. I don't know how freckwent the times I've 'membered what my father used to say when he was a-livin', about people a not allays bein' keerful enough who they got married to, and that is that people ought to be allays keerful not only to look whar they leap, but whar they lope. As for me, that is, my own self, a not'ithstandin' I feel a'most a right young man jes grown, sech is my healths, and my strength, and my sperrit, yit my intentions is to look same as a hawk whar I'm a-leapin' and whar I'm a-lopin' both; and as I can't talk 'ith any satisfaction along 'ith Emeline, I shall 'casional' consult your adwices, which, my opinions is, you have a stronger jedgment than her on them important subjects."

The words of Mr. Hooks during this and much other conversation were interpreted by Susan Ann as intimating his wish for her influence in his behalf with

V.

Friend as well as neighbor Miss Cash had been to both the ladies lately deceased. A famous nurse in sickness, she had tended their decline with assiduous, tender care, and the tears shed by her at their departure were as hearty as they were copious. Yet while observing proper decorum whenever in the company of the bereaved, she grew constantly more lively in gait and conversation, more addicted to visiting, and far more expensive and pronounced in apparel.

"It ruther astonish," Mr. Hines one day said to Mr. Hooks, after selling to him the materials for yet another suit, "and it put me up to get things fine enough for Miss Sally."

"Right, Mr. Hines, she's right. A' excellent, a fine, a what I call a superfine woman, and I wouldn't object anybody a-tellin' her I made them remarks. And how young she look! and her jaws red same as a rose. My, my! what a wife and kimpanion, 'ith them looks, and them ways, and them niggers, and warous prop'ty she would make! Think she have a notion or idees that way, Mr. Hines?"

"That question oversize my information, sir; but I have heard her say that her mind been runnin' on a expeermunt, as she call it, and she don't know what she

"Umph, humph! I suppose not, of course; young female like her. Yaas. I'm told she drap in your stow right freckwent these days. When she come next time, Mr. Hines, you may 'member my respects, and tell her anything I can help her in any her business of all kind, my requestes is, and also is my desires, she won't hizitate. A superfine female! No man, sir--I say it bold and above-bode--no man that's either too old or wo' out ought to, daresn't to offer hisself to be a party o' the second part in Miss Sally Cash expeermunts, or whatsomeever she mind to name 'em."

Interesting to all the neighbors, most especially to Mr. Hines, became movements made by the two widowers, their daughters, and Miss Cash. For Mr. Hines, as was believed, hoped to be able to win for himself that one of the young ladies whose father Miss Cash would accept eventually. The coolness and reserve that had risen between the cousins neither Miss Cash nor the gentlemen objected to. Indeed, there was no doubt that every one of the six felt that the hand that he or she held had to be played with utmost discretion. Miss Cash manifested great respect for the late serious conversations of Mr. Tuggle, and she laughed consumedly at the new jokes of Mr. Hooks. Nobody doubted that she could choose between the two; and each of these, conscious that the other was his equal, or nearly so, advanced with slowness and caution. As for the young ladies, each convinced that the other was working against her wishes and interests in the case of Miss Cash, and perhaps remotely in that of Mr. Hines, they

"Yes," Miss Cash said one day, "ef you have ever heard two girls praise up fathers that's not their'n, it's them. Look like they don't count their own fathers no shakes at all hardly, but it's they of the other. I agrees with both what they say; because both their parrents is excellent good men, and them fine, good girls."

"People say, Miss Sally," here Mr. Hines ventured to remark, "that in all prob'bility the Cash plantation will jind in either with the Hooks or the Tuggle."

"They all three jinds now already, Mr. Hines; but I know what your meanin's is in your mischevious. It takes more than one consents for sech as that, Mr. Hines; which a young lady like me, that have no expeunce, even ef she do think sometimes in a iduil hour of makin' sech a expeermunt, yit she can't but have her doubts, I may even say she can't but be jubous, and in fact downright hizitate on sech a dilicate, and I might actuil' say skeary kinclusion she might have on the subjects of our present remarks. But, Mr. Hines"--and now she smiled distantly and pleasantly--"a person might have more than thes one expeermunt in her mind eye, as the preacher say, and when the time come, you'll see ef Sairey Cash, which people in gener'l call her Sally, but you'll see ef she's the young lady she

Noticing his interest in the conversation, she continued to talk at much length, saying, among other things:

"I'm older than them girls, Mr. Hines--that is, I'm some older; and I know their fathers better than they do, and I know them better than their fathers do. Both them girls think they know me perfic', and their fathers has their sispicions about me, which their sispicions is pine blank deffernt. It would all be ruther funny ef my mind were made up, which it ain't, and it look hard a loned female person have nobody to go to for adwices. But ef you name those few remarks to any or every body, Mr. Hines, I shall never forgive you while the breath is in my body, as, in the good healths I always enjoys, I should hope would be for many a years yit to come."

The neighbors at last were growing impatient at the delay of a consummation the more eagerly looked for because of its uncertainty.

"It look like nip and tuck betwix' Sing'ton and Matthy," said old Mr. Pate several times, "and ut 'pear to me like they both of 'em a-expectin' and a-count-in' on officiatin' Sally, so to speak. Sing'ton--well, I don't 'member as I ever see a yearlin' boy livelier and jokier. I tell him sometimes don't look out they'll

VI.

Miss Cash gave a party.

By candlelight the guests arrived. The hostess shone in a white frock whose flounces, furbelows, and gathers--if these be their names--I feel it to be vain at my time of life to undertake to describe. Her hair, I admit, was red; but her cheeks--well, she would have contended, if necessary, that their color was her business; and certain it is, that for every stick of cinnamon that may have been used by her for any purpose under the sun the hard cash had been paid down on Mr. Hines's counter and no grumbling.

Whoever had supposed that Mr. Hooks would have

"Them feet and them legs," contemplating these interesting objects, he remarked at the party to several ladies and gentlemen, as if imparting a pleasant secret--"them legs and them feet 'pear like they forgot tell here lately what they made fur; but my intenchuins is, before they git much older, to conwince 'em o' their ric'lection."

He sat by Susan Ann, and Mr. Tuggle by Emeline; and it was evident that each of these young ladies was intent upon exhibiting before Miss Cash her own especial knight to the best possible advantage.

To one who loves the sound of the fiddle, there is something in its voice that imparts an exhilaration seldom coming from any other music. In the breast of Mr. Hooks on the present occasion that emotion was perhaps the more pronounced because of several years' suppression. When Morris, a negro man belonging to the rich Mr. Parkinson, was called in, even while putting his instrument in tune, the eyes of Mr. Hooks were lit up into fiery brilliancy; his face quivered with almost angry smiles; and he had to breathe, and that hotly, through his nostrils alone; while his elevated

It was pleasant to everybody to notice how well Mr. Hines looked and behaved. On the whole he was better dressed--that is, more stylishly and perhaps expensively--than any other gentleman present. But of course he had been to Augusta far more often than anybody else there; and besides, being his own buyer as well as seller, he could afford to dress as he pleased. Having confessed to Miss Cash that his early education in dancing had been neglected, she, with kind thoughtfulness for the embarrassment that he must feel otherwise, deputed him to assist in the entertainment of her guests, in which office he deported himself with a satisfaction that hardly could have been greater if it had been his own house.

"Choose pardners!" at length cried Morris in the commanding, menacing tone that only negro-fiddlers ever knew fully how to employ.

Instantly rose Mr. Hooks, and, violently seizing the hand of Susan Ann, led her forth. Mr. Tuggle glanced at Emeline, then lowered his head far down, as if to be more able thus to control his feelings. Emeline did the same.

The surprise manifested by the whole company at the prompt rise of Mr. Hooks and his march to the head of the cotillion was feeble compared with that experienced when they witnessed what he could do in that line. At first, as the figures were called, he moved with measured dignity, his long arms with deliberate exactitude describing immense, majestic arcs, both in the preliminaries of rotary movements and in their

"You are the best partner I ever danced with," she whispered.

"Laws, girl!" he answered, indifferent, "wait tell I git warm, and come down 'ith a few o' my double dimmersimmerquibbers."

"Give them some," she replied, looking at Miss Cash, whom she saw already running over with admiration.

"Sashay W' all!"

When came the turn of Mr. Hooks to obey the command, if ever a pair of human legs exhibited suppleness, sprightliness, precision of calculation, the faculty to intertwine and outertwine, to wrap themselves around each other when high lifted from the floor, unwrap themselves at the instant of return, and afterward to reverse these apparently reckless spires, then surely was the time. There were moments when all, including Susan Ann, evinced apprehension that in one of these audacious exaltations a man so tall and slender, so long disused to such exercise, might lose his balance and fall bodily, perchance head-foremost, in the arena. But no! The arm of the daring vaulter, sometimes both, sometimes alternately extended, sometimes pointing to the zenith, sometimes to the horizon, sometimes at various angles intermediate to horizon and zenith, kept him true as any gyroscope. His countenance the while wore a serious, even threatening, aspect. When Morris, panting and dripping with sweat, gave the last shrieking

"Matthy, ain't you goin' to j'in in the egzitin' spote Miss Sally have powided so liber'l fur the enj'yments and 'ospital'ties of us all?"

"Now that," on his way home said Mr. Pate, "it didn't look like quite fa'r in Sing'ton, him a-knowin' Mathy, 'ith his duck-legs, were onpossible to foller him in them climbin's, the oudaciousest I ever 'spected to live to see. Yit Matthy not a man people can skeer. He look like he know what he were about, and he smile and answer calm, he have made up his minds to quit dancin'."

VII.

During the last wane of the evening, somewhat of abstraction, not wholly unattended by embarrassment, began to be noticeable in the carriage of Miss Cash. She was observed to whisper several times alternately with Mr. Hooks and Mr. Tuggle, who nodded respectfully. As the party was breaking up, Mr. Pate, apparently reluctant to leave, in view of the briefness of human

"Sally," he said, with moistened eyes, "a better party, and a more liber'l' powided, I never should hope to put on my Sunday close and go too; no, never endurin' what little balance o' time they is left me to be 'ith you all, which I hope the good Lord, ef he spar' my life, he'll find he hain't so very many better friends than what I've tried to be. And I'll say for Sing'ton Hooks and Matthy Tuggle, I've knewed'em from babies, and their ekals for a marry'n' female person to make their ch'ice betwix', other people may know, I don't. And, tell the truth, I don't 'member as ever I have wish', before here lately, there was more'n one Sally Cash to diwide betwix' 'em--boys, as I call 'em, compar'd to me. And my adwices is for you not to be forever and deternal a-hizitatin' about a marter which it ain't possible no way to make any big mistakes. Because them boys is, both of 'em, business boys, and natchel speakin' they don't want to be al'ays hilt betwix' hawk and buzzard in this kind o' style. Good-by; good-by.--Good-by, Sing'ton; I did not know you was ekal to sech awful performance.--Good-by, Matthy; you done right not follerin' Sing'ton on that line; but a dignifieder behavior than you I would never wish to go to nobody's party. And it's a pleasure to see how honer'ble you and Sing'ton has been in the whole case. And my ricommends to both you boys is, to keep on standin' squar' up to the rack tell the fodder fall; and

When all had departed except the Hookses and the Tuggles, who were requested to remain for a few minutes, the gentlemen were asked to take seats on one side of the room and Emeline and Susan Ann on the opposite, while Miss Cash took her position, from which she could command, in flank, the view of all.

After several modest, significant coughs, she began:

"I ast you all to stay behind because I wanted to make these few, feeble, and interesting remarks about me and you all. You are all my neighbors, and I've tried to be you-all's friends, and none of you has knew the extents. I ain't a-blamin' none of you; because I never yit has told you, nary one. And I never told not even myself, not untell here lately, because not untell here lately did I know the ewents and how they would all turn out; and I has never ben so much conwinced in my own minds that the good Lord know more about me than I do about myself than I ben thes here lately. Howbe'ever, let me and them keep behind for the present time a-bein'.

"Mr. Hooks, you and Susan Ann has be'n a-thinkin' that me and Mr. Tuggle was a-goin' to nunite in the banes of mattermony. And then again, Mr. Tuggle, you and Emeline has be'n a-countin' on the same 'ith

Looks of surprise went around at the close of this paragraph. Slightly shifting her pesition, the speaker resumed:

"And yit, both you men has be'n a-co'tin' close and heavy, a'most amejiant when their wife deparched from the famblies in their charges, and, not to save my life, could I turn my backs when both o' you ast me to help you out; and it's because, I sometimes ben a-supposenin', there is or they may be somethin' in the a'r that, in sech times, make sech things interestin' and ketchin', even to a moduest female like me."

During the bashful pause ensuing here, the gentlemen looked at each other inquiringly, and the young ladies, moving their chairs some space farther apart, turned and faced alternately the opposite walls.

"Yes, sirs, and yes, ma'ams, you girls; you knewed yourselves, but you knewed not t'other couple; and

Here Susan Ann turned and stared at Emeline as if she were a ghost, while Emeline kept her eyes upon the wall, studying it curiously, as if it were covered all over with frescoes from the most ancient masters.

"Well; now, Sally," began Mr. Hooks in much calmness, considering the situation, "the queschin--it ketch me by surprises, and--I may say--"

"That you'll have to hear," Miss Cash interrupted, "what Mr. Tuggle'll say to the queschin I'm a-goin' to put to him in the amejiant spurs o' the awful an' interestin' minutes: and which, that is, Mr. Tuggle, will you let Mr. Hooks have Susan Ann? There's the whole case betwix' you all."

"Jes so; perpendic'lar; the same as a gate-post," said Mr. Hooks, with deliberate yet utmost emphasis.

Then Emeline, turning, sought the face of Susan Ann, which by this time had become absorbed in the contemplation of the masterpieces on her wall. In another moment they were weeping, hugged in each other's arms.

"Come, come; set down, set down," said Miss Cash, "and let me git through 'ith the rest o' my tale. It won't be so very much to you, but it's everything to me."

Then the native blood rose even through the cinnamon,

"When I first begun to talk about makin' a' expeermunt of the gittin' of married myself, it were mostly iduil talk. But somehows, or somehows else, I don't know as I may never know how sech things comes about, yit I got to ruther love to let my mind runned on the interestin' subjects. And then, it come to me, and I begin to think, mayby--who knows?--ef it were the will of the good Lord, that him, a-knowin' how I have always ben a orphin and had to work hard to help take keer of myself, and that a'most every sence I were a baby--that, I say, mayby it were his will for me not to git old thes by myself, and never had any pleasant siciety, like other people, o' them to keer anything about, exceptin' o' them might natchil' expects to git whut prop'ty I got, and then a possible a-wantin' me out o' the way before my time come to deparch, like poor Betsy Tuggle, and poor Malviny Hooks, good friends as they wus to me and me to them. And not that Abom Grice never even hint sech a thing, but he have freckwent told me that it were my very first juty to look out for myself. Yit, I know, because I have saw what it is for women to git old thes by theirselves, 'ith no husband, and no childern, and no nobody o' the kinds; and even when their kinfolks mayn't want 'em to die, they sispicions 'em of it. And so I thought mayby it were the will o' the good Lord to hender sech as that to me, him a-knowin' how I've had to scuffle and baffle every sence I were a little bit of a orphin child, and ef anybody ever loved me thes for myself, the good Lord know I don't know who it was--untell now.

Rising she went to a table whereon were tumblers and a pitcher of water. As she lifted the latter with tottering hand, Mr. Hooks went briskly and took it just as it would have dropped. He poured a glass that with difficulty she drank; then, reseating herself continued:

"When I see you two men a-courtin' of them girls, it got to be that interestin' to me, that I got so I couldn't go to sleep o' nights, tell away yonder a'most midnight; thes a-layin' and a-thinkin' ef you two men, that have ben young and happy before, can be young and happy ag'in, why not me, thes one time, that have al'ays ben a loned female by myself?"

She paused, and the tears streamed from her eyes. Emeline and Susan Ann wept in genuine sympathy, and the eyes of Mr. Tuggle were very moist. Mr. Hooks looked down at his pumps and silk stockings, and, perhaps because be recognized the incongruity between what they had been doing so lately and any degree of sadness which he might express, simply rose from his chair.

"Set down, Mr. Hooks; set down. I'm a'most thoo. But, and, I tell you now, all of you, I'd of died before I'd of even peached sech a thing to ary man person that ever preambulated on top o' the ground, first. And when one o' that same seck of people name to me the very subjects I ben a-thinkin' and a actuil' a-dreamin' about, ef it didn't 'pears like to me the good Lord sent him a-purpose."

With hand yet trembling, she took from her bosom a marriage-license, and, handing it to Mr. Hooks, said:

"There's a paper for you, Mr. Hooks, which people is now ready and a-waitin' for you to 'tend to it."

Turning her face toward the dining-room, she called aloud:

"Mimy, you may come in, and the balance of 'em."

The door opened, Mimy and the other negroes, having on every item of Sunday clothes that that plantation had on hand, filed in and took position near the walls After a decent moment, a-tiptoe, his arm already curved to receive that of his bride, stepped forth Mr. Abner Hines.

"And I do believe, on my soul," Mr. Hooks said some time afterward, "that after I have jinded them two together, hard and fast, a'cordin' to law and gospul, that it were in me to make prob'ble the biggest, everlastin'est speech I ever spread myself before a augence; but the fact were, everybody got to laughin' and cryin' so they drownded my woices. Ah, well! it were a ruther egzitin' time all thoo. But everything have swaged down peaceable. The breth'en they forgive me for dancin', when Susan Ann give in the pootty expeunce she told, and it were give' out I wouldn't do so no more."

Chapter 6

I.

Before the war between the States, although I was not personally acquainted with Mr. Jonathan Wilby, I had heard of him through our common acquaintances. A bachelor, educated at the State (Georgia) University, owning a good plantation and several slaves on the farther side of the Oconee, hospitable, a free liver, he had contracted debts that amounted to two or three thousand dollars. Taking into account the natural increase in the value of his property, there was no cause for much anxiety; and so he persisted in keeping his hounds and his pointer, in entertaining his friends, and in traveling about, not infrequently out of his county, in visits to Macon, Augusta, sometimes as far as Savannah or Atlanta, the while leaving, with general directions, his plantation affairs to Travis, his foreman. Travis, some ten years older than he, had been his nurse for two or three years after he had become old enough to be not in need of constant female care, and ever since then a strong affection had subsisted

Mr. Wilby had voted against Secession; yet, when his State had solemnly declared itself out of the Union, and the war came on, he became a stanch Confederate, and, being only thirty years old, and unmarried, felt himself bound to take his part in all the dangers which were to ensue. Joining one of the first military companies raised in his county, he was made one of its lieutenants, and leaving his business in the hands of Travis, under the direction of one of his neighbors, he went forward, if not very cheerfully, at least with a genuine purpose to perform the duties which were to come in his career. Only once he came home on furlough, and returned to his command before the time of his leave expired. Before the end of the war he had risen to the rank of major.

This is about all that I had known of him previously to a meeting which, by accident, I had with him at his own residence some years ago. I knew well enough that the people in his county, like those in mine, had

I once had occasion to visit a gentleman named Bass who dwelt in that county. His residence was situated five or six miles from the public road leading from our county-seat to his. I had crossed the ferry and gone some distance on the by-way that I had been directed to take, hoping to get to my destination by nightfall. But the road, long unworked, was so rough beneath the buggy-wheels, that, finding I must be disappointed in this hope, I determined at near sunset to seek shelter for the night at the first house to which I should come. The dusk had begun to set in, when, after ascending a steep, rocky hill, I came within view of a nice, white, square, two-story mansion in the midst of a grove of red oaks. A gentleman was sitting on the piazza with a book in his lap. Over his other garments he wore a short summer coat of light material, and he seemed to be reflecting, as, with the forefinger of his right hand in the volume he had been reading, his left lay upon it. At my call he looked up, rose immediately, went into the house, from which he almost momentarily emerged, having exchanged the coat he had worn for a black broadcloth, and, readjusting his cravat, came out to the gate. When I told him the object of my call, he answered politely:

"Certainly, sir. Alight if you please."

Calling to a negro boy, who just then was coming from the horse-lot across the road, he said:

"Here, William, take this gentleman's horse, and, after putting the buggy under the shelter, water him, and tell your daddy to see that he's well taken care of. Then you run to the kitchen and tell your mammy that I want to see her in the dining-room, right away. Hear, William?"

"Yes, sir, Marse Jon'th'n," answered the boy, and went briskly to execute his orders.

Having escorted me in, and disposed of my hat, umbrella, and satchel, he said:

"Perhaps it may not suit your habit to sit on the piazza after sunset. If not, we will go inside the house."

I answered that usually I sat all evenings outside unless driven in by stress of cold or other inclement weather. When we were seated he said:

"My name is Jonathan Wilby."

I gave my own name, and added that, although long knowing of Major Wilby, I had not had the pleasure of meeting him before.

"Oh, yes, yes," he replied, cordially; "we have many common acquaintances. I am really very glad to know you personally, and that right here in this house."

Just then a portly, neat-looking black woman appeared in the doorway of the hall, and, courtesying, said:

"Marse Jonathan, William told me you wanted to see me."

"Yes, that's right, Ritter. I'll see you." Saying to me, "Please excuse me for a moment," he went in. After a few minutes he returned, resumed his seat, and, smiling, said:

"Being nothing but an old bachelor, my table, especially at supper, is lightly loaded usually, and I sent for my cook to let her know that I expected two plates on it to-night, and enough to fill both."

Bachelor or not, it was an excellent supper, and well served by the same woman and her daughter, a girl some thirteen years old. The table furniture was finer than one often sees in country houses, except those belonging to the richest. My host was pleased to see me eat with a good appetite. After supper we repaired to the parlor, as the air had grown cool since the coming on of night. A walnut round table, several old-fashioned mahogany chairs which had been repaired lately, a sofa, and a very high family clock, were what the room contained.

"You smoke?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I've nothing but a pipe to offer you. We planters since the war find it necessary to be economical in our indulgences; but this pipe is a clean one and the tobacco is good. I wish I did have a cigar for you."

I assured him that I was more than content with the pipe.

When we had fired up, he grew more and more in cordial mood.

"I declare I am as glad as I can be that you were benighted and had to stop over with me--of course, I should add, unless your business is to be hurt by the delay. I do not often see anybody outside of my servants, being not at all given to visiting and not much to being visited. I walk about the plantation, and I sit

"You don't get lonesome sometimes, living in this big house by yourself?"

"Not much," he answered, indifferently. "I have first-rate health, sleep well, and generally I can get out of books as much entertainment as I need. I am fortunate in having about me the same servants I had before the war, who are entirely reliable. My main manservant, especially, is one of unusually good judgment, and, under my directions, makes a living for us all, and a little over. They were his wife and his daughter whom you saw waiting upon the supper-table. The field-hands also were all raised on the place, some before my time, the most after. So you see that I have a family, such as it is, and there is much the same feeling between us now as heretofore. I have to be careful about their disposition to make me spend on myself more money than I should; especially Travis and his wife. They, like most old negroes, have a good deal of family pride. Travis thinks I might keep hounds, as I once did, and have a finer buggy; and Ritter, his wife, almost scolds sometimes at my persistence in wearing old clothes longer than she thinks becoming. Indeed,

"I think, Major Wilby," I said, "that I remember to have heard that in one of the battles around Richmond you were seriously wounded."

"Yes, my head was scraped by a Minié-ball one day, rather too deep to make a joke of. They thought for a while that I was going to make a die of it, or lose my reason. That would have been hard, considering everything. I often think what a mercy it was to my old negroes that I didn't do either."

Stooping to relight his pipe from the embers on the hearth, he said:

"Oh, no; I'm seldom lonesome. Still, I am always glad when any one falls in on me as you have to-night. Have you any news?"

"None except such as you have seen in the newspapers."

"I take only the Milledgeville Recorder; sometimes," he added, smiling, "getting two at once, when we happen not to send into town but once in a fortnight. Travis says I ought to take a daily paper, so that, even if I can't get it every day, I can keep up more with current news. But I tell him no; I don't take interest in politics now, and not much in news, beyond what happens in the neighborhood and among people I know. But I delight in reading about the war, especially General Lee. Wasn't he a splendid fellow!

"Most of us have had it, indeed," I said; "but you seem to be in about as comfortable conditions as any planter I know, in your native home, and surrounded by your old family servants, who are faithful, and, from what you say of them, still affectionate."

"Yes, indeed. Now, thank God, I am comfortably situated; but I went through a siege like the rest, and worse than most of the rest, for a year or two after I got back."

He looked at me as if asking if I cared to hear of his experience. After brief mention of a few of my own trials, I intimated that I would be entertained by a recital of some of his.

"Well, sir," he answered, "when I got back, the question was, what to do next. Negroes free, a man owing more money than his plantation and stock would pay for if put upon the market, I just told people whom I owed to take what I had and I'd go off to some town or other and clerk or get some sort of work, and send back what I could make over a decent support. Travis was against such a movement, for freedom didn't seem

At this period the man Travis, tall, black, firmly built, came to the door, and, dropping his hat upon the floor, saluted me with humble respect and said:

"Well, Marse Jon'than."

"Yes," the master answered in kindly tone; "Travis, you no doubt saw that this gentleman's horse was attended to properly."

"Yes, sir, marster."

"Did the plow-hands get through with that field this evening?"

"Not quite, sir; be thoo by a' hour-by-sun in de mawnin'."

"I hardly thought they would quite finish it to-day, as the ground is hard from the drought, and I don't want the mules pushed."

"No, sir, I know dat; en I told de plowers dee must be keerful wid 'em."

"That was right. How was the cotton-picking tonight, Travis?"

"Right good, Marse Jon'than. I has to be right

"Now, now, Travis; don't be too hard on them. You've been a boy yourself, you know."

"Oh, yes, Marse Jon'than," he retorted, in good-humor, "I know dat, en I found out dem ve'y time what de hick'ry was made fer; but I ain' gwine be too servigous wid 'em."

"That's right; talking goes a great way with children, if people will be prudent and not too impatient."

After other questionings and giving of directions for the morrow, he said:

"One thing more, Travis. This gentleman wishes to go to Mr. Henry Bass's early to-morrow morning. As the road is rough, and not easy for a stranger to follow, I want you to go with him."

"Yes, sir."

I protested against the trouble I was giving, but Mr. Wilby cut me short.

"No trouble at all. There are several by-forks by which you would be in danger of being misled.--Travis, you can ride your plow-mule, unless you prefer to walk."

"I ruther take it afoot, Marse Jon'than."

"If the man must go," I said, "let him take a seat with me in the buggy."

"That is best, perhaps, as he would know better how to avoid the stumps and straddle the ruts. Be ready, Travis, soon as breakfast is over. You can go now."

When Travis had gone, Mr. Wilby said: "I have to watch that man in his aptness to be rather too hard upon those under him, as I've no doubt you've observed was often the case with negro foremen. He is so thoroughly industrious and upright himself that he can not well understand how any, even boys, can be otherwise, and he is a firm believer in the whip as the most efficient punisher and reformer of all shortcomings."

We talked to a late hour. Several times he apologized for taking more than a fair portion of the conversation.

"Living here by myself, as it were, when I do have an opportunity to talk, it sometimes seems difficult for me to stop. I suppose a man's tongue, like his legs, is in need of occasional exercise; if so, mine can not complain to-night, eh?"

I answered that I had been very much entertained. Indeed, I had been. Much of his conversation, especially about battle and hospital scenes, was at times extremely graphic. Then I was touched by the sadness, mixed with what seemed to be meant for a bit of humor, with which he spoke of the temporary dereliction of his manhood at the close of the war. It was near midnight when, lighting a candle, and conducting me to bed, he said:

"You may sleep without anxiety about waking in good time for breakfast. I will call you. Sleep well. Good-night."

I could not but lie awake for some time, thinking of this man, so gentle, almost childlike, yet cultured, firm, and apparently with much business capacity; and I made up my mind that, as far as I could do so with

II.

When I rose next morning a few minutes before it was time to call me, and unexpectedly appeared before Major Wilby sitting on his piazza, holding in one hand his watch, and reading in a large octavo volume that lay in his lap, he looked up quickly, and, shutting the book said:

"Ah, ha! Up already? Good-morning. I should have called you in ten minutes more. I hope you slept enough, at least as near so as possible after being kept up by me so late last night. I felt rather remorseful about it when I got back to myself. However," without waiting for me to remonstrate, "it's only once. If your time would allow you to give me another night, I'd agree to have supper by sunset and let you go to bed with the chickens. I've just been reading Stephens's account of Lee's last fight. I think I've read the book at least a dozen times."

Shortly afterward we sat down to breakfast. With polite insistence he often asked me to partake again of the several nicely cooked dishes. I noticed, as at supper, that he ate quite temperately, though dallying long with apparently choicest appetite on what was upon his plate. My equipage and Travis in his best clothes were waiting at the gate when breakfast was over. After I was seated in the buggy, my host, giving me his hand, said:

"I'm sorry you can not give me another night. I don't remember when I have enjoyed anything more than your visit. Please never pass this way without making me a call. Good-by. God bless you!--Be careful, Travis."

Rugged as the way was, I enjoyed much the travel on that sweet autumnal morning. Almost throughout the drive of three miles much of the primeval forest was yet standing, and the great oaks and lesser trees that rose as if in waiting around them showed the generous fecundity of the dark soil in contrast with the rich, deep red on our side of the Oconee. Upon the cotton-fields the light frost that had fallen was ripening fast the upper bolls; and the varying red and purple on the sassafras, sweet-gum, black-gum, and maple along the small streams, in relief with the brown and yellow of the uncut woods, made the landscape pleasant to look upon. Travis spoke not except in answer to my questionings, which at first were touching the condition of things in general within that region.

"I doubt, Travis," said I, "if these black lands over here are not as good as the red lands of our county. I hadn't been thinking so; but the cotton and corn I have seen yesterday evening and this morning are equal to any that our people have to show."

"Hit's tough land, marster; hit's mons'ous pow'ful tough. But yit, if people take pains wid her, en doan' overcrop deyse'f, en keep up wid her, she gwine pay back de wuk put on her; dat is, ef de seasons doan' come too onreg'lar."

"You find the colored people and the whites in this neighborhood likely to get along well together?"

"Oh, yes, sir, mos'ly. At de fuss offstart some o' de white folks en some o' de colored people, dee got kinder 'spicious o' one 'nother, which you know yourse'f, marster, de colored people is natchul' skeary o' white folks, dee not havin' de eddication ner not de sense o' white folks; en when dee found out dee all could vote, en some de white folks couldn't, it tuck pains, I tell you, now, to keep things on livin' ways. En den all de white folks, like Marse Jon'than, en Mr. Bass, whar we gwine now, dee wasn't all like dem two, in 'lowin' colored people a fa'r livin' chance; but things is rig'lated now tol'ble well over here. Colored people, des like po' white folks, dee found out dee have to wuk fur deyse'f en dey famblies, en votin' warn't gwine feed none o' 'em; en den white folks en colored begin, seem-like, to have some peace in dey mind, like befo' de waw."

"You all at Mr. Wilby's seem to get along very easily. I haven't seen a household that so reminded me of old times."

"Oh, yes, sir. We all gits 'long fuss-rate wid Marse Jon'than. He never bodders to hurt; not nobody, Marse Jon'than don't. He set in de house, en read his book, en he nuver interrup' nobody, en nobody doan' interrup' him."

"But I notice that he takes a strong interest in the business of his plantation. He told me that he has a talk with you every night, giving directions for next day's work."

He was silent for a brief while, then answered:

"Den you ain' know what ail po' Marse Jon'than."

"Why, no; isn't he all right?"

"Oh, yes, sir; oh, yes, marster," he said quickly.

"I am greatly surprised to hear that, Travis. I had been thinking that Mr. Wilby was one of the most intelligent men that I've met in a long time."

"De Laud bless your soul, marster! Marse Jon'than ain' lackin' in sensible; he know more'n ary 'nother white man in dis whole settlement. All de white folks'll tell you de same. Why, sir, Marse Jon'than ken tell people all 'bout things long befo' dee er dey parrens er gran'parrens was born. He even ken go back en tell 'bout de Injins, en how dee collupsed people wid dey tomberhawks en dey wigwoms, atter dee shoot 'em wid dey bo''n' arrers; en he ken p'int out de very tree whar his pappy's grandpappy en some un 'em hung up a Tory t'other side de Conee River . Yes, sir, dat he ken. But de trouble wid Marse Jon'than, his head ain' right, and hain' be'n not sence he got waounded in de waw, en he come home, en he see ev'ybody so to' up, he jes drap ev'ythin', en went off, en he stayed whell we found out whar he war thar not fur from A'gusty, en I went atter him, en I fotch him back atter he got so he could trabble. Didn' he tell you nothin' 'bout dat las' night? He love to tell 'bout hisse'f en whut he be'n thoo, when he ketch up wid a man he see dey doan' know 'bout it. But dat's mons'ous sildom; beca'se he doan' go nowhar, en people 'bout here dee all knows 'bout it."

"Yes, indeed, he did tell me a good many things about himself that were very interesting; but I did not suspect that his mind had been affected at all by his

"Oh, no, so, dat he don't. Ef he knowed dat, nobody could keep him dar nary single day, not dee couldn'."

"Why? Isn't that his home?"

"Oh, yes, sir; yes, sir. Right dar whar you see him las' night, dar he was born en raised."

"Well, I can't understand why he could wish to leave it, unless it were to go for treatment to the Lunatic Asylum at Milledgeville."

"De good Laud he'p my soul en body agin Marse Jon'than nuver gwine to Mil'geville, en him locked up wid dem po' 'stracted people in dat gweat big house! No, sir, Marse Jon'than couldn' stan' sech as dat, not for one blessed munt; dat he couldn', raised like he ben raised. En dat whut ev'ybody dat know him want to hender by not a-'sputin' wid him en let him have his own way 'bout ev'ythin', en him not findin' out dey anythin' de marter wid his head. Make my fresh crawl, idee Marse Jon'than gwine 'way f'om here, en special' to take up wid dem po' creeturs in Mil'geville.

"Was there thought to be any difficulty in his mind before receiving his wound?"

"Well, now, marster, I be'n a 'spicion'n my mind, en so have Ritter. She's my wife, en it was her you see in de dinin'-room 'long her little gal--me en Ritter, we 'spicions de trouble beginned wid Marse Jon'than befo' he got waounded, en dat dat made him wusser. You see, Marse Henry Bass, whar we gwine dis very mawnin', he have a little gal name Miss Lizy. I ain' talkin' 'bout now, but befo' de waw. She war always a

I felt deeply interested in this story, and I said to the negro:

"Travis, from this account I take you to be as good a pattern of faithfulness as I have ever seen. You and your former master's friend managed very well. You and he, besides making good crops, I suppose made compromises with the creditors?"

"No, sir," he answered quickly; "we nuver made no comp'mise. Marse Jon'than say he doan' wan' nothin' he owe to be dock down, like a heap o' people had to do; en so I make whut I could, en I gin it to Marse Henry, en he scattered it round 'mong dem Marse Jon'than owe, en when de lan' was put up, dat en de crop dat year 'bout squar' him out."

"Then he owes yet the purchase money for which the plantation was bid off?"

He was silent for a moment or so, then answered:

"No, sir; Marse Jon'than doan' owe for de lan' ner nothin' on it. It was all bid in for him."

"Who bid it in?"

"Marse Henry Bass; he de one bid on it."

"Then he must owe Mr. Bass?"

No sir; no sir," he answered promptly. "I tell you how't was, marster. De money Marse Henry paid, I gin him myse'f, which I ben makin' en savin' for dis long time. You see, marster, lan' so plenty, en money so hard to git, Marse Henry wid de fifteen hund'ed

"But, Travis, it seems to me that in the circumstances the land belongs to you instead of Mr. Wilby."

"Dat whut Marse Henry say, but it doan' 'pear like dat to me, for beca'se I tell you why, marster. Ev'y dollar I make, it war made out dat same plantation which hit belong to Marse Jon'than, he got it by his own pa, en him buried right dar behine de gyarden 'longside o' his own ma; en seem like to me dat lan' belong to Marse Jon'than, 'ceptin' whut he may 'low to me when he come right in his head, en he see he ken spar'."

"And Mr. Wilby understands none of these transactions?"

"No, sir; dat he doan'."

"And he believes now that he is entirely square with the world?"

"Yes, marster. You see nobody doan' tell him 'bout de way de lan' was bought in, beca'se dee know he'd come dissat'fied. En den, he is squar' wid de world, de way I look at it."

"And what becomes of the money made yearly by the crops?"

"Well, now, marster, sence cotton done come down dey ain' ben so mighty much tuck in bersides o' payin' o' han's, en keepin' up de plantation en de stock, en he'pin' some our own colored folks en po' white folks round here. Yit dey is some, en Christmas come, Marse Jon'than he take out 'bout fifty dollars, en he say he wan' Marse Henry Bass save de balance, atter payin' de

"Does he go often among the hands when at work?"

"No, sir; he mos' hardly nuver do dat, en when he do, he doan' bodder wid de workin'. I goes in de big 'ouse ev'y night en he talk wid me awhile, en dat sat'fy him."

"One more question I'll ask you, Travis, as I suppose the house we are approaching is Mr. Bass's residence."

"Yes, sir; dar whar Marse Henry live; en bless your soul, marster, Marse Jon'than ain' never ben dar sence Miss Lizy she died."

"Ay? The question I wish to ask is, do the colored people on the place understand how things are?"

"No, no, sir; 'ceptin' o' Ritter, en I nuver told her more'n I could he'p. She love Marse Jon'than same like me, be'case she nussed him too. But den you know, marster, f'om your own expeunce, ef you married, a man needn't be. tellin' his wife ev'ythin' he know."

When we had reached our destination, and the man having dismounted, was about to turn back, I took off my hat, involuntarily, as it were, and, giving him my hand, said:

"Travis, I am glad I met your Marse Jonathan, as you call Major Wilby, and more so that I have seen and held this conversation with you. Well as I thought I knew your people, this has surprised me. Give my

"Thanky, marster; you're mighty welcome. Far'well."

He turned and went his way. After my business with Mr. Bass was finished, on my mention of the conversation I had had with the man, he confirmed every statement made except that relating to his own daughter, to whom neither he nor I made allusion.

"The case," he said, "is well understood throughout the neighborhood, and, indeed, in the county generally. The plantation and everything appertaining to it belong to Travis, and the records are in his name. Such is the well-known delicacy of Major Wilby, amounting to extreme sensitiveness of every appearance of wrong-doing on his part, that people never think of disabusing his mind of the illusion under which he lives, and so strong is the affection for him had by this old slave, that I believe he sometimes tries to persuade himself that the property rightfully belongs to his former master. I am glad you made the major's acquaintance and spent a night there with him. Such companionship does him good. He'll be referring to your visit for a long time. He is very fond of the society of thoughtful, cultured people, although he never makes visits himself. I don't wonder you did not discover, in so limited a visit, his infirmity. He is, and always has been, a thorough gentleman in his instincts and deportment. No misfortune could befall him so unhappy as for him to find out his true relation to Travis, whom he never takes to be other than a servant working

Shortly afterward, having taken leave of Mr. Bass, I drove on. I had been witness, even a recipient, of the old affectionateness of slaves continuing unhurt by the war and emancipation; but now, reflecting on what I had seen lately, somehow I felt that I had been in the presence of a majesty, in its kind, higher than I had believed possible to humanity in any condition.

Chapter 7

I.

Mr. Thomas Tusser, who it seems had native toughness sufficient to survive some hard experiences in childhood, lived to be the author of a right good Georgic, which he styled A Hundred Good Pointes of Husbandrie. He had been a pupil of St. Paul's School, London, whence he was sent to Eton College. Feeling, after some years, as if he might afford to be somewhat merry over the recollection, he thus described a little scene between himself and Nicholas Udall, the headmaster:"

From Paules I went,
To Eton sent,
To learn straighte waies the Latin phrases,
Where fifty-three stripes given to me
At once I had:
The fault but small
Or none at all.
It came to pass thus beat I was.
See, Udall, see,
The mercie of thee
To me, poore lad.
 

The discipline of English schools came along with other institutions into this country with our forefathers,

The Rock Spring Academy had been started with hope of its being a marked improvement upon the country (commonly called Old Field) schools, for whose betterment something, nobody knew precisely what, had been long supposed to be needed. The community had become thickly settled and prosperous. Several well-to-do planters, recognizing the importance of giving to their children higher instruction than in their pioneer existence they had been able to get, built an academy near a spring that issued from beneath a large granite bowlder. In all respects save one the school prospered, having in the first term sixty, and opening the second with seventy-five pupils, of both sexes, ranging from seven to twenty years of age. The master, educated quite above the average (which is not saying very much), had not succeeded in establishing a discipline that was fully up to so many needs and responsibilities.

It was a period when a change gradually and indefinitely was coming upon the minds of people, even in rural districts, regarding that dogma of immemorial prevalence that education could be imparted best, if not only, by the hickory, the ferule, and the fist, with an occasional substitution of the milder penances of standing on one foot upon a stool, climbing a smooth pole, or crawling among the rounds of the master's chair; and thoughtful minds were beginning to indulge the

At this juncture a young man named Samuel Cox, tall, slight, of not more than one-and-twenty years, was beginning to meditate a change of the vocation which he had followed for a year with slender success. A graduate of the State College, he had been admitted to the bar, and kept an office at the court-house of his native county, which adjoined that in which Rock Spring Academy was situated. Thus far he had made neither

"Law don't suit me, somehow, Uncle Jack."

It was after supper, and they were sitting in the piazza on the mild August night.

"May be you don't suit the law, Sam," answered the uncle, bluff as he was affectionate and fond. "What people call suiting has got two sides to it: I found that out long ago."

"Perhaps I would have been nearer the truth to put it that way. At all events, it doesn't seem to suit me, and that's enough for me to know. But what to go at next I'm bothered to find out. I know I'd never make a doctor, and I doubt if I'm fit for a farmer, even if I hadn't spent most of my little property in trying to prepare myself for something different."

"Why not go to school-keeping."

"My Lord, uncle!"

"Well, now, boy, it may be my Lord, and it mayn't; I won't say which. But one thing certain, you've spent about a third of your prop'ty Index your education, and a good chunk of the balance in trying to make that of

"Dear Lord! no, uncle," he answered, laughing, yet not without some sadness. "But school-keeping!--the last, the very--"

"Now stop, Sam; stop right there."

The young man's repugnance was natural. The schools were stages whereon had been enacted scenes which, if now accurately described, would seem incredible to those who have never known them nor their likes. Their multiform drolleries in the midst of unlicensed despotism were remembered with mingled feelings of fun, disgust, and resentment. Hardly any young man of education, a native of that region, but would have felt himself degraded by adopting a profession most of whose practitioners had been objects of the ridicule and contempt of thoughtful persons. Within a few years past, however, to some of the villages had come educated teachers from the Northern, particularly the New England States, and they had succeeded in building up large and highly respectable schools, some of them having attained high reputation.

The uncle called attention to these, and then mentioned the vacancy at Rock Spring.

"Why, Uncle Jack, I'm told that they have over there the wildest set of boys in the whole country, and that a parcel of them, led by a young giant named Tom Aiken, actually drove away the last teacher. I was surprised to hear that about the boy, for he has a sister named Emily whom I met several times in the school

"I heard about that, and I didn't feel a bit sorry for that schoolmarster. Instead of laying down his rules like them Vermont fellows, that know what to lay down, and then let nobody alter 'em, like them Medes and Persians that the Bible tells about, without being took holt of and dragged over the coals, big and little, that fellow, they tell me, had some rules for some and other rules for t'others, and sticking to none with none of 'em; and so some of them big chaps, when he went to firing away on one of 'em after it got too late, they whirled in and give him his walking papers. But, Sam Cox, I haven't been a-thinking but what you're another kind of stuff from such as that, to be willing to be drove off just dry so, from a lawful business. Now, suppose you had been fitter for the law, or, by blood, suppose you hadn't, and a man, or two men, or, as to that, a whole camp-meetin' of 'em, were to come to your office and ordered you out, would you have done it?"

"Certainly not, sir. I should have answered their insolence as it deserved, and driven them off."

"Aha! I knew it! What your father'd have done. Well, that's about what them yearling boys done with that schoolmarster, and he weren't any more of a man than to let 'em run over him. If it had been me, and if I hadn't knew B from Bullsfoot about books, I should have seen them chaps through, and been with

No more was said upon the subject that night. Samuel

"I got to be plain 'ith you, Mr. Cox, and tell you we has some oudacious bad boys in this neighborhood; that is, I mean, mischeevious and up to all sorts o' pranks, and they'll be shore to try you, and fact is, you do look monst'ous mild an' spindlin'-like. Howbeever, the case as it now stand, we'll have to take somebody, an' we've kincluded to let you set in an' try it."

Many were the suggestions of the uncle when his nephew returned and informed him of what had been done and said. Insensible to fear himself, he could not but regret the softness of spirit which he feared might not be able to cope with the set of whom Mr. Hundley had spoken in such monitory language.

"If the concern of the whole business, Sam, the way it's in general been worked by such school-marsters as have kept schools in the country, if it weren't such a eternal mess of confound bamboozling, it wouldn't be so plaguy troublesome to manage it. The school-marsters I've knew, instead of trying to make scholars like 'em, and behave theirselves right because they ought, they were always a-watching 'em, and a-catching up, sometimes the wrong ones at that, and banging

"Yes," soliloquized the old man, as Samuel was riding on his way to Rock Spring, "if he's got the sperrit of his father, though he were a mild person, just like Sam, they needn't try to drive him off."

Part 2

The new teacher was to board with Mr. Hundley, who dwelt about half a mile from the academy. This gentleman felt it to be his duty to administer very many precautionary suggestions.

"I wish to gracious, Mr. Cox, you weren't quite so mild and spindly like. Ef them boys could see you was ekal to handlin' of em, I shouldn't have the anxiety I has. Howbeever, them boys obleeged to know they ain't the heads o' this whole community o' people, and I thought I'd go along with you a Monday mornin', and open on 'em with some few primary remarks as the President o' the Board o' Trustees o' the Rock Spring Maled and Femaled Ecademy. They'd be bound to respect me, no deffunce what they mout think of your mild and spindly--ah--kinditions and 'comp'ishments, I may say."

"If you do not object, Mr. Hundly," answered Cox, "I'd rather go alone. I feel that it is best to face singly the music, whatever it is to be."

"All right. I jes' kincluded I'd fling out the siggestion. Mayby it's best to open up 'ith as stiff a upper lip as possible. Some of 'em there'll be certain to feel what you made out of."

About sixty pupils were convened. The new master, after hanging his hat upon a peg near a window, advanced to a chair near the fireplace, and, seating himself, made a brief address, appealing earnestly to his pupils' sense of all their duties. He was very much embarrassed. Yet his sincerity of purpose enabled him to

"Your name is--?"

"Aiken--Tom Aiken, the name I go by."

"What have you been studying, Thomas?"

"Little of first one thing and then another; no great shakes of none of 'em."

"What do you propose to take up now?"

"Whatever comes to hand--ciphering and such."

"I suppose, at your age, you'd feel like getting on fast as possible?"

"Oh, I'm in no great hurry."

While the girls were out at the afternoon recess, after the teacher had occupied several minutes with a class at the blackboard that was on a stage at the farther end of the room, he returned to his seat, on which, after the girls had returned, he sat. Leaning backward, a tack, that had been so placed as to project its point from one of the upper slats, pierced deep into one of his shoulders, inflicting extreme pain. As he instantly rose, with a cry, there was loud laughter among the boys. His face, already flushed, crimsoned at this insult. The girls looked staringly around, vaguely inquiring the cause of it all. Mr. Cox for a moment looked at the school, then turning, walked, with what appeared an uncertain step, toward the window near which his hat was hanging, and stood looking out. Some blood had oozed through his thin summer clothing. When Emily Aiken saw that, she rose, went quickly to the chair, where, ascertaining what had been

"Mr. Cox," she said, her face red as his had been shortly before, "I want to tell you that the girls in this school have made up their minds that, if they can help it, the boys shall not break it up. I don't know who had the meanness to hurt you in that way; but I know that it was done in order to see if you were a man that would submit to such conduct. I beg you, for myself and the other girls, and the little boys, not to give up your place, as some of these big rough creatures are determined to make you do if they can. For--for--for God's sake, Mr, Cox, don't go away and leave us!"

Then she covered her face with her hands, and was led by one of her mates back to her seat. The teacher took out his handkerchief and dried his eyes (for he had been weeping), then came back, removed carefully the tack, and taking out his purse, put it into it. By this time his face had become composed, and he said: "I will excuse the girls from school to-morrow, meaning to devote that day exclusively to the boys. I wish them, the boys I mean, to be present as soon as the school is opened. You are now dismissed." As the girls were filing out he called to Emily Aiken, to whom, when she came up, he said: "Miss Aiken, I thank you for your very kind words. I have no idea of leaving you all, at least just now."

"Oh, I'm so glad, Mr. Cox!" she said, heartily, and passed on.--"Tom, she said to her brother, as they were on their way home, "I do hope that you had nothing to do with what I call as perfect a piece of meanness as I ever saw. I don't ask you to tell me

"It was done," he answered, sullenly, "to let him know that he needn't undertake to run over everybody in that school as some of 'em does. Still, nobody expected the thing to hurt him as bad as it did. My! didn't he jump!"

"It was a shame, a crying shame, and it was worse to laugh at him. I thought when he first went to the window, where his hat was hanging, that he was about to leave. But when he turned I saw that he wasn't afraid."

"And a sight you was, standing up there and talking so before the whole school!"

She made no answer, for she was already regretting that she had thus given way to her feelings.

When Mr. Cox had reached Mr. Hundley's front gate, a little boy whose home was farther on, and who had been waiting for him, said, in a low tone, "Mr. Cox, I can tell you who put that tack in your chair."

"Was it you?"

"No, sir; no, sir."

"Did the one who did, ask you to tell me?"

"No, sir. That he didn't."

"Did you say to him that you intended to tell me?"

"Why, no, sir. That I didn't."

"Well, then, do you go on home, and mind you, don't you mention to anybody what you have said to me."

"Cur'ousest schoolmarster ever I went anywhar to school," muttered the urchin as he moved away.

Mr. Hundley was much concerned at the report of his children. "I've got to go to that 'cademy," he said, in a threatening tone.

"My dear sir," answered quickly his boarder, "I hope not. I beg not."

"But, Mr. Cox, I'm the President o' the Board o' Trustees; and besides, them boys know they daresn't--"

"True, sir, and doubtless they would respect you as they should. But you see, sir, I, unfortunate as it may prove to be, am, nominally at least, at the head of the school, and, if it is to be governed at all, it must be by myself. There are some elements more unruly than I had even imagined; but it is perhaps lucky that the issue is made so soon, and just as it is. But I am perfectly satisfied that I should not have any help in meeting it. To-morrow will show if I am adequate to it."

"Very well; work your own files. I thought a-bein' of the president-- Howbeever, as you say, you're the head o' the school, and--my laws! I do wish, jes for the time a-bein', you mind, Mr. Cox, you weren't so mild and spindly like. Howbeever, do the best you can." Then he ceased, and turned mournfully to another subject.

Every boy was in his place when Mr. Cox arrived the next morning. On his way he had gotten a cube of wood some eight inches in dimensions. After bidding all a good-morning, he took the tack with which he had been pierced, and thrust it through a small bit of white paper into the block, and said, "I have put into this wood the tack that was fixed in my chair yesterday." Then he walked to the stage, and laid it on the edge, the mark fronting the fireplace at the hither

"Will one of you little boys do me the favor to go and see how nigh I came to the mark."

A boy went, and immediately on reaching the spot answered, "You've driv' her in, plump and squar'."

Then another bit of paper was put upon the orifice, and, drawing forth another pistol, he sent its bullet straight after its predecessor. After this he laid the weapons, without reloading, upon the mantel. Then he addressed the school with many words, some of which were as follows:

"I have done what you have seen for the purpose of letting the large boys in this school be convinced that I am a man whom there might be some risk in maltreating without just cause, seeing that I know how to defend myself. I have never fought with another in all my life, but there was never a time when I would not have fought, and fought to kill, if I had received an injury like the one that was put upon me yesterday, and I had known who the perpetrator was. I was thankful, however, after the first pangs of pain and resentment were over, that I did not know the person who had outraged me in a manner so cowardly and brutal. I might have found him, it is possible, by bribing or frightening some of the smaller boys, if such methods did not seem to me unbecoming to a gentleman to employ them. And now I think it may be as well for you all to know how I intend to keep this school. I say keep, for that I mean to do, at least for the term for which I am engaged. For I will rather die than it shall be said of

He paused and walked about in the room, erect at the consciousness of manhood fully up to all possible exigencies Not a whisper was uttered, the pupils regarding him as if he had been transformed suddenly into a giant. After some time, his face softening into sadness and sympathy, he said:

"Boys, let us understand one another. I came here with the intention to conduct myself like the gentleman that I claim to be. Treating every one as a gentleman everywhere has the right to be treated, if I should find any one of you not able to appreciate such treatment, I shall require him to go away and leave the rest of us to ourselves. I shall neither watch you, nor allow you to watch one another with the view to report to me afterward. I shall not permit any boy to inform me of the misconduct of another, except such as may be injurious to the informant, or be so disreputable that it ought to be made known publicly. As for the little confidences that may rise among you, I shall not only not seek to know them, but I will spurn any one who may be mean enough to betray them to me. Now those of you who feel that they will not like such a discipline will do well to keep away from here. Those who may feel that they can

Thomas Aiken, who had remained until the rest were out, advanced and said: "Mr. Cox, I was not the one who hurt you, but I encouraged the little boy who did, and I am ashamed of it, and am sorry for it. I will quit the school if you say so. Still, I want you to understand that I ain't afraid of you, or what you can do with your pistol. What you said is what makes me feel as I do."

"And if you were afraid of me, Thomas, you should go. As it is, I'd rather you would not."

"My Lord!" answered the boy, his eyes filling with tears. "Why couldn't I had such a man before? Here I am nearly grown, and knows nothing except the badness

They became friends, to remain so always.

The scene just related became known far and wide. Startling though it was, its immediate consequences were so benign that in a brief time the new teacher had gained everybody's confidence and affection. The school grew apace in numbers and reputation, and people wondered both that they had endured so long a régime that invited to disorder and insubordination, and that at last it had to be overthrown by an inexperienced stripling.

Mr. Hundley was a man who wished always to be both just and generous. On a happy public occasion afterward, while under the influence of syllabub and other good cheer, among numerous other words he spoke the following: "Yes, yes, yes. The fact o' the whole business were jes this: I were that perplexited with anexity in my mind, him a-bein' so mild and spindly-like, that when the thing come to a head, and that on the very first an' openin' day, that I--and it were entire onbeknownst to Mr. Cox--but I sont words by my little boy Jimmy to them yearlin' boys, that ef I had to come to that instootion o' 'rethmitic and the warous branch o' edification, I should come as the President o' the Board o' Trustees o' the Rock Spring Maled and Femaled Ecademy, and I should count on no foolin' ner no projekin', ner nothin' o' the kind. And I were thankful, from all account, my messenges acted like a charm, and I were the insterment in the startin' o' a discipline which have eended to-night in the present skenery o' people o' warous kind and mind, like the copy.book say. And I has no hizitation in sayin',

Chapter 8

I.

Old Mr. Pate, whose residence was a mile or so south from Hines's store, believed that he and his family had had some very interesting experiences, and he was extremely fond of talking about them, not only to adults, but to children, among whom I was honored by being called one of his favorites.

"And it's because," he would say to me, "you ain't like some boys, and 'special them Jooksborough schoolboys, that 'stid a list'n and keepin' they mouth shet respectful when grown people is a-talkin' and a-tryin' to learn 'em somethin' about times long before they was borned, they'll actuil argy with 'em, and they'll go to gigglin', which in my time no boy darsn't to do; and bersides that, meet 'em in the street when they let out o' school, 'stid o' givin' the road to old people, as some of 'em does, why a body got to give the road to them, same if they was a 'oman or a bitin' dog. What some on 'em want is the hick'ry, to learn 'em manners, sech as boys used to have in my time."

I liked well to listen to his narrations of neighborhood

"Yes, sir," in honorable praise of his ancestry, he would say, "my father used to say that a boy, to make a man that's any account, he ought to get by good rights, at fa'r calc'lation, one whippin' every day, and sometimes two of a night. Yes, sir; that was the kind o' man my father were, and Joe Pate'll tell you the same o' his'n, which his ma and the wimming always called him Sephus; but I never called him that one time, not since the day he were borned. You see, they writ him down in the Bible Josephus, bercause I were already named Joe, or Joseph, which you mind to call it."

The Pate dwelling, originally a two-roomed framed cottage, had been enlarged from time to time, and was quite comfortable in spite of the irregularities of its various improvements. The farm consisted of several hundred acres of good rolling land. Mr. Pate, when about fifty years of age, besides a wife, had two married sons, Jimmy and Billy (both settled near by and doing well), and two unmarried children--Betsy, twenty, and

Equidistant from these families, and toward the south, were the Runnells, new people. The former owner having cut down most of the woodland, and let the hillsides run into gullies through the rude sort of culture so ruinous to rolling lands, had offered the place for sale; and while Mr. Pate was haggling over the price demanded, Mr. John Runnell, from one of the counties near the Savannah, much to the former's disappointment, purchased and removed there with his family, consisting of one daughter, Patsy, seventeen, and another, Milly, four years old. Their mother had died a year before. It was a worn-away looking place, although a few oaks, too noble not to be spared, shaded the small inclosed space around the double hewed log-house, with its fourteen-feet passage. Mr. Runnell was a tall, dark, wiry man of thirty-eight, stern though not ill-looking, plain in dress, and too much of what was called a rusher to care a great deal about looks or manners. Patsy, not quite so tall as Betsy Pate, but considerably taller than Sylvy Tidy, and very nearly as pretty, used to scold her father for the

It looked rather hard on Betsy Pate, that her younger brother, tall like his father, but slender and very handsome, should have been awarded so many good things and herself so few. Yet if her face had not been quite so bumpy, and her hair of a sandy quite so pale, she would have been as good looking as there was any need for. She had a capital figure, and she professed herself to be as independent a girl as that whole region could produce; and even if she had not always loved Sylvy, and had not begun to love Patsy, she would not have envied the smooth olive complexion of the former nor the blushing brunette of the latter--not if Betsy Pate knew herself.

For some years past Mr. Pate had been indulging the hope that his own and the Tidy families in proper time would become united by two bonds. There was some pathos in his ill-concealed regret that Betsy's face was not more smooth, and her hair was so far outside of favorite colors, and in his thankful pride that she had a figure that no young man in his senses could contemplate without some emotion. If anything was to come from this branch of his ambitions, it was getting to be time. Lihu Tidy, of middle height, stout, steady, reticent, almost gloomy, supposed to think as much of

"Why, ma, when that boy put his pitiful looks on me and say nothing, I just have to put mine on him and say the same, because he can't be sorrier for me than I am for him. Now! And that makes him stop it for the time a-being, and try to say something more interesting like. I do think, on my soul, I never see brother and sister so different; that Sylvy's not only lively as a cricket, but she have politeness for other people besides herself, young as she is, and small if she be."

"You think there's anything betwixt Sephus and Sylvy?" asked the mother.

"Laws, ma! don't ask me about brer Sephus. He's got to be such a man that he hardly knows himself what he wants. If he wasn't so big and conceity and scattery, I think he could get Sylvy; but my opinion, the way things is now, he better not try it. Besides,

"That boy'll have to be took in hand, I'm a-thinkin', and my suspicion is your pa does, too; Patsy Runnell seem like a nice girl, a uncommon nice girl."

"That she is, and sensible, to boot. She knows how to manage Lihu with his solemncholy ways, which I don't, because they make me mad, a-knowing they ain't no more foundation for 'em than--than--I come a mighty nigh a-saying, than any common setting hen, if a body could compare a fowl that's knew to be a female with a man person."

Patsy, indeed, professed rather to like those ways of Lihu that were as a foil to her own wit. Whenever he came there, she told him that she was thankful that his business could be let up so as to give a girl a chance at his society. Such talk in time served to make him less apologetic, less disposed when in ladies' society to allude to his own weighty responsibilities, and less openly compassionate for feminine infirmities, general and special.

As for Joe--but with Josephus Pate, as he had been put down in the Bible, I will begin a new chapter.

II.

The fashion of the times, as in most frontier communities, was to marry young, but not, except in few cases, with one's first lover. Few Georgia boys had not

In those days, white boys who worked at all were expected to work steadily like the negroes. Joe's irregularities in this regard had been winked at by his father because he hoped that he would change after the

It was the middle of June. The days, long and hot, were uncommonly dry. For some time past a more earnest stimulus had been felt by the paternal mind to be needed in order to bring Joe to the standard held by his brothers, whose courtings had never led to gross neglect of their work. Mr. Pate suspected that one matter with Joe was the excess of his education, and once or twice he so expressed himself to his wife.

"And I'll tell you for one reason why, Polly: I have caught, and more'n once't at that, but I have caught that boy under a sassafac in the fence-cornder a-reading a book that they calls a novyul, that some o' them Jooksborough schoolboys they loant it to him; and, as nigh as I can come at it, from what people tells me, it's a kind of a book that the half of 'em is lies, and, what's more, the fellow that writ it knowed it." Having spoken to Joe several times mildly about his conduct, and without effecting satisfactory results, he decided to impart to his words greater stress. One Saturday night, after supper, when he had lighted his pipe and seated himself as usual at one end of the piazza, he dismissed all except Joe and then said:

"Joe, seem to me that if you don't mind what you're 'bout, they is danger of your comin' to be of ruther mons'ous little account. I've told you before now that I were tired of your everlastin' a-runnin' about, and

At first, confounded by these words, Joe was beginning to employ his superior educational advantages in avoidance and defense, when his father, turning his face toward the house, cried aloud:

"Betsy, tell your ma and the balance of you, you may all come back: me and Joe's through."

"Yes," said Mr. Pate, after he and his partner had gone to bed, "my righteous belief is that it's them novyuls and the extry schoolin' I give him; because I've notussed that the more schoolin' people give a boy, as a gen'l thing, the lazier about work and good for nothin'er he git. Joe think he must try to be like them town boys, that when they'r let out o' school they come a-flockin' into the peazer o' Bland's store and people has to jes' shet their mouth, and they can't hear their own ear, and them a-gabblin' about what they been a-readin' about men and wimming a everlastin' fallin' in love, and playin' the juce and turnin' up Jack, and blowin' one 'nother's brains out, and all sich. I picked up one o' them novyuls yisterday whar Joe have left it under a 'simmon, and I opened her whar he have turned down

"Mr. Pate," answered his wife, "what the matter with Sephus, it ain't the extry schooling he have. That ain't enough to hurt him bad as that; and, as for novels, Betsy have read some o' them herself, and she say that they has things in 'em that's that affecting, that they sometimes makes her actual cry, and that they ain't a-going to do much harm if a body ain't already willing to make a fool o' their self. Sephus have marryin' in his head, and he have had it there evy sence he quit school, and he'll git over his foolishness soon as he can settle down in his mind."

"He need some sort o'settlin', and that bad; bad as I ever see a ole-field colt need curryin' and the cuckle-burrers carded out of his tail. I wouldn't make no objection to him a-marryin', if he could git somebody that's of any account. I ben a-hopin' him and Sylvy Tidy might jine pardners; but I has my serous doubt if he have the sense to want Sylvy."

"That's jest the one the boy have made up his mind at last that he do want; but he see the trouble his flyin' around have made with Sylvy, and what his not attending to business have done with her mother. Betsy say she's cert'n in her mind Sylvy likes Sephus well enough if he wer'n't so impatient, and make out like he's a-goin' to court Patsy Runnell for spite, or git you to give him off his portion, as he call it, and let him move clean off to some distant heemerspere, he say."

"To some--some--whar did you say, Polly?"

"To some heemerspere; I don't know where that is no more'n you do."

"Well, well, the thing have broke out on the creetur' in bigger spots than I be a'lowin'. As for them Runnells, they're nigher to me than I want now; for Jack Runnell knowed I wanted that land, and needed it to boot. Heemerspere!--I don't know--yes, mayby I will--give Joe his--portion--portion--por--"

"I should do no sich thing; I should let Josephus Pate to understand-- Mr. Pate, do try to keep awake when people is a-trying to talk about things that is serous, and not to go to snorin' before the words is out o' their mouth."

But Mr. Pate's unstudied music rose into a sustained diapason, and his companion, turning over, and covering an ear with the sheet, soon fell asleep.

III.

On the next day was the stated monthly meeting of the Dukesborough Church. On such days people looked their best, clad in things the smallness of whose cost was compensated by the fact that they had lain for a month in the press of sweet-smelling flowers and leaves; yet, especially in the case of the young, by the bloom imparted to cheeks by the air of that region, than which none could be more sweet. If there was a single item of his best clothes that Joe Pate had omitted on that morning, he could not have said what it was. The very tags of his spotted cravat he counted upon for doing

After the meeting Joe got permission to ride home with Sylvy, Lihu with Patsy, and Mr. Runnell, much to her father's dislike, with Betsy. On Joe's face was a severity that contrasted well with the gayety of his attire. Some huskiness in his voice he regarded as not out of place. Patsy chattered almost too much for Lihu. At the two-mile fork, where the Tidys and Runnells must diverge from the main road, Mr. Runnell, knowing, of course, that Lihu would see Patsy home, kept on by Betsy's side, and Betsy found that just between two and two there was more good talk in him than people knew of.

After the divergence Patsy, who, with her escort, was in front, in the intervals of conversation looked

"Sephus seems serious and solemn this morning," said Patsy.

"Joe, you mean?" answered Lihu. "Oh, that never mean any great things with Joe." Lihu was mistaken. If Joe Pate had been going to be hung, his seriousness would not have been more intense than that with which he had been courting that child. Some of the last of his thousands of words ran about thus:

"I don't suppose," he said, with rueful efforts at resignation, "that women and females ever know, or if they do, they never care for, the pains, and, I may add, the dying groans of them that worships 'em perhaps more than may be good for their own safetity and healths. To some people it may be a consilation that this world is nothin' but a flitterin' show; but as for me, I am a man that I'm obliged to acknowledge that, fur as I'm concerned, I much ruther have a different and a entirely another sort of a sp'ere of action."

He took out his silk pocket-handkerchief, unfolded and waved it, dispersing its cinnamon and cologne-water around and about.

"Sephus," said Sylvy, as they drew near the horse-block, "I can't help the being of honest with you, because it's my nature. And I won't say I don't like you, Sephus, which, with a girl of my age, it might be going too far on first impressions so serious and not full expected. But I am not a woman grown, or at least ma

These words, meant to assuage, made the hearer frantic.

"Sylvy, look in my eye and see if you see anything like the Methusalem your ma want me to be, if not her own daughter."

"O Sephus," trying her best to be mild, "you oughtn't to use such vi'lent language."

"I have saw," he went on, reckless--"I have saw for some time that your ma was predijiced ag'inst me, that make her want to put off things, as important as them, till the Judgment-day, when everything will be forever and eternally too late."

"No, Sephus, ma may have her faults about the ages of people; but she is not a woman to take up prejudices just so for nothing, though I won't deny that I have heard her say that she wished you'd be more attentive to business."

"Ah, ha! ah, ha! And didn't you correct those remarks, Sylvy?"

"Correct them, Sephus! How could I correct them, a-knowing nothing about it excepting what people said?"

When he had assisted her to alight, he said, "Sylvy, with a man in my quategory, so to speak, to make the

"All right, sir," she answered, unbuckling her riding-skirt.

"And you talk that cool and calm because you don't love me."

"I never said I did; I only said what a day might bring forth."

"Farewell, Sylvy; I hope you'll drop a few tears when you hear the result."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sephus."

"I ain't perfec' cler in my own mind that I know myself; but I think I'm talking about my bandishment and exile'ds. In my present quategory, my intentions is to bandish myself from this cold heemerspere and go whar' people is kind, and can understand me enough to not want to put me off forever and deternally."

"Sephus, do hush!"

He took her hand, gave a mysterious good-by, mounted his horse, hardly speaking to Lihu who had just returned after taking Patsy home, and galloped to the Runnells.

"Now, look here, Sephus," Patsy interrupted when he had been going on for five minutes or so, "you better stop right there, for Sylvy's sake, if not for your own, for you'll wish you had. And I want to tell you, straight up and down, that you don't know your own mind, not perfect, I mean; and not only that, but I ain't a girl that is willing to be nobody's second choice, no matter whether he's in a fret or not."

"I think it's about as short and pre-emt'ry a convisation

"It may be so, but it was just that much longer than it ought to have been, or there was not a bit of necessity for," retorted Patsy.

"It 'pear like I got no friends nowheres."

Patsy laughed and laughed. Suddenly she said: "Yonder comes pa; I know you won't want him to see you a-looking so quare. Sephus, you don't know how quare you do look!"

He bade her an abrupt farewell, and paying almost no attention to her father's invitation to dinner, rode on slowly, disgustedly, home.

IV.

Of the conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Pate in the gig, while on their way from meeting, the following is a small portion:

Mr. Pate.--"I wonder why'n't Jack Runnell go 'long with his own daughter, and let Lihu rid along o' Betsy?"

Mrs. Pate.--"Laws, Mr. Pate! Don't you supposen Mr. Runnell want varieties sometimes, like t'other people?"

Mr. Pate.--"He may, and he mayn't. But I don't keer 'bout his takin' o' his wari'ties out o' any o' my people; because he couldn't help from knowin' that I wanted that land and needed it."

Mrs. Pate.--"Come, my dear, don't let's talk

Mr. Pate.--"All right, honey, if you say so; but Sunday or Monday, thar's the land a-backin' up ag'in and betwix' me and the Plains and Gateston road. My 'spicions is that Lihu, silent boy as he is, don't like no sich."

Mrs. Pate.--"Lihu have nothing to do with it. And for I don't know what, I wouldn't for Betsy to of heard you say them words; for, it would of hurt her feelings. Yonder's Mr. Runnell a-telling of her goodby. Ain't you a-going to ask the man to stay to dinner?"

Mr. Pate never before did such a thing with a neighbor since he had owned a house--he put his horse to a slow walk until Mr. Runnell's back was fully turned. Afterward he rather regretted this first breach of hospitality, particularly when Betsy, with some seriousness upon her face, expressed surprise. During the rest of the day, he felt more uncomfortable than for quite a time. After supper Joe said to him that he would like to have some conversation with him alone. So when he had fixed himself in his accustomed seat and fired up, he said:

"Well, Joe, what's up with you now?"

"Pa," he answered, abruptly, "I wish you would give me my portion and let me go away to myself."

Taking out his pipe, Mr. Pate turned quickly to him and said:

"Ah, Joe, has you and Sylvy done made your plot, and her ma; have she give her consents? Ef so, why of course, my son--"

"Me and Sylvy have made no plots, pa; and if we

By many an interrogatory Mr. Pate got from Joe how the matter stood. After reflecting for some time, he calmly remarked:

"Ya-as, I think I understand the case, Joe. In the mornin' I'll see what kind of a portion I can give you. You know I ain't no rich man, my son, but I'll try to be as lib'ral as I ken, to do jestice to the t'other children, a also countin' in your ma. My intentions is to be lib'l and fa'r as the case'll allow."

"Thanky, thanky, thanky, pa, and when--"

"Bet--say!" cried the father, aloud, "you all can come out; me and Joe is thro' ag'in."

The rest of the evening was spent in moderately cheerful chattings, Mr. Pate taking less part than usual, considering, Joe well understood, how best to set off to himself on the morrow. Occasionally he may have thought, in the midst of his gay, rattling talk, how Sylvy would feel; but then she must reflect that she had brought the most of it on herself by persistent hanging on to her mother's apron-strings.

"Mr. Pate," his consort began while tying on her night-cap, "I don't know what have got holt of you. I shouldn't be giving Sephus no portion, as he call it, big man as he is. I should tell that boy, plain, that the trouble is, he's too big a man, and he's lazy, which Betsy say, if he weren't and Sally Tidy could see him more studdy and industrious at his work, she wouldn't hender his gitting of Sylvy, special when she have marryin' in her head her own self."

"Who, Polly? Missis Tidy?"

"Laws, Mr. Pate! Where has your eyes been, this last six munts and better?"

"Why, 'oman, you take the breath away from me! Why'n't Jack Runnell be a-usin' over thar' then, 'stid o' over here, and which it would be another sort suitabler? I got to see them people, both of 'em. My, my! That do beat!"

"If you do, you'll be sorry for it. That's what I got to say. When it's people's lot to git married, they goin' to git married; and as for me, I ain't a person that is willin' to take the resk of pushin' 'em ner henderin' 'em, nary way. But, my dear husband, I do hope, for goodness gracious' sake, you ain't a-goin' to be giving Sephus any prop'ty, and let that foolish child go off."

"Oh, my dear, I'm not a-goin' to do no great things 'long o' Joe. I promised the feller I'd give him somethin'; but I shall start by driblets, and see how they'll work a while. I'm a-goin' to try to keep in reason. But I'm pow'ful sleepy. I s'pose it's egzitement." In another minute, if he was not asleep, his wife knew no better.

Mr. Pate was so fond of enlarging upon this happy period in his domestic life that I let him tell of it in his own words:

"Next mornin' I told Joe after breakfast, let's me and him pull off our coats, as the day were hot, and we had some preamberlation on hand. So we shucked ourselves, we did, and we muandered along to the medder branch. When we got thar', I gethered me a good hick'ry, and, before he even 'spicioned what I were up

V.

His hopes for a match between Joe and Sylvy having failed of fruition, those for Betsy and Lihu became more earnest than ever in the mind of Mr. Pate. To his fond eyes, if Betsy's bumps had not diminished very much in numbers, some of the largest, he hoped, had subsided in size and redness, and her figure had developed into absolute perfection. It pained him much that where Lihu came to the house once, Mr. Runnell came about three times, and he decided that as a parent he must do something to divert the latter's attentions. So one day, neglecting his wife's advice, he praised Mrs. Tidy to the very skies to Mr. Runnell, intimated

"I tell you, Mr. Pate," his wife warned him, "such meddling as that is not for the best, and if it's to do anything, it's to do more harm than good."

Remembering how many blessings had come to him from not going counter to her earnest counsels, he forbore a similar assault upon Mrs. Tidy. Yet, in deference to his wife, he decided, reluctantly, to pause for a while and await events. Alas! Little did he dream that the first of these that was of importance was to be the death of Mrs. Pate; yet this did not happen until she had lived to be thankful for the sight of the entire reformation of her dear Sephus. Time and time again, during his life, had Mr. Pate been heard to admit that for every dollar with which that family had been blessed, she had made seventy-five cents, and now, what more, he would ask of his friends and neighbors, could a poor lonesome, woe-begone widower say? Such was his anguish that he acknowledged sometimes that he would feel like giving right straight up, except that he was only fifty-one years old his last birthday, and a-going on to fifty-two his next, and his bodily health was sound as any dollar. Mr. Pate felt that he was not a man to be going about promiscuously among mankind, or womankind either, bewailing his bereavement. Solitude and

In regard to Mrs. Tidy, Mr. Pate thanked his wife, even in her grave, for the warnings given by her in the case of that lady; and he was thankful to himself for having given heed to them. When his sense of bereavement had been subdued to the degree that allowed him to venture over there, he told Betsy, on returning, that he hoped the visit had done him a little good.

"I rid by Johnny Runnell's as I come back, and sot awhile with him. I thought, seem to me, Johnny look oncommon well, and some younger. Ah, well! a man 'flicted like I am, it 'pear like he ought to try and be friendly, and special with them he live the clostest too."

Betsy smiled sadly, poor girl! She had been sorely afflicted by the death of her mother.

When Mrs. Tidy had heard of the peculiar way in which Joe's portion had been set off to him, she said that, having gotten what he had been needing for some time, she now had some hopes of his making a man if he lived. Lihu laughed; but Sylvy cried, and declared

VI.

One day Mr. Runnell said to Patsy:

"Lihu Tidy seem to been usin' around here and around you, Patsy, here lately more'n common, but I've notussed he hain't been here sence last meetin' Sunday a week ago, and whensoever him and me comes up with one another, he look yit more serous and speechless than I remembers to of ever saw him. Anything the matter 'twixt you and him, my daughter?"

"No, pa, only Lihu sorter begun a-courting of me in a cool, way-off-yonder kind of way, like he were afraid I might say yes to him, and when at last he come to the point, I astonished him by telling him I didn't want him."

"My, me, my! Patsy! I--I ken but be sorry to hear it!"

"Pa, I like Lihu Tidy, excepting for all his conceity,

Her father said no more. He had his reasons; for his present profoundest concern was about some prospects for himself that he had in view. He was alarmed at this rejection, but more on his own than Patsy's account; yet he decided to take on more spruceness of dress, and more sociability, although during several months past these had been conspicuous throughout the whole neighborhood.

To the mind of Mr. Pate it seemed hard that, in such deep distress for his late affliction, he should have to worry himself over Mr. Runnell, and lament so late the influence upon that gentleman of words which, contrary to his dear wife's remonstrances, he had let fall in his hearing. Conscious of the need of some sort of action touching the repeated visits of Mr. Runnell at the Tidys, he regarded it prudent to throw what he would have called a "feeler" in his home circle. And so one night at the supper-table, after much sighing and groaning over his biscuit and coffee, his hoe-cakes and clabber, he said at most vast distance:

"Do anybody understand John Runnell? He's a' enigmy to me; a perfec' enigmy! I would jes' like too know whut the feller is arfter, a-flyin' around so everlastin' in his new jean clo's. Do you have a' idee whut he's up to, Joe, and how he's headed?"

"My notions," answered Joe, smiling, "is that Mr. Runnell is bent on changing his conditions; but as to

Mr. Pate rose, uttered "a perfec' enigmy!" and left the table. That night he sat up to a late hour for him, mainly ruminating. By bedtime his mind came to the decision that he owed duties which, delicate as they were, could not be shirked by a man of honor. The more he thought about the matter, the more he apprehended that in some unguarded moment he may have spoken about Mr. Runnell in Mrs. Tidy's presence, in terms of praise not warranted by his merits or his own opinion of them.

"Right is noth'n' but right, no matter who it hurts."

The next morning, in the dress so consoling to widowers, having ridden to Mrs. Tidy, he expressed himself first in terms of most respectful admiration of his late wife. "And which," he said, confidently as sorrowfully, "that I hasn't a single jubous doubt, that soon as the breath got out o' her body, she went to mansion Index the sky same as a bow-'n'-arrer, or even a rifle-bullet."

Then he offered Mrs. Tidy sympathy in her lonely condition in words even more cordial than those that had been employed by him at the going of her husband three years before. After these, he went to the main purpose of his call, muffling its abruptness by beginning at the period of his first acquaintance with the subject of his intended remarks.

Mrs. Tidy, a nice, bunchy little woman, sat and looked as though she had a plenty of time for listening to what he might have to say.

"Missis Tidy," he began with mild solemnity, "about a year ago, or sich a matter, a person, which I shall not

"Who you talking about, Mr. Pate--Mr. Runnell?" she asked, in amused surprise.

Mr. Pate, his lips firmly closed, bowed.

"Why, of course I know Mr. Runnell, and so do everybody else."

"Do anybody know, Missis Tidy, how he treated his first wife?" And he looked as mysterious and threatening as if he had just come from that distant, unknown grave, with a charge from its occupant against him whose cruelties had put her there.

"Why--the good Lord bless my soul, Mr. Pate! What you asking such questions about--when--when it's so late? How you do flurry a body! Why, Mr. Pate you treading on toes, and your own toes too, when you hinting such questions."

Mr. Pate looked momentarily at his feet, and, as he was proceeding to look at Mrs. Tidy's, she drew them under her skirt and laughed doubtfully. Failing in this search, his eyes again sought her face with inquiring eyes, eager as unintelligent.

"You didn't know, then," she asked, "that Lihu's been a-courtin' of Patsy, and it looks like he's not a-going to get her? There's our toes."

For a brief while Mr. Pate could not speak, because his breath was gone clear away. He looked down again

"Well, Mr. Pate, if you ain't behind the times! And you didn't know that I've give my consent to Sephus and Sylvy; and you didn't know--and there's where your toes comes in--you didn't know Mr. Runnell been a-courting Betsy ever sence here he's been, and the poor child won't answer him yea nor nay, a-waiting for you to get over your predigices?"

"Then Johnny Runnell ain't been a-comin' over here in his new jean clo's--"

"No, he haven't. The idea! Young man like him!" She looked extremely sad.

"Oh no, oh no!" said Mr. Pate, slowly, as if he would check some of the warmth that was rushing through his whole being, including his very nostrils. "Betsy's mistakened; I think a heap of Johnny Runnell myself; but in my lonesome solitoodernary--as I ken but call it-- Missis Tidy," lifting high his voice and both his hands, "there is one more question, and one more dilemmy on top o' my mind. You may know what's to come o' you, when your children has forsook you and flewed away; but what I'm to do, I never knowed a convenenter time for the infimation than this very day of our Lord, Chris'mus so nigh upon us."

"Why, Mr. Pate, Lihu--"

"Ah, Lihu! Lihu 'bleeged to put his plot thoo, the way things is a-goin' all 'roun' Patsy Runnell."

"In those case," she said, sadly, "of course, Mr. Pate, when people find theirselves sitooated like some people--well! Oh, my--"

"Let me interrup' you, madam, right thar, if you please, madam. Missis Tidy, I call upon you, and I call upon the walls o' this room, and the ceilin' and the jice't and the flo', yes, madam, and the furnicher, a' includin' the very cheer you set'n' on, madam--I call upon you all to listen to my solom languidges, which it is: You come and live 'long o' me!"

"Oh, Mr. Pate, Mister Pate!" she cried, putting her handkerchief to her face.

"That settle it," he said, taking her unresisting hand.

It was interesting to hear the old man long afterward speak of these scenes.

"Ah, yes, the good Lord have give me a heap better luck'n common. He have give me two good wives, when mostest men has other had but one, or, ef more'n one, one or t'other of 'em, I've notussed, have been a ruther indeffer'nt, so to speak. But he give me a good one in the offstart, and when she give out, thar were another one right thar, ready for me, jes' as good. We didn't put off things, I tell you. As for Lihu, I told Lihu, no female girl want to be courted like he been a-courtin' o' Patsy, and that it were thar natur' to want to be courted like puttin' out a house afire. And he took me at my word, Lihu did, and he set at Patsy right, untwell Patsy, she seein' him in dead yearnest, and she seein' marryin' goin' on all 'round her, she caved in, she did, and sech another Chris'mus as we had, to-be-shore!

Chapter 9

I.

"I have come to the conclusions that what I want is a little duck, to call mine."

He had the solemnity not uncommon in very tall, rather slim, and moderately dark gentlemen, old enough to know what they are talking about when the matter is their own individual, special wants. The announcement excited some surprise, even a little fluttering; therefore I shall proceed to tell briefly the conditions of the speaker and his audience that led to it.

Property of the value of about one hundred dollars, his share in his father's estate, by accretions in one way and another during the twenty years since the majority of Mr. Gibble Colt, had amounted to five hundred--perhaps a little over. In this while he had lived with an older sister, wife of Mr. Isaac Spillers, his services about the house, the yard, the garden, the horse-lot, and the cow-pen being taken as equivalent for board. The small farm was situated a couple of miles from the village of Red Oak, and bordered on the public road leading thence to Augusta. The land was not more thin and gravelly than the average in that militia district, which, by a pleasant conceit of one of the early

These extremely nice people, Miss Prudence and her sister, Charty Ann, two years younger, owned a farm of similar dimension, half a mile nearer town. Their cottage, modest like themselves, was retired quite out of public view. Both parents had died some years back, when the sisters had fully reached womanhood. By this time they had managed to get a comfortable, respectable living on the place, and make a satisfactory beginning in the raising of negroes from the man and woman with whom at the death of their father they had started on their own independent, inoffensive line. It was at this house, and in the joint presence of these ladies, that Mr. Colt made the remark above quoted.

As to ages, slimnesses, and complexions, the Misses Sprayberry were not far unlike their visitor. Almost all of their time, especially of late years, they stayed at home, taking care of their little property, trying to make little additions to it in honest ways, feeling mild compassion for the moving, restless world outside, and upon the whole congratulating themselves on their foresight in not having encumbered themselves with husbands,

Almost the first words spoke by Mr. Colt on this morning were those announcing his rather singular want. It was the more surprising to these ladies, particularly Miss Prudence, because, as for ducks, not one of that species of fowl was on that place, nor had been since as far back as anybody there could remember.

"Gibble Colt, I thought you knewed it; but if you didn't, they haven't been a duck of no sort on this plantation since here I've been. My father always before he died took up a predigice ag'inst the things; for what reason he never told anybody that I ric'lect of, except it might have been their everlastin' puddlin' and paddlin' in every blessed thing that have water in it. And I have freckwent heard him express his opinions that for eatin', chicken and turkey was good enough for him, with mayby sometimes goose for rarity, but although which he acknowledged he loved goose not to the same extents. And so ever since his time we never got in the habit of havin' 'em in the family. It is therefore, and for them reasons, that if you certain in your mind they is what you do want, I hain't a doubts on my mind that the Hills, if they couldn't let you have a pa'r, they could at least spar' you a settin' of eggs to raise

While this speech was going on, Mr. Colt was looking all around the room, as if, not fully crediting Miss Sprayberry's disclaimer, he suspected that an individual of the kind he had specified was hid away somewhere--on the mantel, or behind the clock, or under the table, or other furniture. When the lady had finished her elaborate, kind answer, he replied:

"I don't need to go to the Hills. The duck I'm after is here--right here--and she's nowhere else--that is, prowidin' she's willin'."

Then he looked at Miss Charty Ann with all the pointedness and painfulness which his countenance could put on.

Now, notwithstanding that the nigh resemblance between Miss Charty Ann and a duck, especially a little duck, had occurred perhaps to only a few imaginations, she seemed not displeased that it had been noticed by that of Mr. Colt. She did not essay to squat very far down on her chair, but she did shrink herself into a mien of girlishness and meek loveliness that few ducks of any size could have surpassed.

"I am positive and simple disgussed!" said Miss Prudence, rising, and leaving the pair to themselves.

Long as both lovers were, long as had been the time before their coming together in this intensely interesting relation after a long, long acquaintance, their courtship and other antenuptial preparations were exceeding brief. I suppose they thought to make up for so much time unnecessarily thrown away.

Poor Miss Prudence, feeling herself thus deserted--or,

"When Gibble Colt come to the house a-enquirin' about ducks, I natchel said that we didn't keep the things, and I were perfect honest in my mind when I a-p'inted him to the Hills, that they have a spring branch where they could keep theirselves from troublesome people that likes to have a clean, decent, respectable yard. I ain't a-settin' in this cheer if I weren't a-tryin' to give him the best infimation I knewed how, all be I were ruther took back in my mind by Gibble Colt at his time of life a-wantin' to begin on the raisin' of sech a kind of a animal. Tell you the truth, for a minute I suspicioned Gibble Colt of bein' out of his head, and not a-knowin' what it were he did want. And the first thing I knewed there was him a-eying of Charty Ann, and she not displeeged at it. So I just ris; and as I ris, I heard him ask her if she wouldn't be his little duck. That of all the names I ever expected to live to see Charty Ann called by, the lastest one was that. And yit I never in my born days have I ever see a idee took holt of so fast, and break out all over 'em, which, if it hadn't been my own blessed sister, I should have to set down and laugh. It only show what people can come to when they think they fell in love; because it do seem to me at her time of life--and special a high, tall woman like Charty Ann--she'd 'a' felt ashamed of herself at the very namin' of bein' Gibble Colt's little duck."

Yet Mr. Colt made a first-rate husband, and soon a satisfactory brother-in-law; and Miss Prudence, having to do so, admitted it honorably. He did not try to interfere with her right, acquired by primogeniture, and established by long usage, to the headship of the family, and he would have discouraged, if he had noticed, any ambition on the part of his wife to rise in her own scale of being than as his own favorite bird. About every rural homestead there are some things which it falls to a man more conveniently and more becomingly than to a woman to look after. These were undertaken at once by Mr. Colt, and attended to with constant faithfulness and efficiency. For the rest, he let himself be supported by these ladies without a single word of complaining. Soon after his marriage he did a thing which could not have failed to affect sensibly any feminine heart that knows how to value affectionateness and kindness. The sisters had always waited on themselves mainly. They had been so brought up, and such work was not irksome. But Mr. Colt, early in his domestication, said that no duck of his, nor any sister of his duck, should do such work as that much longer. And so one day, at an administrator's sale, with his money that he had called in, he bought a young woman, whom, when he had brought her home, he turned over to Miss Prudence, with very few, but those affectionate and specific, remarks. Delicate little things like that go far with good women. Miss Prudence could have cried, but I suppose she decided that such giving way could hardly be expected of her, and so she did not. Sylla, the new servant, healthy, honest, willing, became a great help. Not following the example set by her mistresses, she

"Yes, yes, I think a heap o' Gibble Colt, and I've even got riconciled to him callin' Charty Ann his little duck. But still I can't but be thankful it ain't me instead of Charty Ann. He's a affectionate kind of a creatur'--affectionater than Charty Ann, in fact--and he ain't much more in a body's way than if he was a female. Yes, I got complete riconciled, and I'm thankful I did."

II.

Things went on, and kept going for twenty years without one unhappy ripple. It seemed a pity for a change to come. Yet it fell most lightly upon the one who was to be subtracted soonest. Neither her husband nor her sister could believe it when, after a few days of what seemed a very light spell of illness, Mrs. Colt bade them good-by, calling them both to witness that of the two she could not say which she loved better. As for their future she offered no advice, but expressed humble hope that her own was secure.

They were not people to make a great ado of mourning, yet each was deeply, sorely distressed.

And now there was Miss Prudence and there was Mr. Colt, and no person ever did know how she at the head of the table and he at the foot, how she at one

In such afflictions men seem to have an advantage over women. The former can and often do roam about, while the latter feel as if it is their duty to stay at home. Not that Mr. Colt roamed promiscuously. He never had been a man for such as that; and his roaming, not counting an occasional purposeless walk to town, was confined almost entirely to the Hills, whose husband and father had deceased some months before. Perhaps, of its kind and to its degree, there was consolation in passing and repassing by the Hill spring branch, and looking mildly at the Hill ducks, that did not forego the comfort of puddling for any losses among their families, however unexpected, quick, and violent. It is curious that we do not--yet we who are on the highest scale of animate being ought to--set more store by the many cheerful examples placed before our view by so many of the lower animals.

Yet with this movement of her brother-in-law Miss Sprayberry could not bring herself to sympathize. The Hills had never been favorites with the family--a fact which Mr. Colt ought to have known and did know. Therefore on his second--or it may have been on his third--return, with all the straightness which sixty years had not been able to bend, she scanned him with an eye which looked as if it wished to see if he did not feel ashamed of himself. It saw nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he looked back at her as if he had been doing nothing in this wide world to feel ashamed about.

"I wouldn't have believed it," said poor Miss Prudence,

One night, after they had been sitting by the fire for quite a time, wherein the few remarks made by Mr. Colt were answered in not much more than monosyllables and grunts, suddenly, in a tone of much impatient sorrow, he ejaculated:

"My! how I do miss my little duck!"

Miss Prudence jumped slightly, it came in a way so unlike the speaker. But she recovered herself immediately, and, looking at him with intense severity, said: "If it's Charty Ann you're a-speakin' about, Gibble Colt, I wished in my heart you missed her like I do. If I don't, that I do."

"What for, Prudence? Name of the good Lord! what's the reason you don't think I miss her like you, and obleeged to be a sight worse? If I was to miss her any more than I do, I just know I couldn't stand it; and I ain't quite shore in my mind I can stand it as it is."

"Look to me like you already got toler'ble peert, a-muanderin' a'most a-constant over to the Hills, that you know poor Charty Ann never liked 'em nor their ways."

"Prudence, I see you don't understand me, nor

"The Lord help your poor old childess soul, Gibble Colt! That here you are, and at your time of life, a-feelin' like and a-tryin' to feel like you want to have another little duck, as you call it, and a-goin' a-totterin' a-lookin' for one, and that over yonder to that house whar-- I jes wonder it don't disguss your very self, Gibble Colt, like it disguss me."

Then, as if the risen natural heat added to the artificial was too much for her, she slided her chair back several inches.

Patient, calm, studious, watchful, Mr. Colt, in soft denial and avoidance, resumed:

"Now, Prudence, you call me childess, when you know Charty Ann never named me them names, not in her whole lifetime; nor she never called me a-totterin' person, a-knowin' how I yit helt my own in the p'int of strong and active, if so be I weren't, and I never laid claim to a fast runner, but able to git over ground reason'ble swift, peert, and handy. And as for the makin' game o' my words, you never has had the expeunce of the bein' anybody's little duck; but you hain't forgot that Charty Ann always loved for me to call her that, which it were the affectionatest I knowed for the good, lovin' wife and companion she made me.

Immediately after this, the longest speech that he had ever made, he rose and went off to bed.

Commenting on a proposal so unexpected, Miss Sprayberry said afterward, with a solemnity whose honesty could not be doubted by any who knew her:

"If they is any grain of honest truth left in me, which I has to have my doubts sometimes, yet, on the top of it, if so be, I declare to you that when Gibble Colt, a settin', him and me, by that fire-h'a'th, when he named them words to me, at the first beginnin', I didn't know what the man meant, and I didn't believe he knewed hisself. But when he went suddent off to bed, which the sleep have done flewed

The marriage, on Miss Prudence's part mainly of domestic convenience, yet not without some portion of the tender sentiment with which Mr. Colt believed himself to be inspired, was a happy one. It required some little time for the bride to become used to her title of endearment.

"I told Gibble Colt I wanted to be named no ducks of no sort. But you know how men people can aidge on and persuade. 'Tweren't long before here it come by degrees, and I thought to myself, if it please Gibble Colt, it ain't a-goin' to hurt me, fur as I could see. Seem like what he said come true. I hadn't had the expeunce of it, and they ain't any doubts but what that do make a difference. But, you know, sometimes I got 'shamed of myself, thinkin' of Charty Ann. Yit I clear believed she were in heaven; and if so be, she couldn't be hurted about Gibble Colt namin' me his little duck. Brer Swinney aud Gibble Colt say I ought to be riconciled, and I reckon I am."

Chapter 10

I.

Mr. Redding Burge owned a satisfactory two-story dwelling conveniently situated in a plantation from which he got more than a comfortable maintenance. A tall, heavy, gray-haired man of sixty, he had lived thirty years with the wife of his youth, and after her death taken another in decent time, and for ten years had been living with her in equal content. Hospitable, fond of company, claiming to be young and intending so to remain, he held, though with becoming moderation, to the sports in which he used to be an eager participant. Among these, chicken-fighting was perhaps his favorite. The boys in his neighborhood were thinking about a suitable celebration of Christmas, and of the various suggestions offered not one received unanimous support. Of course, Christmas had to be honored, and the young, even the old like Mr. Burge, had the notion that the most becoming way was in extraordinary mirth and festivities; for into a region comparatively new, joyousness in the blessed season was mainly what had been carried. When Mr. Burge had heard all the arguments for and against various forms, he said:

"Why can't you all have a few chicken-fights? If you say so I'll let 'em be in my horse-lot, and I'll feed the crowd that's to come, and the night before I'll keep all the house'll hold of transient people that is knew to be decent."

This proposition was cordially approved. For quite a time there had been rivalries in this sport between this county and the one adjoining south, and Fortune, apparently intent upon keeping the balance rising and falling with slight deviations had been according victory now to one, now to the other. The last score was in favor of the upper, and it was hoped that at this Christmas it would be repeated. Among the set there were the Wyricks, and, though less enthusiastic, the eldest of the Rountrees, their cousins. His next younger brother, Isaac, was little fond of sports of any sort, but preferred to improve the good education that he had received by reading, in what leisure the plantation business allowed, books on serious, lately mainly on religious subjects. For a year past he had been a member of the leading religious denomination in that neighborhood, and expectations were had that ere long he might be made one of the deacons. Tall and slender, like his brother, he would have been regarded more handsome but for the habitually serious expression upon his face. With his widowed mother and his two younger brothers--John, twenty, and Joel, eighteen--he resided about a mile from the Burges, on a property much more valuable than theirs. For a couple of years William Martyn, another cousin, whose family was living in Mississippi, had been sojourning with one and another of his kindred, paying for his board with

The intervening time was spent mainly in preparing the cocks for the approaching main, a matter which requires much more of careful management than outsiders know of. Isaac, with whom young Martyn then happened to be sojourning, endeavored to dissuade him from going to the meeting.

"Will, if you expect ever to be steady and go to some business that will make you a man of independence, it is high time that you were getting less fond of sports whose innocence is at least questionable."

This was said at Mrs. Rountree's table, and was meant as a warning to the younger brothers as well.

"O Cousin Ike," answered Will, "when I get old like you I'm going to cut my crop of wild oats, burn them up, and go to sowing good grain."

"You are not four years younger than I am."

"Ay, but four years! Many a thing will happen in four years."

"I hope that within them some good may come to you."

"I join in the hope. Will you join in mine that in that time some bad may come to our enemies?"

Quick glances passed between Isaac and his mother.

"No!" answered the former with emphasis. "I join in no such wish. I have no enemies, and if I had I couldn't afford to wish them evil. You have less right than I to claim to have enemies."

"You have no enemies, Cousin Ike?"

"No; I don't know a human being that I could say I believe wished me harm, and I have tried to forgive any who did harm to me."

"And your family?"

"Well, yes; though, as you know, I have never assumed that any has been done, that is, with wanton premeditation."

"Well, I know to the contrary, and I haven't forgiven, and I never will."

Then he rose from the table with the same careless air that he had worn throughout the discussion. He was followed by John and Joel.

"I wish Will Martyn would go clear away from here and from this neighborhood," said Mrs. Rountree.

"Why, mother?" asked Isaac, calmly.

"Because I'm afraid of his undoing with John and Joel the influence that I and you have over them."

"I hope not. They understand Will, and I have little fear that he can lead them astray, or indeed that he will attempt to do it. He is a better fellow at heart than he seems or pretends to be."

"I like the boy; but it distresses me to hear him allude to that shocking affair, especially since the getting-up of this chicken-fighting at Christmas."

"That's because he has heard that Morgan Kelsey is coming to it."

"Yes, I know; and that makes me more anxious."

"Well, well, mother, you know he loved James very dearly. I have heard him say that he loved him the best of all his kin, even those much nigher. He was never satisfied with the end which that case had. Still, he knows well enough that it couldn't be helped, and that nothing can ever help it except what God may send to that man, whom from my heart I pity, in view of the destiny that, as I always believed, will fall upon him if the truth did not come out at that trial. You know, mother, that I never have expressed the belief that it did not."

"Yes, Isaac, and I have always tried to feel as you do, for the sake of avoiding doing Morgan Kelsey any injustice, even in thought; I've tried to keep these younger boys from harboring malice against him, and I might succeed if it wasn't for Will. I can't help being touched by his affection for Jimmy. Neither he nor they can forget that Jimmy was of a peaceable disposition and would never have wanted more than his rights. Indeed, he was one to be content with less. I wish you would try to get Will to quit hinting at the case."

"I have talked with him several times. Will is a fiery fellow and naturally revengeful. I have been trying to dissuade him from going to this frolic, because I am always afraid of the consequences of his meeting Morgan Kelsey. He has almost promised me that he will not. As for John and Joel, there's no harm to be expected from them. Like you, I have

"I'll be thankful if they'll both keep away. I did hear Will say something about some business he had the other side of the Ocmulgee River."

"Yes, and I have suggested that Christmas would be a suitable time to go and attend to it. It's of little import, I dare say, but anything to get him away during that time. However, let us try to make every allowance possible for Will."

The effort succeeded; at least so it appeared. Two days before Christmas Martin took his leave of the family, and all supposed that he had gone where he had said.

The Christmas-eve came and with one exception a merry company gathered at Mr. Burge's. Twice the long table in the dining-room was lightened of the burdens under which it groaned, and twice the big bowl was emptied of eggnog. After supper, Mr. Burge at one corner and his wife at the other surveyed and listened to their guests along the wide amphitheatre before the fireplace. The only quiet, serious one among all was Morgan Kelsey. But that was expected of him.

He was not intending to participate in the sport, but had come in compliance with the warm solicitation of Mr. Burge, who was proud of his connection with the Kelseys. This was backed by those of his young neighbors who hoped that the visit might make some diversion for the melancholy under which he labored. He sat about midway, and now and then his face took on something of a smile at a special sally of gayety among the other guests.

The night was dark from the mist that often comes along with that season. The clock was not far from the stroke of twelve when the host said:

"Lookee here, young people. It's got to be midnight. It being of Chris'mus, and you all bein' here, I've set up three hours over my time. My rule is always to not go to bed till the balance do, because I always want to see to the putting out of lights after everybody, and special comp'ny have got to bed comfortable. Sooky's going to have another waiter of eggnog brought in for a kind of a nightcap, and then you must all fall in and do the best you can, packed as we're obleeged to put you away.--Morgan, my son, won't you take just one tumbler? Maybe it'll sort o' peerten you up to get to sleep sooner among these rattlin' boys. That or somethin' o' the same sort do it for me when my mind get too restless of a night, which, thank God, that's seldom."

"No, I thank you, Cousin Redding. I feel better without it."

"All right. I was never a person to insist on people takin' of spirits 'ithout I thought they needed 'em. I'm a-goin' to jine these fellows in one level spoonful, to just keep polite in my own house, a-knowin' that I've already got enough now, which unfort'nate it ain't everybody that do know that. Of course, I'm a-makin' of no insinooations, as Sooky hain't had the waiter brought in but twice't. "Well, now, boys," he continued, when all except Kelsey had risen and gathered around a table near the other end of the room, "here's to me, and you all, and to Sooky, and--yes, and to Morgan, though he can't jine; and here's to of course a includin'

The toast was not drunk. Before a lip was touched, the firing of a shotgun was heard as if in the midst of them, and Kelsey fell upon the floor.

II.

Ten miles below, in the county adjoining, dwelt the Kelseys. Their large white mansion with piazza stood a quarter of a mile from the public thoroughfare in a grove of white oaks. Henry Kelsey, the late head of the family, at his death four years back, left in land, negroes, and other property an estate which, divided among his wife and their three children, would have been twelve or fifteen thousand dollars apiece--quite a fortune among rural people of that period. Of these children Morgan was the oldest, and now was about twenty-five years old. Somewhat above medium height, he was handsome, notwithstanding a rather dark complexion and an unopen, saturnine expression habitually worn upon his face. Not irascible, on the contrary, mild, low-voiced, and deliberate in speech, there was in him a sullenness which hindered his prompt acquiescence to the will of others even in matters of little import. Such a disposition in a family where the others are women sometimes obtains an ascendency that not always attaches to one who frankly yields his opinions and his will when convinced of error. His twin sisters, Emily and Susan, four years younger, unlike him, for he had

The girls were dearly devoted to each other. It was pleasant to observe the frequency with which they were in physical contact, hands joined or arms around each other's necks, or resting upon their shoulders. Even when at parties of pleasure they loved to sit, if not side by side, as nearly so as possible without exhibition of too evident preference. Each had been sought in marriage since the attainment of full growth; but they needed not their brother's discouraging words to turn away politely, yet positively, from suitors. It was not until they had just passed twenty that upon the elder a change was wrought. The one to effect it was James, eldest of the Rountrees. About equal in property, in social and educational advantages, manly, courteous, known to be of good habits, physical and moral, in time he prevailed, although before that event he had had to take several denials. After the last of these, while he was walking slowly toward the gate where his riding horse stood waiting, Susan said, as both were standing upon a step of the piazza:

"Sister, I think you ought to take James Rountree."

"Why, darling?" And she blushed asking the question.

"Because you love him."

Emily threw her arms around her, and, as tears came into her eyes, said:

"What would become of you?"

"Of me? What ought to become of me if I suffered myself to stand in the way of your greater happiness?"

"I don't believe it would be greater."

"Yes, it would, and now that I have seen clearly what I believed to be, you shall recognize and feel the truth of what I have said."

Dashing away from her sister, taking out her handkerchief, Susan ran waving it toward the departing lover, Emily in vain beseeching her to come back. When he was shutting the gate, observing her he paused, and, taking off his hat, awaited her approach.

"Mr. Rountree," she said, "sister's rejection of you was on my account--at least I think so; and I came to tell you that it makes me very unhappy. Don't! don't!" she continued quickly as he was making a movement to return to the house; "the worst thing you could do would be to go to her now."

He thanked her warmly, turned, and mounting the horse, rode away.

"Sister! sister! What did you say to that man?" asked Emily.

"Nothing, my dear, but what I must say."

A few days after James returned, accompanied by Isaac, whose suit of Susan began with the others' espousals.

Influenced by Morgan, who was unwilling for either of his sisters to marry anybody, Mrs. Kelsey delayed to give her assent to the marriage. To her, not to Emily, in his brief, sullen manner he had suggested the pain that separation from the latter would bring to Susan, and, incidentally as it were, the inconvenience and injury to the estate from setting off Emily's portion. Yet the evident fitness and the resoluteness which she knew to belong to the girls along with their filial piety prevailed, and the marriage took place. The husband would have preferred to settle on a portion of his hereditary estate, but he purchased a place adjoining the Kelseys in order that the sisters might not be so far separated. He did not complain that neither Morgan nor his mother proposed to set off his wife's portion, according to the terms of her father's will, but trusted that all would result fairly in good enough time. One day, near the close of the year, Susan said to her mother:

"Mother, why don't you and Brother Morgan turn over to Brother Jimmy sister's property?"

"Morgan says he is going to do so, Susan, as soon as it is convenient to have the division."

"I don't see why it isn't as convenient at one time as another to give people what belongs to them. Brother had his own portion set off as soon as he was of age."

"You are not supposed to understand such matters, my daughter."

This was her only argument; for secretly she wished that the matter had been done.

"But I do understand this case," persisted Susan. "I know what father's will was, and anybody knows

"Morgan does not wish to keep Emily and James out of their rights; at least he tells me so. But he says that it has not been convenient to have the division yet, and that when it is they shall have no reason to complain."

"Neither of them has complained; but they were married in April, and here it is the last of November."

The mother said no more. She contemplated no degree of injustice; yet she had been led to acquiesce, or seem to acquiesce, in a postponement which she could not defend conscientiously.

Much of the time Susan spent with her sister. She listened with little attention to the suit of Isaac Rountree. More gifted than his brother, he was not so persuasive in manner and speech. He loved devotedly and so told her without reservation, asking her to take such time for consideration as she liked. As the months went on she became conscious of enhanced interest in his visits, particularly when she saw how much he was respected and beloved by his brother and by Emily. But she knew that a nearer feeling must be had before acceptance could bring happiness, or impart it.

In this while William Martyn had been spending much of his time with this, his favorite kinsman. More than the solemn remonstrances of Isaac, the affectionate admonitions of James subdued his impetuosity. Indignant at Kelsey's delayings, he was wont to speak of them, but less in James's presence than elsewhere, in such terms as he felt that they deserved. On a public day, while, along with others, he and Kelsey were returning

"Will, they tell me that you've been talking a good deal about some things that you know nothing about."

Each of them had had a drink of spirits, but neither was obviously under its influence. Martyn answered:

"Well, now, come to think of it, Morgan, I am a right talky fellow, considering what little I know. But what are you driving at now?"

"I've been told that you're much concerned because Emily's part of the property hasn't been turned over to Jim before now."

"That's so. I have spoken about it several times."

"Jim has not, as far as I have heard. He knows better. His little cousin, it seems, doesn't."

"What for, do you suppose? If you think it's because he's afraid, Morgan Kelsey, you're much mistaken. He's no more afraid than I am. But he thinks too much of his wife and has too much respect for her feelings to raise a fuss with her brother. I think you understand that well enough. If it was me, little as I am, as you've got no better manners than to call me, I would have had you hauled over the coals before now for a settlement, and--and be d--d to you! What you got to say now?"

"Only this: that the less that Jim Rountree says about it, and the less that you are put up to say about it, the better it will be for all parties."

"You don't believe, Morgan Kelsey, that I've been 'put up,' as you call it."

"I understand you, perfectly. Cousin Jim will be

Then he rode on to seek more agreeable companionship. The same afternoon Kelsey walked over to James Rountree's, a thing he had done seldom, and his words to all were more full and cordial than they had ever been. When about to leave, he invited Rountree and Martyn to come over, saying:

"Jim, I'd like to have a talk with you about the estate; Susan, I suppose, can entertain Will, while you and I walk around. Suppose you come to-morrow?"

"Certainly, Morgan," he answered, "I will with pleasure."

That night Susan was there; so was Isaac Rountree. During the evening, while they were talking apart from the others, Susan said:

"Mr. Rountree, I like you very much. I wish I could love you as I love Brother Jimmy."

It was said artlessly, as if she were a little child. But the words killed the hope that he had indulged, and angered him. At once he turned his speech from her, and the next morning left for home, resolved to sue her no more.

After he had gone, James, Will, and Susan walked over to the Kelseys. Morgan, more affable than what was habitual, after some conversation in the house, proposed that his brother-in-law should go with him for a walk. They went out. After a few minutes a pistol-shot was heard. They rose simultaneously and went to the back door. Kelsey, pistol in hand, came on, blood running from a bruise upon his forehead. Before he had reached them he said:

"You see this wound upon my head, mother? James Rountree struck me with his stick, and I shot him."

Susan, screaming, went back into the house. Martyn rushed forth, Kelsey and his mother following. Lifting the head of his cousin, who was not quite dead, Martyn cried:

"How was it, Cousin Jimmy?"

"That you, Will? Morgan struck me, and I--but it's all--tell Emily it's all--"

The youth laid his head upon the ground.

Kelsey, having just reached the place with his mother, said:

"I hated it, Will; but I had to do it in self-defense."

Rising from the ground Martyn answered:

"Not only God Almighty, but the very devil in hell, knows that you are a liar and an assassin!"

Mrs. Kelsey seemed as if she would faint, when her son, placing his arms under hers, bore her away. As they were moving, Martyn, in a high voice, cried:

"Yes, sir! Liar! Murderer! I swear that you shall not escape punishment, if I have to be hung or sent to hell for putting it on you!"

The shock was greater than the wife could endure. That night, after the premature birth of her infant, they died together.

The bodies were buried in the Rountree graveyard. Only Mrs. Kelsey and Susan attended, returning at once when the graves were covered. A few days afterward. Isaac, accompanied by Martyn, went down to his brother's place in order to attend to what personal items in

"Isaac, stop what you are doing for a moment until I tell you something.--You needn't retire, Mr. Martyn, unless you wish.--Isaac, they told me, as I had instructed them to do, that you were here, and I came to tell you that I will marry you if you still want me."

She placed both her hands upon his shoulders and looked in his face. He yearned to take her in his arms.

"Susan, do you love me?"

"No, Isaac. I tried to love you for Brother Jimmy's and sister's sakes. Perhaps I might have done so after a while. Since what has happened I don't think I could, but I will marry you if you want me."

He trembled as, her hands upon him, she seemed to beseech.

"And you don't think you ever could love me, Susan?" he asked almost piteously.

"I fear not, Isaac, though I don't know. Not, I think, as men wish to be loved by their wives. But I would marry you to-morrow, to-day, and you may kiss me now if you say you will take me with what I have to give you. I offer for the sake of family peace and reconciliation. If the acceptance of my offer would not bring these, or if it is less than you would demand with or without these, say so."

He looked down upon her with great yearning. To the passion in his eyes the response in hers showed, as

"Susan," he said, "I love you even more than I knew. If you could love me in return I think I could give up freely what indeed I must give up as it is, all thoughts of prosecution, convinced as I am that my brother was slain with none or with little of provocation. But tell me now--I ask you solemnly--what is your life to be? Are you afraid or are you averse to live in that house from which so much has been wrenched as to make it seem a home of desolation? If you are, I will throw my arms around you and take you to my home, knowing that at least I can shield you from harm, and indulge in the hope of winning in time some portion of what I crave."

She was still looking up to him with tearless eyes, neither compassionate nor asking compassion. A lamb doomed then to bleed would have shown not more innocence nor less apprehension. Her attitude, some accidental disarrangement of her dress exposing more of her exquisite figure than she was aware of, and thoughts of what he momentarily felt that he could make her be to him, filled him with ecstasy. He was putting forth his arm when she calmly took hold of it, and, bringing it down again to his side, said:

"No, Isaac; no. There is nothing for me to fear at home. Brother knows, for I have told him so, that I believe as you do as to the recklessness of that killing; but there is no danger for me from any quarter. It was not to buy him off from prosecution nor myself from any apprehended new misfortune that I offered myself to you. It was from the poor hope of repairing

She did not give her hand, but turning away walked rapidly out, mounted her horse unassisted, and rode on home.

"That girl loves you, Cousin Ike," said Martyn, "and I am sorry you didn't take her offer promptly."

"No, Will, you are mistaken, and I don't know but that I ought to be thankful that it is so."

The Rountrees, following the counsel of Isaac, forbore to prosecute for the homicide. In the absence of testimony beyond the apparently frank admissions of Kelsey, the grand jury could not but ignore the bill of presentment. These admissions were that at the interview with James Rountree, when he had mentioned some items which he claimed should be left out of the division of the estate, the latter had called him a thief and a robber, whereupon he struck him with his fist, and after being assaulted with a stick he shot him. The few last words of Rountree were excluded at the trial, under the stringent rules of the law regarding dying declarations. William Martyn publicly avowed his belief that it was an unprovoked murder.

"Words like those," he said, "would never have come out of Jimmy Rountree's mouth for his wife's brother. It is simply a hell-born and hell-bound lie. Well, gentlemen, dead men can not talk; but that man, who was the very best I ever saw, left friends behind him, and my advice to Morgan Kelsey would be to lie low for the balance of his time."

Part 3

Public excitement gradually subsided more slowly, however, in the upper county, where the standing of the Roundtrees was very high. Yet men's minds, not entirely satisfied, leaned toward compassion for the slayer when he seemed to regret sorely the passion that had led to a result so unhappy. Never used to much going about, now he stayed at home more constantly than before. Grown more taciturn, he yet had become in his house and when abroad considerate in his demeanor toward others, and people were touched sometimes by tones and looks which seemed to appeal for forgiveness. His relations with his mother continued the same as before; those with Susan grew more and more reserved. It would have been better for herself and for all if she had married Isaac Rountree immediately. Her brother, although he had not said it, wished heartily that she had done so, and gone away. As time passed she was led to regret that she had extended the offer which she had made of herself in words which a man of honor could not accept. Isaac's rejection, accompanied by evidences of his passionate love for her, won her full admiration, and she grew to feel that if he had taken her she would have given him all that he could ask. Sometimes, when thinking of that rejection, there came over her a feeling almost of petulance. Why must it be demanded of her suddenly and in such emergency to bestow or promise to bestow what marriage inevitably would have won? Isaac Rountree was obliged to know that in no circumstances could such an offer have been

Mrs. Kelsey aged fast. The death of her daughter, her affection for whom was more intense because she had never been accustomed to manifest it, was a great sorrow, but not so anguishing as that of James Rountree. The necessity to subdue expression of her feelings for the sake of her son made them prey upon her interior being. A believer in destiny, particularly of the sort that is awful and threatening, it was no relief to her mind when Morgan, yielding to solicitations, consented to go on this the first social visit since his misfortune.

The death of his brother and the disappointment of his affection for Susan made Isaac such as he was now. He never had seen her since that day at James's late home. They were members of the same religious denomination, which held monthly meetings in the village that lay nearly between the mansions of the two families; but not once upon such occasions had he looked toward the women's side, and he had been seeming to give no attention when any one remarked that Susan was growing more beautiful constantly. Knowing well that he continued to love her as theretofore, William Martyn said to him one day:

"Cousin Ike, that girl loves you as much as you ever loved her. I saw her to-day looking at you for more than half an hour, and several times she put her handkerchief to her eyes and her cheeks changed color."

"It is most probable, Will, that you were mistaken,

He turned away.

"My Lord!" exclaimed Will, "it's the all-firedest piece of bad luck that I ever knew or heard of. Hadn't been for Morgan Kelsey, that girl, the very finest in this world, would have been Ike's wife as she ought to be. I blame myself, and I always will, that I didn't shoot him down that day by Jimmy's dead body. If it hadn't been for Cousin Emily I'd have done it, and if it hadn't been for Ike I'd have done it since. I can't understand why he wouldn't let me or Tom Wyrick shoot the dog after all that he has put upon him. This thing of religion, I suppose, is good to have; but I don't believe that it was meant to come in between such a man and his revenge for an outrage like that. Maybe I'm wrong! but oh, the good it would do my eyes to see Morgan Kelsey die the death he put upon Jimmy Rountree! They ought to have seen it long ago!"

Such words and others yet more bitter and menacing he had often spoken in the hearing of the Rountrees and Wyricks, and Isaac more than once had warned him with most solemn earnestness. Therefore he and his mother felt much relief when he had decided, as they believed, to go out of the neighborhood before the coming Christmas festivities.

Yet these people were known to be manlike as brave. Nobody ever suspected that any one of them would resort to underhand vengeance. Therefore all, after the occurrence of the tragedy at Mr. Burge's, felt

IV.

The news of Morgan Kelsey's death traveled the faster because of the holidays. In the early morning it was known throughout the vicinity of the Burges, and at the court-house, fifteen miles distant. Mrs. Rountree at break of day heard it from her maid who came in to kindle a fire in her chamber. She rose instantly and rushed to Isaac's. This was separate from the mansion, connected by a corridor. He was already dressed, and kneeling before the open Bible resting upon his table. Rising, he said:

"Good-morning, mother dear. God send you a happy good Christmas!"

"O Isaac, Isaac! Somebody shot and killed Morgan Kelsey last night at Mr. Burge's!"

"Mother! mother!" he cried, lifting up his hands, "can that be possible? Dead, you say? Was he shot dead?"

He moved about the room as if staggered by horror of the news.

"Dead!" answered his mother. "My God!"

"That's the only cry for us to make, mother. Poor Morgan! poor Morgan! Would that it had pleased God to allow it to end otherwise! But it did not, as I always feared and believed, in spite of my continued beseeching prayers. I wouldn't wake the boys yet,

"No. One of the Burge negro men brought the news, and he told them that near a barrel on which the person who shot was supposed to be standing they had found a fine handkerchief that was dropped by him!"

"Ay? Did he say whose they thought it was?"

"The man said that the men whispered among themselves, but he could not hear what they said. O Isaac, I don't want you or either of the boys to go there unless you are sent for."

"The boys need not go, and perhaps had better not. But I must and as soon as possible. Do, mother, please, have made a pot of coffee. That is all the breakfast I shall need."

When she went out, he threw himself upon his knees, crying, "O Will, Will, Will!" There he remained until called for the refreshment that he had asked for.

Mr. Burge met him at the gate, thankful that he had come so promptly; for he had much respect, even affection, for him, particularly for the influence which he had tried to exert upon his family regarding the tragedy of the previous year.

"My Lord, Iky! I know I'm glad you come! Ain't it tur'ble to open up Chris'mus this way?"

"What time did it occur, Mr. Burge?"

"The clock would have struck twelve in four minutes if the shot that went through poor Morgan's neck hadn't kept on to her and tore loose her pend'lum.

"Does anything seem to indicate who fired the gun, Mr. Burge?"

"Oh, my son, don't ask me. I'm actual afraid a'most to open my mouth. I know it'll hurt you; but you must ask somebody else. They'll tell you."

"Do tell me, Mr. Burge, before we go nearer," he insisted, turning paler.

"Well, they do say that the hank'cher they picked up outside by the winder have writ on it Will Martyn's name; but I can't but hope he never done it."

"It is impossible, Mr. Burge, it seems to me, for Will to have done such a thing in such a way. Besides, I supposed, and so did all our family, that he had gone quite out of the neighborhood, even out of the county. He said three days ago that he was going, and he left the house as if prepared for a journey."

"Why, Iky Rountree, you couldn't hardly 'a' thought much more o' that boy than me and my wife, ruther wildish and rattlish as he were."

"Did death follow immediately, Mr. Burge?"

"Im-mejiant. He couldn't have knew what struck him. The shot were in a bag, and they went plum through his neck."

Sighing deeply, Isaac proceeded to the house. He was saluted by all with respect. Looking closely into the face of each as he took his hand, he felt some relief in reading sympathy with the awe that was upon his own mind. He spoke with reserve becoming his

Few words were spoken between Mrs. Kelsey and Susan. The power to support each other by long disuse had gone from each; so their griefs were indulged apart. The mother's was more painful, because after the first shriek she could not or would not weep aloud. In her dry eyes, and in the face to which one year had already added the wear of ten, the people at the funeral read only despair. Susan showed that, although she had wept sorely in secret, there were reserves within her for the endurance of yet other sufferings which might come and which she expected to come. Both had feared some such result, the mother more earnestly because, although not a church-member, she had a full belief in the threatenings of the Old Testament about retribution in this life for the shedding of blood. This had been always part of her creed, and since the death of James Rountree she had been living in dread of its operation within her family. She recalled now with what degree of comfort was possible that, when Morgan had left home the last time upon his face was the pleasantest smile and on his tongue the cheerfulest, assuringest words that these had known for more than a year.

A solitary life was now led by each of these women. One would have tried if she had known how to obtain the consolation which comes from striving to receive and bestow it. The other, if it had been possible, would have imparted some portion of the strength by which she was upheld. To people's surprise, Mrs. Kelsey made no movement toward pursuit of the assassin. To Mr. Burge, who had asked what were her wishes in that behalf she answered:

"I have none, Cousin Redding. Two of my children have been taken from me. Ever since the first went, I have been looking for the second to go as he has gone. It hasn't taken me by surprise, although I did have some hope that I would not live to see it. But things don't come in that way. I am now so desolate that I don't feel a single throb of vengeance against that boy, although I've been expecting, from the oath he swore on that horrible day, that he was to be the one to do it. Now, as blood has gone for blood, I feel that it is time to stop. So far as my doings are concerned, it will stop. Of course, I know that the court will try to hunt up everything and expose it, but I shall have nothing to do with it. I will not go to the trial if any is had, unless I am forced by the sheriff, and then I will not answer to any question asked me. That boy has a mother, and if she's let live long enough she's got to go through what is on me now. Of that I haven't a doubt if he is the one, and I won't do or say anything to hasten it. Perhaps she tried harder than ever I did to raise her son aright, and may be blessed by being taken out of the way before his end comes to him. No, Cousin Redding, I want no

"Why, Cousin Tilly, that's a-swearin' to it! Suppose the court send me a suppeny and they call on me to tell everything I know about the case, when that's the only blessed thing I do--howbeever, that'd be hear-say evidence--yes'm, yes, ma'am, I'll swear I won't 'peat what you say."

When he returned home his wife wanted to know all that he had seen and heard.

"Cousin Tilly, my dear, I found in a egzited condition, like I expected, but also in a kind of a calm and forgivin' perdicament, as the sayin' is."

"Forgivin', Mr. Burge? What you mean by that?"

"Well, she seem to ruther wish she couldn't hear no more about it, but would ruther ricommend to drop it, as it's too late for it to be holp."

"Didn't she say anything about how Will Martyn carried on and threatened that day when Morgan killed Jimmy Rountree?"

"Well, now, Sooky, if you expect me to 'member every single thing after my mind been through what it have been through at that buryin'--which the good Lord know I were that oneasy about myself, and about you, and about everything, I--I jus' come away soon as I could git away decent. And if you'd 'a' been there your very self I don't believe Cousin Tilly would have talked to you much more than she talked to me. You know she were always a silent, say-nothin' female, and she's goin' to keep on gettin' silenter till her time come,

"Well, I've been told that Will Martyn that very day cussed and told Morgan to his face he would kill him. Howbeever, I'll try not to say anything against him until it's proved positive that he done it; for a prettier boy and a politer boy to females and old people I have never see, and it look strange that he would want to shoot down people in the night and in an innocent house and skear a innocent female a mighty nigh out of all the senses she ever did have, that last night I made Mose and Jeff stay in the big room, and I made Ginny and Milly fetch in their mattress and put it down right by our bed, and hadn't been I knewed you wouldn't like it, I were not so mighty fur from gittin' down and gittin' what sleep I could between 'em, niggers as they wus, and don't the law have to pay for them winder-panes, and the shootin' o' that clock? Mr. Burge, I declare the wonder to me is that I'm alive."

Thankful that her mind had been diverted to personal and economic concerns, Mr. Burge answered, assuring her of her own security against danger of any sort, and not doubting that all damages to the property would be footed to their entire satisfaction.

Part 5

The judge and the solicitor-general for that judicial district resided at the court-house town of the county wherein the last homicide had occurred. A warrant was obtained at once, and soon thereafter a reward offered by order of the Governor of the State for the arrest of William Martyn. Despite general belief in his guilt, much sympathy was felt for the misfortune into which he had been forced by his impulsive, revengeful temper. These infirmities, well known, because never disguised, had not hindered his being a favorite among his acquaintance. Besides, the public never had been satisfied with the result of the investigation regarding the killing of James Rountree, to whom young Martyn was known to be devotedly attached. Among some there was the feeling, not uncommon in simple rural communities that, horrible as it was, infinite justice had gone in its own appointed way to the infliction of punishment inevitable. A few, more outspoken than the rest, intimated that they would not feel too much regret if the youth should elude the officers in his pursuit. For a time it seemed as if he might do so. Beyond the Ocmulgee, sixty years ago, the country was much less densely settled than the region in which these things had occurred. Besides, postal communications were infrequent and slow, allowing to a fugitive chances of eluding pursuit much longer than is possible at present, with such facilities for the transmission of news and increased expertness among detectives. Two months had passed when it was heard at the court-house

By a friend in the village whom he had requested to be constantly on the lookout, Isaac Rountree was promptly informed of the news. The family and all the kindred were much concerned and all rallied to Isaac. Earnestly he admonished them against rashness in action and in speech. Thomas Wyrick was for organizing a band, going forth that night, intercepting the guard, and rescuing the prisoner.

"Never, Tom, never!" said Isaac, most feelingly. "That would never do! He would surely be rearrested, because the indignation of the public would be aroused, and nothing to that end would be left undone. Let us hope that Will, in spite of appearances, is not guilty. It does not look like Will Martyn to shoot a man in that way, purely out of revenge. Then to me it seems almost incredible that he should have thrust himself foremost in a matter that concerned himself less than the rest of us, whom he must have known to be capable of taking care of our own rights and feelings. I shall act upon the idea, which the law always allows, that he is innocent. As the testimony will be all circumstantial, I suppose the judge will admit him to bail, and, if so, I shall be ready to risk on him all I have."

"Well," said Wyrick, "although the way of it wasn't becoming a brave man, still I believe that Will

"Oh, don't talk so, Tom. It was a terrible thing to do, and I wish in my heart that the good God had seen fit to prevent it."

"But you see he didn't. He knew all about that first affair, and he pursued Morgan Kelsey until he overtook him. Of course, we'll all be ready to go Will's bail."

"Well, then, one among us ought to be chosen spokesman. Will you, Tom?"

"No, of course not. You're more fit for it than anybody else. Besides, you're Jimmy's brother, although if I'd been, I couldn't have loved him any better."

"Do the rest of you say that?" asked Isaac.

They all answered "Yes."

"Very well, then. God knows that I wish to save to Will whatever is possible from this time throughout. Let me go to town to-morrow alone. If the judge allows bail, and I find that my single name will not be sufficient to keep Will from going to jail even for an hour, I will send at once for some of you to come. A crowd of us there when he arrives would not look well. Some might regard it as defiant, or as if a rescue was intended. I'll go in early and see Charles Davison, to whom I have already spoken for the defense, and let him be getting ready to move for bail. There'll be a better chance to prevail before Judge Wilson thus than if we were to go there in force. Don't you think so, Tom?"

"Perhaps so, Ike. You can judge of such things better than I can. But I want Will Martyn and I want the Kelseys to know that I am for him, guilty or not guilty, and that I stand ready to back him to the full extent of my property or anything else I've got."

"As for the Kelseys, my dear cousin, they are only women, you know."

"Yes; I oughtn't to have named them. I was thinking of all that might be against Will. Poor Mrs. Kelsey! I pity her from my heart; and as for Miss Susan--my Lord! it makes me more angry when I think of what Morgan Kelsey's conduct did for that fine girl and for--I won't say any more."

"That's right, Tom. I thank you."

On the next morning Isaac was in town by breakfast-time. Immediately afterward he held a conference with Davison, who, repairing to the judge's house, obtained a promise to hear a motion for bail as soon as possible after the arrival of the prisoner. About noon the latter was brought into the public square. Isaac, white with anxiety, was there to meet him. As Will descended from the covered wagon he shuddered at the sight of his manacles. These were removed at once by the sheriff, and Isaac, as he took his cousin's hand, looked searchingly into his face.

"Howdye, Cousin Ike?" said Martyn, on whom was not the shadow of a cloud.

"Howdye, Will?" answered Isaac, coldly, holding his hand, as his eyes continued their search. At length he asked:

"How are you, Will?"

"Oh, I'm all right now. I haven't had exactly the

"They are well."

Then addressing the sheriff, he said:

"Can I be allowed to have a few moments' conversation with Mr. Martyn there by the court-house railing, Mr. Moore? I give you my word of honor that I will neither ask of him nor say to him anything that in the circumstances would be improper."

"Of course he will, Mr. Rountree," said the lawyer. "Moore, I'll be his security against any harm."

"I don't want any security for Isaac's word," said the sheriff. "Take him over there to that bench under that chainy-tree, Isaac. I'll wait here for you if it's an hour, or as long as you want."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore. I shall not want him so long."

"Meanwhile, Mr. Rountree," said the lawyer, "I will notify Judge Wilson of Mr. Martyn's arrival, and ask him to appoint an hour for us."

"Do so, if you please, Mr. Davison."

"Lookee here, Cousin Ike," said Martyn, "I'd like to have something to eat before we get to business. What I've had since I've been in the company of this new acquaintance hasn't been of the very best, and it's been inconvenient to get at it, such as it was."

The sheriff, smiling, said:

"Go on with your cousin, young man. I'll see that you get your dinner before the judge comes."

As the two went off together, he said to the guard:

"That boy don't talk nor he don't look like a murderer."

"No, he don't," answered the man. "I never saw anybody as appearent unconcerned as he's been all the way. I can't but hope he ain't guilty. Whenever I've asked him a question about his case--of course I never asked anything that he'd hurt himself by answering--he'd say that that was a thing he didn't care to talk about. He's as independent a fellow as ever I struck, and he's conversonal, uncommon conversonal, when he have the mind to be."

When the cousins had been seated on the bench, Isaac, again regarding him fixedly, said:

"Will, of course you know that I and all of us are with you in any case; but it is important that you tell me frankly about this matter."

"Why, Cousin Ike, I'll tell you every blessed thing I know. It'll take a mighty little while to do that. When I heard that Morgan Kelsey was dead I tried my best not to be glad of it, but I didn't make much headway on that line; not as much as I know you'd think I ought. I was right anxious about it, as anybody must have been in the circumstances, and when I heard about my handkerchief being picked up, and tracks of my shoes being all around, I was very uneasy for a while--but, Cousin Ike, what makes you look so terribly hard at me?"

"Go on, Will; go on, I beg you."

"There's nothing more to go on with. I've got to the end of my rope."

"Will, do you mean for me to conclude that that is all you know about that case? Consider, my

"That's exactly what I do mean, and I'm not trying to conceal one blessed thing, or one cussed thing, whatever is right to name it. I've answered all I know, and I didn't know that except from what the men who came to take me told me."

"Will," continued Isaac, as if he had not heard the last words, "don't you feel that you could trust me after what I have said, knowing that I mean only to save you from harm if possible?"

"Why, good gracious alive, Cousin Ike! of course I can trust you. God Almighty bears me witness that I've told you everything I know! Don't you believe me? Is it possible that any of you suspected me of shooting Morgan Kelsey in any such way as that?"

A smile came upon Isaac's face. Taking his hand again, he said:

"I believe you, Will; sorry as I am that you did not feel distress when you heard of it. The family have all been very anxious. What made you so, when you heard about the handkerchief?"

"I was a little uneasy when I first heard about the killing, thinking in my mind that it might be Tom, knowing how fiery he is, especially when he's drinking, as, it being Christmas, I concluded that he was; but when they told me it was done at night and unbeknown, and that my handkerchief was picked up, then I didn't have a doubt as to who did it. Don't you know who I mean, Cousin Ike?"

"I do not, Will. I have not the slightest conjecture."

"Why, it was nobody in this wide world but Abe, my Abe!"

"Do you really think so, Will?" Then he drew a long breath of relief.

"Think so? I just know it."

"On what do you found your suspicion?"

"No suspicion about it; I tell you I know it. The handkerchief was mine, doubtless. I'm not going to deny that. Then my shoes fit Abe's foot well enough, and he is very proud of wearing them, poor fellow. In fact, all he ever wears is what he picks up after I've worn them awhile. You know that he understands all about handling a gun, and, more than that, he's heard me say a hundred times, more or less, that I wish somebody would shoot Morgan Kelsey. What is more than all, he himself hated him as much as anybody else could. Once, while I was at Jimmy's, he went over to the Kelseys one night to see one of the girls there. He knew that I wouldn't give him a pass, and so he stole off without it. Morgan Kelsey caught him in one of the houses, and he had no more feeling than to strip him and give him such a beating as the meanest overseer wouldn't put upon a negro's back. I declare it made me cry when I saw how he had been abused. Jimmy cried too, bless his heart! but he begged me to keep it from Cousin Emily, and not to raise a fuss with Morgan. Hadn't been for that I'd have gone right over there and given him the cursing that he deserved, and if he had dragged out his pistol he'd have found that he was not the only one that knows how to shoot. But now let me tell you, Cousin Ike, Abe comes of a family of good, honest, affectionate negroes; but not one of

Isaac looked at him affectionately and said:

"Will Martyn, you are the very incarnation of generous courage. I don't think that there's much doubt of the judge's allowing bail. I have been seeing to that. It would hurt me more than I can tell to see you go inside of a jail."

"There's some I'd be willing to go there for, Cousin Ike, and Abe is one of them."

After other brief conversation they returned to where the sheriff and Davison were waiting, when the former took the prisoner to dinner.

"Mr. Davison," said Isaac, "I feel much relieved by the conversation which I have had with my cousin. I urged him, for the sake of his own safety, to tell me the truth. He avows his innocence, and I am much inclined to believe him."

"I am gratified to hear it, Mr. Rountree."

"Will it be necessary, in the application for bail, to state to the judge my opinion? If not, I would rather not, for a reason that I may tell you of hereafter."

"It will not be necessary, Mr. Rountree. The judge

"Yes; I know Mr. Wakefield, and think he may possibly know who I am. I was about to pass him on the street this morning, but I decided that perhaps he would not care to be accosted by me, and so I turned into Alexander's store."

"He wouldn't have minded it. Still, it might have been embarrassing."

When Davison had made his statement, the judge, who the while had been looking studiously at the young man, asked the solicitor if he had anything to say why an order should not be passed in accordance with the application. He answered:

"Nothing, may it please the Court. I submit the case to your Honor's discretion, and I do so more readily because of the respectable standing of the relatives and friends of the accused."

Then the judge said:

"The law, as you know, my brother Davison, is cautious in the allowing bail for cases of murder, especially one that, from what is known of this, seems to have been peculiarly atrocious. But as the record of the jury of inquest discloses circumstantial evidence only, the Court has little doubt that it is a case wherein it may properly use its discretion. The Court takes into consideration the youth of the accused, and it must say that his appearance and his demeanor lead to the hope

Isaac signed the bond, and said if required he would send word to his brother John, his cousin, Thomas Wyrick, and others of his kindred to come at once and sign. If not, he would see that they came on the next day.

"All right, Mr. Rountree," answered the clerk, "your name would be enough; but the others can come in when it suits their convenience."

Shortly afterward Isaac, hiring a horse at the liverystable, took his cousin along with him to his home.

VI.

The controlling thought of Martyn now was to shield the boy Abram. Such an effort would have been undertaken by any master whose slave had run such risk partly in his behalf, and in such undertaking he would have been urged little by consideration of the loss of property. None but those familiar with the domestic relations in the Southern States can fully understand the affection between respectable white people and their slaves. For this boy, with little thought of his value in the market, William Martyn would have dared as far as for any others, including himself. So he determined to take him across the Chattahoochee without delay, and place him with his own kindred there, or in the State of

"I want to get him out of the State as quickly as possible, and before it is generally known what my defense is to be. As soon as I say openly that I am not the one who shot Morgan Kelsey, people will begin to inquire who is. That might scare Abe into betraying himself, at least to me, and I'll have to witness against him--which, for ten times his value, I wouldn't do if I could help it."

"But let us see now, Will," said Isaac, gravely, "would such action be perfectly right--even if it were dealing with entire fairness toward yourself?"

"Why, what do I care about suspicion when I am innocent and can prove it? Let suspicion of me go to the devil! I beg your pardon, Cousin Ike, for using such a word. As for the right or the wrong of the thing, I'm not thinking about either. I'm thinking about saving Abe."

"Well, that part of it is your own affair, Will, which I can not aid you in, but which I will not try to hinder. I counsel you, however, to let nobody else know of your thoughts or intentions. If the public, convinced of your innocence, begins to suspect Abe, and then finds that you have run him off, what then?"

"'What then' may take care of itself. One thing is certain: they'll never get Abe. They might as well look for a pin in the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. I don't see any wrong in it either--that is, on my part. I'm the only friend the poor negro has. He loves me better than he does or ever did love anybody else, and,

"All right, then, Will. The responsibility must rest with you. In the circumstances I will offer no other counsel than repeat the need of secrecy--for the present at least."

The youth was received by his kinsmen for the most part with much cordiality. Mrs. Rountree's demeanor was reserved, but she made no indication by words of what she thought or felt, being more than willing to act upon Isaac's advice to avoid allusions to his case, and be specially careful of questions put to him. The negro met his master with a greeting which showed that, whatever were his own thoughts, he was delighted to see his face again. Not a word or look of suspicion was bestowed upon him, and he capered with joy when told that they were going upon a visit to their home. It was given out that Martyn had taken the boy away in order to sell him for the purpose of raising money for the fee of his counsel. Yet some suspected that his bail had decided to forfeit their bond and let him escape. After he was gone, Isaac deported himself with his usual discretion. Having little to say to Martyn during the few days of his stay, he said less about him after. Whenever a neighbor referred to the case he expressed the rather confident hope that the charge would be disproved. A good point was scored for the defendant when, a week

"At first," he said, "I was quite uneasy about Will; for, wild as he is, I have a warm affection for him, and I would be deeply pained by any misfortune that would put upon him severe suffering. Now I have little doubt that he will be able to clear himself entirely. He has an impetuous temper, and he loved poor Brother James very dearly; but it was not easy for me to believe that he would put himself before so many others who, as he well knew, must feel that loss more painfully than himself; and then I could hardly believe that he could have been driven to do a thing like that in such a way."

VII.

By agreement of counsel the trial was set for Wednesday. On Tuesday morning Martyn and his friends repaired to the village and took rooms at the tavern, bespeaking another for one who was expected. As the afternoon waned Martyn began to show some impatience, and several times spoke in low tones with Isaac, who, though evidently anxious himself, answered as if trying to reassure him. The sun was about half an hour high when Martyn cried suddenly:

"Yonder he comes!"

Then he rapidly descended the steps of the tavern

"Glad to see you, Mr. Wicker! Good as your word."

"What's the use of havin' of a word if it ain't good? Besides, there was the suppeny; but I didn't have that to fetch me. How's all your healths?"

"Simply splendid."

He was a small man, boyish in his face and movements, and rather gaudy in attire.

"Yes, sir," after dismounting he continued, "a fellow with any blood in his bones is bound to come on such a arrant. Then I wanted to see the country. A man never learns anything new staying at home all the time. Besides," poking his ribs, "I feel like I owe you some more boot for this horse."

Will had already laid his hand upon the mane of the beast, which turned its head and whinnied affectionately.

"I'm glad you're satisfied with your trade, Mr. Wicker. How did you leave your good wife and children?"

"All alive and kickin'. My wife, she were ruther sollomcholy when I come away to go on sech a journey. I've been a-countin' up, and it's nigh on to forty-five mile I've come; the ruther biggest travelin' I've ever done. And then the solemity of the thing, comin' among people you don't know and they don't know you, and havin' to tell what a man know about the killin' o' people when he don't know a everlastin' red cent. Such as that, I tell you, is sollum, Mr. Martyn, you may say what you please about it."

The small gentleman was much pleased at the interest his constant association with Martyn excited among the people. He was dressed in what were evidently his best things, and it was certain from his manner that he intended to make as wide an impression as possible.

At ten o'clock, the hour named, the judge called the case. The State versus William Martyn. Both parties announced themselves ready. The court-room was soon filled with spectators, among whom was remarked the little interest taken by Davison in the selection of a jury, making not one of the peremptory challenges to which his client was entitled. All except the judge and Isaac Rountree could not but exhibit some amusement at the testimony of Mr. Burge, who, intending to be accurate as possible, and elicit sympathy for himself, told with much circumstantiality of the meeting at his house, and delivered some of his views upon the comparative harmlessness of chicken-fighting, particularly on an occasion time-honored as Christmas. For, indeed, religious sentiment was growing more stringent regarding that and similar sports. At last, brought to the only issue before the jury, after many circumlocutions, he deposed about thus:

"When my wife--that is, my second present wife I'm a-meanin' of (for, as my neighbors in gen'l knows, I have been married of twice in my time), she say that as it is a mighty nigh on to midnight, a not'ithstandin' that our clock never struck it, nor hain't struck yit, not cler like she used to, but she said it were time fur honest people to go to bed, and then she said she'd have fotch in one more waiter o' nog to them that wanted it;

He came down with evident reluctance, as there were a great many other interesting things which he would have been thankful to tell.

When the handkerchief was produced, Davison, after it had been inspected by the accused, said:

"We admit that is, or at one time was, the property of defendant."

Murmurs were heard among the crowd.

The hostile language, that was proved, contained no definite threat, and the solicitor's looks, when he closed the case, showed that he had little confidence. Davison, after slight allusion to the finding of the handkerchief, as if most probably it had gotten there by accident,

"Will you please go to the stand, Mr. Wicker?"

At the call of his name that gentleman arose, stood a moment looking blandly all around, then walked toward where he was invited with grace such as he might have exhibited in moving toward a lady for the purpose of soliciting her hand for a dance.

"Who is that frisky little chap?" was questioned in a whisper.

"Blamed if I know. He looks like he knows a thing or two and wants to tell it," were the answers. The judge looked at him studiously for a moment or so, then, as if recollectingly, smiled and leaned back.

The witness, after condescendingly kissing the book, began toying with the tags of his spotted cravat as if he would call attention to how well it became him.

"What is your full name, Mr. Wicker?" asked Davison.

"Did you ask what my full name was, sir?" he repeated in a loud, shrill tone, looking toward the extreme end of the room as if he kindly desired that none should miss a word of what he was about to say. Then, not waiting for an answer to his question, he answered:

"The full name of the subscriber, sir, is Wilson--Blazenberry--Wicker. I got my name of Wilson from my father who moved from Putman County in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and thirteen, as I have freckwent heerd him say in his lifetime, and I rid by yisterday where he moved away from on my way to this app'inted place; but of course that is hearsay

He glanced briefly at the judge as if to assure him that there need be no apprehension that he would not keep himself within the strict rules of evidence.

"The Blazenberry part of my name I got from my mother, she being of a Blazenberry before she got married to my father, and when on that interesting occasion she dropped the Blazenberry part and swibstichuted the Wicker which she fancied more better. Yes, sir, that is my name in the fullest extents of it. I understand that were the upshot of your remarks, sir?"

"It was, sir," said Davison, repressing a smile, "and you have answered it with entire satisfaction. I will now ask you, Mr. Wicker, to be kind enough to tell the court and jury where you live."

"You mean my residence, I presume, sir, if I may be allowed to ask the question?"

"Precisely so, sir."

"Of course, sir," politely waving his hand, "I have no objection to the above even if I weren't on the witness-stand. My residence, sir, at the present time and have been for four year, at which time I begun gethering in my wild oats and jined to myself a wife and kimpanion and never has been sorry, for the residence, sir, in general it's in Jasper County in this present State of Georgie. If I was to go into p'tick'lars I should say that it lays on the road from Whitfield's to Mounterceller, which I presume it is knew that Mounterceller is the county site of Jasper County as aforesaid, and about half-way, though I may be some nigher Mounterceller.

"It is sir, on that line; and now I'll ask whether or not you happened to be at home on the night of the twenty-fourth day of last December?"

"I understand you to be a-illuding, if I am not mistaken, to last Chris'mus-eve, sir; all so be, you don't use them words?"

"Your understanding is entirely correct, Mr. Wicker."

"Well, sir, I haven't the slightest hisitation to say that I were. Haven't been anywhere else but home on a Chris'mus-eve but once't since I been married, and that were two year ago when my wife's mother wanted her whole gineration of children and grandchildren together at her house, which they done, and she afterward died on the twenty-nine o' the next comin' March. Yes, sir, I was there certain that night and no mistake, at my own residence in the county of Jasper, in said State."

Everybody, always excepting Isaac, laughed almost aloud when the witness looked upon the audience as if pleased with having settled to their satisfaction this important historic fact.

"Thank you, Mr. Wicker." And Mr. Wicker bowed politely, accepting the acknowledgment.

"Now, sir," continued Davison, "I will ask you yet another question: were any persons there on that occasion besides your own family?"

"You mean, I should suppose, a-including of the undersigned subscriber, myself?"

"Certainly, sir, including yourself, that family's head."

"Oh, ha! ha! Thank you for the compliment!--I beg pardon of your Honor," he said immediately with profound seriousness to the judge, "I did--I ah--was ruther ah--"

"Proceed with your testimony, if you please, Mr. Wicker," said the dignitary, with as much gravity as he could assume.

"Well, sir--begging pardon genilly for the int'r-ruption--I answer that request with the word yes, or more proper, yes, sir; although I never expected then, nor not till lately, to be called on to swear to that occasion. Yes, sir, there were another person there on that same interestin' Chris'mus-eve, if the expression may be allowed under oath. I could not forgit it for the reason whereof, ef no more, I hold in my hand at the present time."

Looking cordially at the prisoner, with his right hand he took hold of one of the tags of his cravat, and with a finger of the left pointed significantly at the other. He had threatened to his wife, when leaving home, that, before getting off the witness-stand he would make that people know who Wilson Blazenberry Wicker was.

"Who was that person, sir?"

He watched with great content as the people leaned eagerly forward. For a moment or so he seemed searching with his eyes among them for the guest who had been honored by his hospitality, then, pointing at the accused, answered, lifting his voice yet higher:

"At the present hour, the guest of my residence in the interesting circumstances, if I am not mistaken, is

A murmur of relief went throughout as Davison said:

"The witness is with you, Brother Wakefield."

"Mr. Witness!" said the solicitor, and paused.

"Sir! You behold me here, I presume, sir."

"Yes, sir; yes, sir. I see you. Everybody sees you, Mr. Wicker. You say, 'if you are not mistaken.' You mean by that--there is some want of certainty upon your mind regarding the--"

"No, sir; not by no means, sir! I used the word as a clause in rhet'ric, sir. Nothing else. It were pine blank that man thar. As for being of mistakened in him, I couldn't be any more than in the horse I rid here yistiday and this here kervat, which I am at present a-feelin' of, and which it have writ on it the name he give in to me when he come to my residence and I traded with him out of both. For I have a fanchy to his horse, and when I have got him down from sixty dollars to forty he asked to boot betwix his'n and mine, I says to him, 'Mr. Martyn, ef you'll fling in that kervat you got on, it's a trade'; for because I have took a fanchy also to that on account of its spottled dots, and he said he would, and then we lumped; and I brung it along with me a not knowing how many unuseless questions I might be asked."

"Silence!" cried the sheriff.

Then the judge, calling to him the solicitor, whispered:

"Don't you see that you have no case? I know who that man is, and with all his levity he is respectable

The officer, descending, said:

"I've no further question for the witness and nothing to say to the jury."

"Nor I," said Davison.

"Hand the presentment to the jury," said the judge, and when this was done he continued: "Gentlemen, if you believe the testimony of the last witness, which you are required to do when not impeached nor denied, you are bound to acquit the defendant. Retire and consider your verdict."

Within not more time than was taken in writing it, they returned, answering, "Not guilty."

The crowd lifted shouts. Only Isaac bowed his head in his hand.

"O Will, Will!" he said, "you don't know how it pained me to think of your suffering."

"It was nothing, Cousin Ike, and it is all over now."

"I wish it were," he answered in a whisper.

Mr. Wicker stayed during the remainder of the day, and with pleasure, in successive knots, let himself be admired for accuracy and eloquence with which he repeated the testimony, dwelling always with fondness on the cravat with the spottled dots. In spite of some homesickness, he felt reluctance in leaving the people to whom he had made himself so interesting. Slowly riding through the village next morning, he graciously bowed and waved adieus to all, and, after emerging, put his new steed into a steady pace for Jasper County.

Part 8

The question by whom Morgan Kelsey had been shot became as grave if not as pressing as at the beginning. The fact of a citizen of an adjoining county, while visiting peacefully at the house of a relative in this, being assassinated under cover of night, was painful to the whole community. Aware of this, and especially noting the anxiety on Isaac Rountree's mind, Martyn went away. Not that Isaac had thus advised, for he had never mentioned the negro's name since the day when informed of his master's suspicions regarding him. But Martyn well knew the embarrassment which a man so serious and so reputable must feel at the idea of giving even tacit assent to hiding from public justice the perpetrator of such a crime, and so he withdrew and returned to his people.

"Your name is Joe, now," he said to the negro, "and it's a case of life and death to drop Abe."

"Dat so, Marse Will? Well, den I draps her. My name Joe from dis out."

All except Isaac among the friends were pleased with the condition in which the case now stood. A far more thoughtful and scrupulous man than any of them, he felt keenly that the imputation of murder committed by revenge must cling to his family, vague as it might be. One day, while giving to Thomas Wyrick expression of this feeling, the latter said:

"Ike, such a notion as that is utterly absurd, so it strikes me. Will Martyn said that he told you who shot Morgan Kelsey."

"Did Will tell you also?"

"He did, the night before he left."

"I knew he would tell somebody. The fellow can't keep a secret. Did you agree with his suspicions?"

"Why, I haven't a doubt. The fact is, I suspected as soon as I found that Will didn't do it. When I saw that he intended to run Abe, then I knew it, and didn't need his telling."

"But there it is, Tom. People have no doubt that the action was done by some one among the near friends of James Rountree. They don't suspect Abe, and I tell you now that if Abe did it he ought to suffer for it, as I intimated to Will. As he is gone, and doubtless will be out of the way for good, I am not sure but that it ought to be believed, at least suspected, so as to take off suspicion from the whole family, and allow the law, if it can find him, the penalty that he deserves--if indeed he is guilty."

"Deserves! Ike Rountree, you're the strangest man I do believe in this blessed world. Joining the church or something else has made of you a kind of crank, if you'll excuse me, or if you won't. That poor negro has upon his back and will carry to the grave the scars left by Morgan Kelsey's cowhide for the triflingest, pitifulest offense that ever was committed. By blood! if he was to be tried for killing him, and I was on the jury, I'll swear that I'd hang there from July to eternity before I'd go for convicting him; and there's many another man in this county would do the same. As for the people suspecting Abe, they are certain to do it after a while. Such things as that can't

"Ah, Tom, you go on the idea of revenge! That is just what the Infinite Being whose name you invoke does not allow even for great injuries, no more than the law of the land does. Oh me!" he said with great bitterness, "the whole thing has been a continued series of misfortunes."

"But who started them? My Lord! Ike Rountree, who started them? To say nothing of that humble slave, who I repeat that I am thankful has gone where no sheriff or constable can ever find him, with his flesh keeping witness to the meanest brutality that a white man can commit, what am I to say about Jimmy shot down like a dog in that man's horse-lot, and about his wife and child that the same bullet killed? Ike, you almost make me mad sometimes by the way you talk and behave."

"You don't understand me, Tom. You know nothing at all about me. The death of my brother affected me more painfully than anybody else, not, I really believe, excepting mother; for it destroyed a double hope. But my sense of most binding obligations has made me strive to subdue all resentment for that first murder; for that it was a murder most foul I say to you now--what I did not say in that man's lifetime, I do say now and only to you, I fully believe. But--but--but--"

He looked up toward heaven with crimson cheek, then extending his hand as if in deprecation, said:

"You made me say too much, Tom. I ought not

After a few moments he continued, softly:

"Poor dear Jimmy! He had built many fair hopes, and I had begun to indulge myself in one which, after his death, when it was too late, I found to have had a promise that I had not known or believed. With him was fruition, brief though it was: with me was only a dream. The blasting of these, in its inscrutable purposes, was permitted by Divine Providence. I have striven to submit, and to some degree have succeeded, at what sacrifice is known, outside of my own breast, to God alone. It has been hard for a nature like mine not to resist, when resistance would seem to have led me, if even temporarily, to a bliss as exquisite as that of my poor dear brother's had been. God knows how the strife is to end. Now that suspicion has been taken off Will, for which I am profoundly thankful, and cast upon Abram, I feel bewildered sometimes to know what is becoming an honorable, God-fearing man to do, or not to do."

"I can tell you what is becoming for you to do, Ike, if you'll listen to me. Will you?"

"I'll listen, Tom, certainly; but be careful what you say."

He was almost trembling as he said these words, looking away from his companion.

"Go and realize your dream which ought to have been realized a year ago. Susan Kelsey has been waiting and waiting for you to come, and you owe it to her as well as to yourself to--"

"Stop, Tom, stop! I can't bear to have my own

Then he went away slowly.

"There goes," said Wyrick, "a very king among men; but, my Lord! by what notions is he beset! He tries to persuade himself that that negro ought to be hung, when he knows he oughtn't, and would spend his last dollar to prevent it, and then be eaten by remorse for doing it. He loves that girl with all his soul, and is obliged to know that he can get her for just another asking; but his pride or his religion makes him prefer the misery it is to him to live without her. I have no patience with a religion that pulls a good man to pieces in that way! Such as that can't last without his losing his balance. Indeed, I'm afraid it is tottering already."

Before many weeks had passed suspicion, as Wyrick had predicted, did attach itself to the negro, when men began to reproach themselves for not so deciding immediately after the trial. Yet none doubted that his disappearance was to be perpetual. In time public anxiety subsided with the dissolving of the mystery, and, hearing what wrong the boy had suffered, did not complain severely of his escape.

General expectation now awaited the marriage of Isaac and Susan. Even Mr. Burge was anxious for it.

"Them two is jes the two finest young people I

IX.

All pitied the life that had been led by Susan during these trials with more earnestness and respectfulness because of the beauty of character which enabled her to endure them without exhibition of the suffering which they knew she was obliged to feel. To her mother in her swift decline she devoted herself with tenderest assiduity, and it consoled her much to note with what affectionate gratitude at last this was accepted. Mrs. Kelsey, as she had said, did not take any interest in the trial of William Martyn. Supposing him to have been guilty, she regarded his action as done in obedience to the inevitable fate which she had believed herself to foresee. If not entirely indifferent to the coming trial, she regarded it not only useless, but as no part of her duty, to interfere in any manner. When told of the acquittal, after sincere expressions of gratulation, she felt as before regarding the negro upon whom the charge had descended, with no concern that he had made his escape, thankful only that suspicion had been removed from the family and friends of James Rountree. She was deeply impressed by what was told her of the honorable conduct of Isaac throughout, and it became her earnest wish

One day, when they had been talking together for some time, Mrs. Kelsey said:

"O my child, why had we to wait so long for this confidence?"

As soon as she had learned of what had passed between Isaac and Susan, and the latter had confessed the feeling for him that rose afterward, she proposed to send for Isaac, but Susan could not get her own consent. Without waiting for answer, the mother continued:

"If you had only told Isaac that day that you loved him, or that you could learn to love him, what it might have saved to all! Not to your brother, I mean; no, not to him! For he, poor, poor Morgan, was under a bond which could not be broken nor avoided. I was just as sure that that bond would be paid as I am now that it has been. But for yourself, for Isaac, who, as everybody says, is cast down with melancholy, and not so much for the death of his brother as for the loss of you; and then--yes, how much better for me, poor me! Why, why didn't you, O my darling Susan?"

"I wish I had done so; but, mother, then I knew not that I loved Isaac." Her cheeks crimsoned at the confession, even in that sacred presence. Continuing, she said:

"I told Isaac that I would be his wife, and I have

"I wish I had known it! Oh, that I had known it! But I had never won my daughters' confidence as I ought to have done. Your father used to say I was wrong in not trying harder than I did to win it. But somehow it always seemed as if I didn't know how. God knows that I loved you both as much as Morgan, who was so different. Many and many a time have I wished that, like you and Emily, he had inherited his father's open nature instead of taking mine, which never could express what I felt, especially when it was affectionate and fond. Nobody knows what losses befall such natures, nor how sorely they are felt. Still, I wish from my heart that I had known how it stood with you and Isaac, who, even before that first dreadful day, I hoped would be my son-in-law, although not knowing that he wanted to be. I could have done what in the circumstances you believed that you could not, but what, for the sake of you both, ought to have been done. And I tell you solemnly, Susan, that it ought to be done now. Oh, may a merciful God forgive all my neglect!"

Intent upon answering these self-reproaches, Susan said: "Mother dear, neither I nor Emily ever doubted your affection. Father, if we had, would have reassured us. He spoke to us often of how devotedly you loved all your children. Emily, you remember, confided to you her love for Jimmy. As for me, alas! I did not know until too late that I had any to confide, and even that was when you were utterly prostrate with grief.

"Well, well, my child, I will not, at least in words." She lay awhile in silence. "Susan," at length she said, "I want to see Isaac before I go, and I tell you now that my remnant is shorter than the doctor or anybody else believes. I want to talk with him about another matter. You know how I've made my will. Won't you be willing for me to send for him?"

After some waiting, Susan answered:

"Mother, if you feel that you ought to see Isaac, or if such is your earnest wish, I make no further objection to your sending him a request to come. It has seemed to me that at least he might have sent a messenger to inquire about the condition of your health. Still, they say that he seldom goes from home, and perhaps he thinks that such a message would not be expected of him. Send for him, mother, if you wish; but I hope that you will not make to him any allusion to the feeling that I have confessed; that is, unless he will have said either to you or to me that that which he had for me is unchanged."

"Certainly, my child. That would be entirely proper. That it is unchanged I have not a doubt. I do wish to see him about my business, and that will easily open the door to him. Cousin Redding Burge said to us last week, you remember, that Isaac had told him of his intention to come before very long. Now I feel better. If it could please God, I'd love to live, if only a little longer."

She became silent, but her face lit up with a cheerfulness that Susan never had seen upon it before. In

"Send for Isaac, and tell him I say--"

The rest was an inaudible whisper.

A widowed relative had been staying in the house for several weeks, and it was now decided that for the present she would make it her home. As had been expected, none of the Rountree family were at the funeral; but Mr. Burge told Susan that in all his life he had never seen one so much affected as Isaac was when he informed him of the news. Indeed, it was a heavy blow. Often when alone he cried:

"I ought to have gone there! Oh, I ought to have gone there!"

"Won't you go to the funeral, my son? I think I would. Some of us ought, it seems to me."

"No, no, mother! I can't go there now, and I'd rather that none of the family went. They would expect me, if any, and I think they can hardly expect me. When my feelings can get somewhat composed I will go. It was my intention to do so before now, but I kept putting it off. Perhaps it is as well that I did not, but I will go before long, if I live." Yet, to her great disappointment, he continued to delay. A month later a letter was brought to him from the mail. Exhibiting much agitation, he looked for some time at the address before opening. It read thus:"

" White Oak, January 30, 1832.

" Dear Mr. Rountree: I suppose that you may not have heard that my mother left a will in which you are

"Very respectfully,
Susan Kelsey.

" Mr. Isaac Rountree."

He was reading in his Bible when the letter was brought. When he had finished perusing it he rose suddenly, laid the open book upon the table, and looked as if he were appalled. Several times he read it over, in the intervals absorbed in reflection. Occasionally he got upon his knees and seemed to be anguishing with prayer, frequently crying in a low tone: "How long, O Lord! how long!" It was late in the afternoon. Once he rose and went to the meadow below the spring; but hardly had he reached it than he suddenly stopped, turned, and walking rapidly back, entered his room, closed the door, and threw himself again upon his knees, while he searched and read several passages from the Old Testament. When they sent to call him for supper, he rose, and, after bathing his face and readjusting his clothes, went into the house. His conversation while at the supper-table was little different from the usual. Only his mother, who had become very anxious about him, noticed the slightly deeper shadow upon his face, but, knowing that he so preferred, endeavored to ignore it. With her younger sons she sought to enliven him with cheerful conversation. Occasionally he smiled, from affectionateness, but for the most part ate his simple

"Did brother tell you, mother, from whom came the letter he received this evening?" asked John.

"No, my son; but that or something else has made him seem rather more serious than common. Do you know?"

"I think it is from Miss Susan Kelsey. When Jim brought it from the post-office I looked to see to whom it was addressed. It was in a female hand, and had on it the indorsement of the post-office there."

"I doubt if it came from Susan. If it is, she must have written something that gave him pain. I hope that this letter will take him down there. If he and Susan can once get together, I shall feel confident that they will soon come to an understanding. I've always regretted that he and she didn't marry soon after the death of poor Jimmy. Old Mr. Burge tells people that Mrs. Kelsey felt the same way about it. It might and I've no doubt would have prevented--but it is not worth while to talk about that now. Isaac has a peculiar nature, and he has to be left to work out the case for himself if it is ever to be worked out at all. But for the uncommon seriousness upon his face to-night I should feel in better hope, provided the letter was from Susan. The dear child for a year has been behaving toward me whenever we have met as if she had something that she would be glad to tell me. As it is now I feel that the matter is in as much uncertainty as ever. Do not, either of you, allude to the letter in his hearing."

This counsel was needless. His brothers never so

His was indeed a peculiar case. His affection for Susan had grown with the intensity which silence always imparts to the love of such a man. For some months had he been believing that he was loved by her, and many a time had he regretted that he had not taken her when she made of herself an offering to him. At other times his pride, more than that, his religious scruples, made him feel as if he ought rather to glory in the sacrifice which he was making, as well for his own sake as that of the memory of his brother. A daily reader and student of the Bible, known to be used to earnest, devoted prayer, yet he would never consent to be made a deacon of the church, nor take any public part in its congregated worship, even when with only a few gathered at a prayer-meeting. He had grown more and more reserved in intercourse both abroad and at home. A man of extraordinary business qualities, he had begun to devolve upon his next younger brother the general management of plantation affairs, sometimes, when giving advice asked for, lapsing into indifference or absence of mind that put much anxiety on his mother. He had heard with deep regret of the decline of Mrs. Kelsey. He believed that he understood her character better than it had become known to her children, and therefore had sympathized in all her grief. He had decided that at some time he would go to her and open all his heart, as afterward he opened it to Susan; for, always having high respect for her, he had been much affected by her forbearance in the case of William Martyn. It has been seen what a shock her death had

Part 10

In this while no word about the Kelseys passed between him and his mother. At breakfast she saw his riding horse led to the gate, and she noticed that he was dressed with more care than usual. As he was about to leave he said:

"Mother, I am going down to see Miss Susan Kelsey to-day. In a letter which I received from her on Tuesday are mentioned some matters of business concerning the estate left by her mother, about which she wishes, and it is proper for us, to confer. I expect to return to-night, but it may be late. If I am not here by the usual bedtime, I beg that neither you nor either of the boys will sit up for me. Please insist upon that with them, won't you, mother?"

"Certainly, Isaac. I am glad that you are going there, my son; indeed I am."

"I have been thinking for some time of doing so, and I wish I had gone before Mrs. Kelsey's death. Perhaps it is best that I did not. Such things for their happening or not depend upon influences that we can not always control. Does it surprise when I tell you that Mrs. Kelsey appointed me sole executor of her will? It did so to me, very much."

"Somewhat, Isaac. Not very much. She knew of your capacity for business and your integrity. Then she preferred Susan to have your counsel and assistance rather than those of any other, feeling convinced, I suppose, what everybody else believes, that you love each other."

"Neither of these have I known except in so far as my own feelings have been concerned. Of what are Miss Susan's I shall endeavor to satisfy myself very soon, perhaps during this visit. It may be as well that none except yourselves should know whither I am going. However," he added, after a moment's reflection, "it matters not."

He was apparently calm, as if a question that long had been of incertitude was nearing a decision.

"I've no doubt," said the mother, cheerfully, "that all will end rightly. Nothing has been needed but for you to go there. It makes me happier than I have felt in two years. Give Susan my love, and tell her I long--tell her what you think best in the circumstances."

"I'll do both, mother. But meanwhile don't let your heart become fixed too fondly upon--upon any wish connected with me. It has been in the will of the Almighty that these two families should suffer sore disappointments. That these are not ended I fear. I have been afraid to pursue happiness in the ways in which other men are wont to seek it, since the fate of James and Emily. But I will not anticipate what to-day or the brief future will bring forth. I hope to be guided whither it entirely comports with the destiny of God for me to go, into whose hands, not without shuddering reluctance, a year ago I resigned myself. You, dear mother, have practiced the fortitude that was becoming a spirit innocently smitten, and I never have a doubt that you will be securely supported, whatever is to betide others. I go this morning feeling as if I would leave everything to God. He knows it, and I hope that he will point out to me my way. I have often

He went to her and kissed her cheek reverently.

"My darling Isaac!" she said with tears, "I can not imagine any temptation to come to you when in the presence of that dear girl except to be overjoyed at the thought of making her your wife. It is all that you need to get out of the gloom that has overshadowed you

He smiled sadly, then, without other word, went away. She was anxious, yet she believed that, scrupulous as he had become, he was frightened with the excess of his delight in expectation of being about to realize what she knew to be the choicest wish of his life. Yet she was anxious, and during the rest of that day yearned like Monica over the beloved Augustine.

He rode along at his usual gait, stopping for a chat with one and another of his acquaintances whom he met, pleased even to thankfulness with the consideration which all loved to bestow upon him. To those who inquired whither he was journeying he answered directly, as if it were a matter of too little importance to lead him to shun the gratification of simple curiosity. As he drew near the end of his journey he diverged from the main road and went to the house that last had been occupied by his brother. A man named Ryals, who was the general overseer, now dwelt there with his family. It was near their hour for dinner, and Isaac was invited to partake of it. With the unstudied graciousness that had made him beloved of all in humble conditions, he answered:

"Thank you, Mr. Ryals, I will. It occurred to me that, as I was on my way to the house beyond, I would ride by to see, and, with your good wife's permission, enter once again the house wherein my brother spent his last few months. You know how we all are about such things, Mr. Ryals."

"Cert'nly, Mr. Rountree, I know all about that. It's a pleasure to me to this day to go by where my father's

Isaac entered, and saluted the wife with accustomed politeness. During the meal, in the intervals of chatting with the hosts, he let his eyes wander about the room. After dinner he spent more than an hour walking around with Mr. Ryals, and answering his many inquiries. At length said the latter:

"Miss Susan have been a ruther a-expectin' you to come down for three or four days. I put a letter in the office she writ to you last--last Saddy I think it were. Yes, it were last Saddy, as I went by thar on my way to the blacksmith-shop to have some scooters p'inted. I 'lowed you'd git it about a Monday, or maybe not tell a Chuesday, and if so be, you'd come down a We'nesday or a Thursday if it were convenant. She said it were on business about the prop'ty. I no doubts that you heern of Missis Kelsey a ap'intin' you as her eg'zector, and willin' you half what she left."

Aghast, Isaac stopped suddenly.

"What do you say, Mr. Ryals? Did Mrs. Kelsey bequeath any of her property to me?"

"Why, yes, sir, Mr. Rountree, I thought you must a knowed it, else I'd a left it for Miss Susan to tell you. Why, cert'nly, Miss Susan told me so with her own mouth, I think it's been three weeks ago, and my wife say she told her that she were glad her mother have done it. For I do think she's jes the onselfishest and the finest young 'oman I ever see in my born days, and my wife say the same, make no odds who she is nor whar she live. And it's a monst'ous nice piece o' prop'ty, and if the 'state owe ary single dollar, exceptin' for her ma's coffin, Miss Susan say she don't know it, and I got the money now to pay that the first time I come up with Jimmy Pullum, that he made it, and I don't know when I see a nicer coffin, which Miss Susan she jes would see to the tackin' on the cloth, inside and out, and she had it linded with satin that come out of her ma's weddin' frock, which Missis Kelsey have left them directions, and I never see a calmer nor a nicer corpse, and as for Miss Susan, I do think she were the whitest and beautifulest, which it seem to me she have jes come down from heaven to see her ma put away, and a-waitin' when the buryin' were over to go back. Yes, sir, Mr. Rountree, Missis Kelsey have left you half the prop'ty, well as 'pi'ntin' you eg'zector. No doubts about that, nor them."

"I bid you good-day, Mr. Ryals," said Isaac, who extended his hand before the man had finished his last speech. "Make my respects to your wife, if you please."

Remounting his horse, he rode slowly away. Instead of proceeding to the mansion, he, after brief deliberation, returned to the highway from which he had

"It has to be done, and the sooner the better." Then, spurring deep, he dashed furiously on until within a few rods of the gate, when, reining in, he advanced at becoming pace.

XI.

Susan was looking for him with great longing. She knew more of his life than he had supposed. Never distrusting the continuance of his passion, she pitied the sufferings endured by him in the long silence which peculiar conditions had imposed, and the more because of the gush with which the modestest woman, when one dear love has departed, accepts the return of another far sweeter. Anticipating his relief when told of the dying wish of her mother, she meant to ignore the embarrassment which both were to feel after so long absence, and let him see that now she had nothing but love to exhibit. When he alighted, she was standing

"O Isaac!" she said with trembling voice, "I am so glad to see you again!"

She quivered slightly as one of his cold hands took hers, and he looked sadly into her face. More embarrassed than she had expected to be, because of his constraint, she said:

"I rather looked for you to come sooner. Have you not been well?"

"I've been well, Susan, but I could not get away until to-day."

Turning, she put herself by his side and they went into the house, he assisting her to ascend the steps as he would have done with any other woman. When they were seated, looking at her with sorrowful intensity, he asked about her health.

"I am quite well, Isaac, very well."

Turning his eyes about the room he said:

"Will our conversation be within hearing of any one else but ourselves? I ask on your account mainly. I have something to say that perhaps you might prefer that none others should hear. And you have some things to say to me, have you not?"

"Yes, when you have spoken yours and would like to hear them. Wait a moment, please."

She arose and entered an adjoining chamber. Presently she returned, and, resuming her seat, said:

"My friend who is staying with me has gone out of

She noted how he was remarking her sweet beauty, and in spite of some disappointment in his greeting her eyes shone with the happiness that the sight imparted.

"I haven't yet asked how are your mother and your brothers."

"Well, all well. Mother asked me to give you her love. She began upon another message, but, perhaps thinking it might embarrass me to deliver it along with the first, did not finish, but said I might tell you from her what I thought proper." He smiled faintly and added, "She loves you very much, as much, I suspect, as she loved our sister Emily."

"It is very, very kind of her. I love her dearly."

"I am glad to hear you say so, though I believed so. Dear mother has been needing all the support of that sort that she could get, and will so continue. I know that she will be much gratified when I report to her what you have said. I came down partly to confer with you about the business of which you wrote me; but mainly on another which concerns--myself, at least, more nearly. I had wished and so intended to come to see your mother, and I think I would have done so, but that her decline was more rapid than I knew of. I had been hoping to see you both together. It surprised me much to hear that I had been named executor of her will, but much more so an hour ago when, having come by the place where James and Emily lived, Mr. Ryals informed me of the legacy which she had bequeathed to me."

"I don't know that either should have greatly surprised you, Isaac."

"Did she know of the feeling that once I had declared to have for you? If she did, of course she was obliged to know that it must have continued."

"She knew all that had ever passed between us. I told her of everything."

"You knew, I suppose, of her intended action in my behalf?"

"Certainly, and approved it cordially."

"Then you knew also that the feeling I had for you yet remained."

"I believed so, Isaac; I hoped so."

Quickly, as if to ignore her deeper blushing, he said:

"It is true I have continued to love you, perhaps with increased earnestness, if such were possible."

"My belief was founded upon knowing the persistence of your character, not upon anything that I have seen or heard of your saying or doing. I hoped so, because after our last meeting I found that my feelings responded to yours entirely. In the confidence that necessarily rose between mother and myself after so many misfortunes, our hearts were opened to each other, and I reproached myself both for not having studied myself more carefully and for not sending for you and confessing what I felt."

"O Susan, Susan, Susan!" he said, with sudden animation, "why did you not? Why did you not until now, when--when--"

His voice quivered, and his eyes were moist with the emotion by which he was stirred.

"But not yet, not quite yet! Your mother, then, would have approved our