The Bishop and the Boogerman

"'That's why you see these shoes lookin' like they're spang new'"

"Why, I should have thought that a man who is studying to be a bishop," said old Jonas, sharply, "would think himself above blacking anybody's shoes."

"It may be so, suh, in some parts of the country and amongst some people, but it ain't that-away wid me—I may come to it, suh, but I ain't come to it yit."

Randall finished the shoes, and offered to black those of the other men present, but they declined, and then old Jonas fished around in his pocket for a shin-plaster small enough to fit the job that had been done. He found a ragged one that faintly promised to pay the bearer five cents on demand, but Randall recoiled from it, and held up his hands in protest. "No, suh! Oh, no, suh! It was wuth all I done jest to hear you-all gentermens talkin' kinder friendly like. Ef you-all had all the trouble I uv done had, all the time dodgin' an' lookin roun' cornders fer fear er Mr. Tuttle er some er his kinnery—he's got um all up dar whar I been—you'd be mo' than thankful for to hear some un talkin' like de nex' minnit ain't 'gwine ter be de las'. I done got it proned inter me that I'm gwine for to be Ku-Klucked long 'fo' I have gray ha'r. You dunner how nice it is for to have white folks talkin' like they ain't gwine to kill you yet awhile."

To any one who knew little of the negro race, Randall's remarks would have sounded tremendously like a sly joke, with a little irony thrown in for good measure; but though the negro's voice was soft and deliberate, he was terribly in earnest, and those who heard him understood and appreciated this simple recital of a harrowing experience already behind him, and his lively fear of something worse to come.

"Well, when you get to be a bishop," remarked old Jonas, "I expect you to come and black my shoes."

"I'll do it, suh, an' be glad to do it. Des take yo' stan' anywhere, jest so it's a public place, an' holla at me, an' tell me you want yo' shoes blacked. I'll do it, suh, in the face of ten thousand."

"I believe you would!" exclaimed old Jonas almost gleefully.

"You don't hafter b'lieve me, suh; jest holla at me, an' yo shoes'll be blacked."

With that, Randall started out of the room, but Mr. Sanders raised his hand. "B'ar in mind, Boogerman, that you're not to leave the lot after dark. Old Tuttle is a rank Radical, an' a nigger-lover for what revenue thar is in it, but he's fixin' up his tricks for to give you a taste of the Radical-Republican movement, an' he's got to be watched. We'll do the watchin' ef you'll do the hidin'."

"I'll be more than glad to do that, suh," said Randall, with invincible politeness—"mo' than glad. I uv got so now, sence freedom come, that I can hide most as good as I can eat; an' when I say that, you may know it means sump'n."

"I reckon it does," said old Jonas, "something to me!"

Randall laughed pleasantly, and bowed himself out. In a moment the men in the sitting-room heard him talking to Adelaide in the entry.

"My goodness, little mistiss! A little mo' an' you'd a skeer'd me crooked—an' I ain't right straight now. I had de idee that I was to be the Boogerman, but ef you go on this-a-way, you'll be the Boogerman."

"Oho!" laughed Adelaide; "don't you know that a young lady could never be a Boogerman?"

"Well, I declare!" Randall exclaimed almost joyously; "that certainly is so in these days of tribulation. But that ain't all; I uv got a bigger Boogerman than you uv got. How is Miss Cally-Lou?"

"Oh, shucks!" replied Adelaide, "you don't have to call her miss; she ain't right white. Don't you see her standing here by me?"

"Well, suh!" exclaimed the Boogerman in the tone of one who has just made a remarkable discovery. "Ef I don't, I most does; an' when you git that close to Cally-Lou it's the same as seein' her. She don't look right well to me," said the Boogerman at a venture.

"Then you do see her," remarked Adelaide; "she hasn't been well for a day or two."

"Make her git outdoors, an' take the fresh air," suggested the Boogerman.

This suggestion seemed to meet the views of Adelaide, for she went out into the yard, crying, "Come along, Cally-Lou! Come along!"

Old Jonas stirred uneasily in his chair, "Do you know, Sanders," he said, "that my grandmother had a little mulatto girl named Cally-Lou. As I remember her, she was the smartest little thing that ever ran about on two legs. I wonder——" Old Jonas paused, and Mr. Sanders didn't give him time to straighten out his thought.

"No, Jonas; you don't wonder, an' you needn't pertend to. Nuther here nor here-arter, will that sorter thing work. When I ketch you wonderin', I'll know you've took one of them infectious diseases that you read about. You could see Cally-Lou, an' so could I, if our gizzards was in the right place. But I kin say as much as that nigger did—I mighty nigh seed her. Folks tell me that you kin see the wind ef you'll take a handsaw at the right time of day, an' hold it so the breeze kin blow over it. I an't got the least doubt that we could see a heap of things that we never do see, ef we know'd when, an' whar, an' how to look."

The three men were silent a long time until Lawyer Tidwell remarked, with something that sounded like a sigh, "I reckon we'd better be going, Mr. Sanders." They went away, leaving old Jonas alone in the house. He neither bade them good-bye, nor turned his head when they went. But when he heard the door shut, he went to the window, as if to make sure they had really gone; and when he was satisfied on this point, he shuffled to the back porch, and called for Randall. The negro came silent, but wondering. For years he had been in a state of uneasy expectation, and he found it almost impossible to free himself from it now. Old Jonas was blunt and brief.

"Go over to the courthouse, walk into the Ordinary's office, and ask if Mr. Sanders and Lawyer Tidwell have been there. As a matter of fact, they haven't been there, and they are not going there, but old Tuttle will think they are coming and he'll be worried about it. I want you to show yourself to him just once. Answer every question he asks you. Tell him where you are staying; say that I have employed you; but pretend you don't know him. Then walk around the public square, and through the town, make yourself known to some of your coloured friends, and come right back here and go to work about the lot and yard just as if you had been here a long time."

Randall made no reply; he merely stood scratching his head, and fumbling with his hat trying hard to come to some understanding, however dim, of the motive and purpose that lay behind old Jonas's command; but, try as he would, he couldn't make out the puzzle that seemed to envelope and becloud his mind. Still fumbling with his hat, and standing on first one foot and then the other, he remarked, with some hesitation, "Well, suh, I'll go ef it's yo' will—but you know what St. Paul (er it may be St. Second Timothy) tells us. He tells us, one er both, for to go not whether we'll be treated contretemptous, not by day an' not by night—Paul er St. Second Timothy, one er both."

Old Jonas regarded the negro with amazement; for the first time in his life he had a whiff of the kind of education the negroes were picking up here and there.

That, or something else irritated him, and he spoke with some heat. "Well, confound you! do just as you please! Go or don't go—you're free, I reckon. But if you do go, say to old Tuttle that you're glad to see him looking so well. You are a Republican, I reckon?"

"Yes, sir," replied Randall, with some degree of hesitation; "ef you put it that way, I speck I is. Nobody ain't never gi' me no chanst for to be anything else. I jest did squeeze in the Northron Methodist Church; ef I'd 'a' had on a long coat, the tail would 'a' been ketched in the crack of the door. All these here new doin's an' new fashions makes me feel right ticklish, an' sometimes I ketch myself laughin' when they ain't nothin' to laugh at, an' it took me long for to find out that when you laugh in the wrong place it's because you ought to be cryin' by good rights. All this has been gwine on now some time, an' I done come to that pass that when a piece of paper blows round the cornder right sudden, I mighty nigh jump out'n my skin. I'm tellin' you the plain truth, suh! An' now, after all this, you want me to put on what little cloze I got an' walk right into Mr. Tuttle's jaws—the identual man that I've been runnin' fum I dunner how long—him that I come mighty nigh joltin' across—I done forgot what St. Luke (or maybe it wuz St. Mark—they run so close together in the book that I skacely know t'other fum which). Anyhow, they's a Bible name for the thing you want me to do; an' I tell you right now, I dunner whether for to do it or not. You white folks don't keer much what you do—I've done took notice of that; but when it comes down to a plain nigger, why, he's got to walk as thin as a batter cake; he's got to step like he's afeard of stickin' a needle in his foot. I'm tellin' you the truth, suh; I been dodgin' an' hidin' so long that when I hear anybody walkin' fast behind me, the flesh crawls on my back—yes, suh, natchally crawls—an' I have to hol' my breath for to keep fum breakin' loose an' runnin'. I'll go there, suh, an' I hope it'll be all right; but I never is to forget what St. Paul (or it may be St. Second Timothy) says on that head."

Old Jonas frowned heavily, and further betrayed his irritation by a smothered malediction that included the entire negro race. Randall waited for no further outbreak; he melted, as it were, from the doorway, and disappeared as far as old Jonas was concerned, but Adelaide, who was sitting in a little bower she had made for herself, saw him standing by the fence gazing into space. The child after awhile turned her attention to play, but Randall held his ground for a long time, looking into the bright sky far beyond the bermuda hills for a proper solution of the problem he had in his mind. But it was a problem that the windy spaces with their blue perspective could not solve, and so, with a sigh, he betook himself to the courthouse, where the man whose life he had nearly taken was now holding forth as an officer of the law. The slave-driver had become a belated Unionist, then a Republican, and was now a Radical of the stripe and temper of poor Thaddeus Stevens, who was at that time the centre and motor of Radical politics.

Now, Mr. Tuttle was by no means asleep; he had watched and waited for the return of Randall. He carried in his pocket book a warrant, duly made out and officially signed, for the arrest of the negro. The charge was assault with intent to murder. He saw Randall long before Randall saw him, called the deputy sheriff, who had a room across the corridor, apprised him of the fact that a criminal was to be arrested, pulled from his pocket-book the wrong document, and the moment the negro entered the courthouse he found himself in custody of the dread officer of the law. To say that he was frightened would be putting it rather mildy; he was paralysed with sickening fear, which was only overcome by desperate rage against the white people, all and singular, who had caused him to walk into such a trap.

The park in which the courthouse stands was separated from the rest of the public square by a small, neat fence, over which, at the entrances, steps led, so that instead of opening a gate, you simply walked up the steps, over the fence, and down on the other side. On top of the most frequented of these stiles or steps Mr. Sanders and Lawyer Tidwell were sitting. Lawyer Tidwell was on his way to the courthouse for the purpose of examining some legal documents relating to a case he had on the docket, and Mr. Sanders had accompanied him as far as the enclosure. Their conversation grew so interesting that they finally seated themselves on the topmost step of the stile. They may have been talking of something serious, or they may have been relating anecdotes; but whatever the character of their conference, it was brought to a sudden conclusion by the appearance of the deputy sheriff with his humble and unresisting prisoner. The deputy had a fine and high opinion of the dignity of his position; he magnified his office. "Make way, gentlemen!" he cried, and stood waiting for Mr. Sanders and the lawyer to move respectfully aside.

Both men looked up, but it was left to Mr. Sanders to express the surprise of each. "What in the confounded nation does this mean?" he exclaimed, rising to a standing position, and facing the officer and prisoner.

The prisoner was ahead of the deputy with a reply: "It means lots mo' to me than what it do to anybody else, suh," Randall declared, drawing in a deep breath, as if, in that way, he could control his emotion. "Whar I come frum they warned me ag'in' all white folks, bofe Republican an' Dimmycrat. They say, 'You go an' preach the straight gospel, an' let 'em alone when they talk anything else but the Saviour an' Him crucified; they tol' me that, an' now you see me! But for that little white child down yander, I wouldn't be here now. But here I is, an' here I'll stay, an' I'll be nuther the fust nor the last that was flung to the lions. Look at Daniel, an' see what he done! Yes, suh! I'm right here!"

"Well, now, you jest hold up your head an' put your hat on sideways ef you want to," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Gus!" he said, turning to the lawyer, with something like a frown on his bland countenance, "here's a whole bunch of business that's fell right in our laps. An' it's all in your line, too; but ef you can't do nothin', why, then, I'll take up the loose ends an' see what I kin do wi' 'em. I'll tell you right now," he went on, turning to the deputy sheriff, "when you take this nigger to jail, you'll take me, too—you or the man that's waitin' for your job. Make no mistake about that!"

A number of negroes who had been talking together near the courthouse drew nearer when they saw one of their colour held prisoner. One of them was the negro member of the Legislature, and he was curious to know what the trouble was—curious and sympathetic, too, for he somehow felt that as the representative of the race in the county, he was responsible for the welfare of each individual. When Lawyer Tidwell thought that the negroes were near enough to hear everything that was said, he rose from his seat on the stile, and impressively shook his leonine mane. "What do you propose to do with this boy?" he inquired.

"I'm taking him to jail," the deputy replied, with a little relapse from dignity due to the unwonted aspect of Mr. Tidwell and Mr. Sanders. The lawyer demanded by what authority he had arrested the negro, and asked to see the warrant. By this time a considerable crowd of coloured people had gathered around, and when the warrant was produced, Mr. Tidwell created a considerable sensation by the tone of indignation he assumed and by the dramatic gestures with which he denounced such proceedings.

"Do you call this a warrant?" he cried, striking the document with the back of his hand. Then with threatening forefinger, held under the deputy's nose, he went on: "Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you arrest people, and run them into jail with such scraps of paper as this is? Deprive them of their rights under the constitution without giving them a chance to be heard at a preliminary trial?" Lawyer Tidwell's voice grew higher, and his indignation seemed to rise higher, as he contemplated the rampant injustice of the period, of which this proceeding was a very small part. "Mark my words!" he exclaimed; "you'll go to jail before this boy does! You know just as well as I do that this is no warrant. You know it isn't properly made out, nor even properly signed. I tell you again, the man that issued it will be impeached, and the man that served it will occupy the same cell. You'll know a thing or two worth remembering when I get through with you!" The lawyer's whole attitude was menacing, and it made precisely the impression he had intended it should. He turned to Randall. "What party do you vote with?"

"Wid the party of Aberham Lincoln, suh; an' if you want to know why, turn to St. Paul (or it may be St. Second Timothy—one or the other) an' you'll see where the brotherin is begged an' commanded for to stand by one another in all manner of trial an' tribulation. In them days, suh, they grit one another wi' a holy kiss; but in these times—la! holy kissin' is done played out like a hoss that went through the war!"

At this point the negro legislator, in order to keep up his reputation for representing his race, spoke up. "Frien', what has you been doin', an' what has you been tuck up fer? It look like ter me that you has got a case fer ter fetch up in the gener'l insembly, an' ef you is, I want ter have the handlin' un it."

It was Mr. Tidwell who replied. "Don't you remember that old Tuttle was an overseer before the war? He had no niggers of his own, and he took his spite out on other people's niggers. One day, when he was kicking and cuffing this boy here, he hit him one lick too many. Randall turned on him, and came pretty near knocking him into the middle of next week. You-all have put old Tuttle in a place where he has a little power, and now, after all these years, he wants to slap Randall in jail, when he knows just as well as you know that he hit the boy a hundred times as many licks as the boy hit him. And he sha'n't put him in jail! One of you boys run to Mr. Whipple's and tell him that Mr. Sanders wants to see him at the courthouse at once. Tell him that Randall is in trouble."

Not only one negro, but half a dozen negroes, went on a run to carry the message to old Jonas.

"Ten to one he doesn't come," remarked Mr. Tidwell to his companion in an undertone.

Mr. Sanders himself had a very small supply of undertones, and so he spoke right out when he replied to the lawyer—"Ef he don't come I'll go arter him, an' ef I have to do that, I'll paint him red before he gits here! I promise you you won't know him!"

But old Jonas came fast enough; moreover, he came smiling, and this, together with the fact that he forgot to remove his skull-cap when he put on his hat gave him something of a new aspect in the eyes even of those who had known him long. The rapidity with which he walked was not so remarkable, considering the fact that Adelaide was running a little ahead of him. The child dropped his hand when she saw Mr. Sanders and the rest, and ran to them as hard as she could. "Bishop!" she cried to Mr. Sanders, "the Boogerman is to come right home this minute. I've found a new gun, and I want to shoot him! Boogerman, please come on!" All that Randall could say was, "Well, suh!" and then he passed his hand across his eyes, and gazed off into the far-distance, seeing whatsoever visions the Almighty vouchsafes to the meek and lowly, who are troubled in heart and mind. He must have seen something, and that something must have been sufficient, for his face brightened, and when he turned his head, and saw that all were looking at him with curiosity, he laughed pleasantly, and, stooping down, lifted Adelaide in his arms, and held her there, as though she would afford him the protection which he thought he needed.

"Which a-way does you-all want me for to go?" he inquired. "Show me, an' I'll go right straight to the place. In Galatians, Paul bragged that he outfaced Peter, an' ef he done that, I speck I kin face what's a comin' to me."

"I'll put your hat on the side of your head, Boogerman, so you can look as bold as a goose," said Adelaide.

"Yes, ma'am, I kin do that an' not half try; an' ef I can't look like a goose, I bet you I can look as sheepish as the next one." He was not even apprehensive and those who were observing him closely wondered at the sudden change that had come over him. "Jail," he went on, in the tone of an exhorter—"jail was good 'nough for the 'postles, an' why not for me? They ain't got no law long 'nough, ner no jail strong 'nough for to prevent pra'r."

"Oh, shucks, Boogerman!" exclaimed Adelaide; "let's go to jail. I want to see what kind of a place it is on the inside, because I may have to send Cally-Lou there if she doesn't behaviour better than she has been doing."

"Well, ef you're a-gwine to send Cally-Lou to that hotel," Mr. Sanders remarked, "jest tell 'em for to gi' me a big room wi' a long bed in it." Then they all went in the courthouse, and sought out the judge of the Superior Court circuit, who had his office in the building. After Lawyer Tidwell's explanation, he very readily consented to hold the commitment trial then and there. Mr. Tidwell briefly called attention to the nature of the warrant that had been served, and announced his intention of bringing the impeachment proceedings against Mr. Tuttle, who was judge of the Court of Ordinary. The Superior Court judge said he had no doubt that such proceedings would hold, when brought at the proper time, and in the proper way, but they had nothing to do with the case before him. Whatever the nature of the warrant, the accused was now in charge of an officer of the law, and it would simplify matters to have the preliminary trial take place at once. Randall gave his version of the affair, and when Mr. Tuttle was called to testify, it was found that the testimony he gave was not materially different from that which the negro had given, much of it being brought out by the close questioning of Mr. Tidwell. The result was that Randall was placed under bond for his appearance at the next term of the superior court to be held in that county. Much to the surprise of all, old Jonas Whipple, instead of making a bond for Randall, gave his check on the local bank, with the understanding that it was to be cashed in favour of the court. The judge said that a bond of that kind was something unusual, but he accepted it.

Randall looked hard at old Jonas, and his lip trembled as if he were about to say something, but, instead, his glance turned to the floor, and he stood fumbling his hat. Mr. Sanders, observing the negro's embarrassment, told a funny story, and when the laughter to which it gave rise had subsided the judge asked the Sage of Shady Dale if he wanted the anecdote to be made a part of the record in the case. The countenance of Mr. Sanders took on a peculiarly solemn expression.

"Well, judge," he replied, "it'd be a mighty good way for to improve it some."

"Mr. Sanders went from the courthouse with a sweeping stride"

All these things were beyond Adelaide. She climbed on a chair, and from the chair to a table, and stood poised at that dizzy height with her eyes fixed on Mr. Sanders. "Come on, Bishop," she commanded, "and let's go home." He backed up to the table like a trained horse in the modern pony shows. When he came close enough Adelaide leaped on his back. Here she perched herself, while Mr. Sanders went from the courthouse with a sweeping stride, which, when he was out of doors, changed, first into a trot, and then into a pretended canter.

Randall celebrated his release by retiring to Lucindy's house, where he shut himself in and remained for more than an hour. He filled the little room with thanksgiving in the shape of song and prayer, all of which could be heard for a considerable distance. A great burden had been lifted from his simple mind, and he celebrated the fact in a simple and natural way. Lucindy understood his feelings, for she shared them. While Randall was praying and singing in her house, she was in the kitchen with Adelaide. Even while the tears of gratitude and thankfulness were running down her cheeks, and threatening to fall in the things she was cooking (as the child saw), she made light of the whole matter. "I dunner what he mean by gwine 'way off dat-a-way, an' holdin' a pray'r-meetin' by hisself. He'll have de whole town a-stan'in' 'roun' in de yard ef he keep on doin' like dat."

"Well, Mammy Lucindy, you are crying yourself."

"My eyes weak, honey, an' dey feels like I done stuck a splinter in bofe un um. You des wait. When you git ol' ez what I is, I lay yo' eyes will run water, too."

The idea of Adelaide growing old! Nobody would have thought of such a thing but Lucindy, and the thought only came to her as a means of hiding her own feelings. But it is a fact that the child was about to grow older. For shortly after Randall's trouble, all of us took the road for Eighteen-Hundred-and-Eighty-Five. We thought it was a long road, too, and yet, somehow, it was neither long nor rough. But it was a very peculiar thoroughfare. For though all of us tried to walk side by side, it seemed that some of us were toiling up-hill, while others were walking down-hill. It was so peculiar that on several occasions, I was on the point of asking Adelaide what she thought of a road that could be up-hill and down-hill in the same place, and at the same time; but the child had so many quaint and beautiful thoughts of her own that I hesitated to disturb her mind.

Moreover, she was growing so fast, and getting along so well, that I had no real desire to put new ideas in her head. Mr. Sanders declared that she was running up like a weed. This attracted the attention of old Jonas, who fixed his small glittering eyes on the old humourist.

"Like a weed, Sanders?" Mr. Whipple inquired.

"Well," replied Mr. Sanders, "call the weed a sunflower, ef it suits you; but I dunner what's the matter with a weed—the Lord made it."

Old Jonas, looking off into space, nodded his head, with "Yes, I reckon maybe He did."

As we went along this road I have been telling you of, I thought that perhaps old Jonas would stop to rest in a fence corner, but the further we went, we found that he was as lively as any of the rest, though perhaps not so nimble. As for Adelaide, she simply grew; there was no other change in her. She carried her child nature along with her, and she carried Cally-Lou. Not much was said of Cally-Lou, but all of us felt that she was in hiding in that wide, clear space that is just an inch or so beyond the short reach of our vision; and, somehow, we were all glad to have the company of the little dream-child who was "not quite white." I think she kept Adelaide from taking on the airs and poses of growing girls. And this was just as well. Adelaide took in knowledge, as though she had learned it somewhere before. When she began to study at school (as we went along) she declared that the books caused her to remember things that she had forgotten. Mr. Sanders said that there never was such a scholar, and Mr. Tidwell agreed with him. Old Jonas said nothing; his face simply wore a satisfied frown.

None of us forgot Randall, or could afford to forget him, for we were journeying along together. His evolution was out of the usual order. Adelaide merely fulfilled the promises of her childhood, and the expectations of those who were in love with her; whereas, Randall outran prophecy itself. The Boogerman developed into a full-fledged minister of the Methodist Church, and, in the course of that development, became a complete engine of modern industry. He went so far and so fast that he had an abundance of time to devote to the religious enthusiasm that kept him inwardly inflamed; and such was the power of his rude eloquence that he attracted the admiration of whites as well as blacks. He was ignorant, but he had a gift that education has never been able to produce in a human being—he had the gift of eloquence. When he was in the pulpit his rough words, his simple gestures, the play of his features, the poise of his body, his whole attitude, were as far beyond the compass of education as it is possible for the mind to conceive. This gift, or power, became so well known that he had a real taste of what is called reputation in this world. He was a pattern, a model, for the men of his race, and, indeed, for the men of any race, for there never was a moment when he was idle after he discovered that an honest and industrious man can make and save money. All that he made, he gave to old Jonas Whipple to keep for him. The more Randall worked the more he learned how to work, so that in the course of a year or two, there was nothing in the way of work that he couldn't do well. His credit at the little bank was as good as that of most white men, and his simple word was as good as a bond.

The men of his race watched him with a curious kind of awe. When one of them asked him how he managed to accomplish the results that were plain to every one, his reply was: "Good gracious, man! I jest goes ahead and does it, that's how." He had a great knack of meeting opportunity before she knocked at his door—of meeting her and hitching her to his shack of a buggy, where she served the purpose of a family horse. He had the confidence and sympathy of all the white people who knew him. He began to buy tracts of land, and one of his purchases included High Falls, where the children and grown people had their picnic grounds. Many thought this a wild investment, especially old Jonas, who rated him soundly for throwing away his hard-earned money; but Mr. Sanders, who, with all his humour and nonsense, was by all odds the shrewdest business man in all that region, declared that the time would come when the money that Randall had paid for it would be smothered by the money he could sell it for. Randall explained to old Jonas the reason why he had bought this remarkable water-power; it was because the water came so free and fell so far.

All this, by the way, as we were journeying along. We began to try to forget Eighteen-Hundred-and-Sixty-Eight; we knew right were it was, but, as we got farther and farther away from it, it seemed to lose some of its importance; and, sometimes, when we couldn't help but remember it, it came back to us as though it was the memory of a bad dream. People began to look up and stir about, Progress, hand-in-hand with Better Conditions, crawled out of the woods, where they had been hiding, and began to pay visits to their old friends. Mr. Sanders said it gave him a kind of Christmas feeling to see the hard times vanishing. Old Jonas felt better, too. At any rate, he seemed to take more interest in Adelaide, who, by this time, had developed into a wonderfully charming young woman—just how charming, I leave you to imagine; for she was a young woman and still a child. It is given to few people in this world to have this combination and to be able to manage it as it should be managed. I don't know whether to call it the art of living, or the instinct that makes Everybody feel as though he were Somebody. I never could understand the secret of it, and, indeed, I never tried, until one day a scientist came along peddling his ideas and theories. He declared that there was an explanation somewhere in one of his books, but so far, I have been unable to find it. There was nothing in his dull books about Adelaide and her individuality. It should be borne in mind that Adelaide had, in the course of seventeen years, developed into Something that was quite beyond art and education. Her inimitable personality, which was hers from the first, and quite beyond the contingencies of chance or change, continued to be inimitable. She had received all the advantages that money could buy; but this fact only emphasised her native charm. She was a child as well as a young woman, with the sweet unconsciousness of the one and the dazzling loveliness of the other.

Mean as he was said to be, it was a well-known fact that old Jonas's money would go as far as that of any man; and when it came to a question of Adelaide, it was as free as the money of some of our modern millionaires when they desire to advertise their benevolence. He was determined, he said, that his niece should have all the polish the schools could furnish. He called it polish for the reason that he had many a hot argument with Mr. Sanders and Lawyer Tidwell with respect to the benefits of education—the education furnished by our modern system of public schools. He didn't believe in it; there was always too much for some people, and not enough for others; there was no discrimination in the scheme. Moreover, it put false ideas in some people's heads, and made them lazy and vicious. But he had never said a word in opposition to polish, and when he sent Adelaide to one of the most expensive schools, it was not to educate her, he said, but to give her the "polish" that would elevate her above ordinary people.

Adelaide received the polish, but refused to be elevated, and when she returned home, unchanged and unspoiled, old Jonas Whipple said to himself that his money had been spent in vain. He wanted to see her put on airs and hold herself above people, but this she never did; and she would have laughed heartily at old Jonas's thoughts if she had known what they were. Mr. Whipple seemed to have an idea that culture and refinement are things that you can put your fingers on and feel of, and he was sure that dignity and personal pride are their accompaniments. Yet he gave no outward sign of his disappointment if he really had any, and he swallowed such regrets as possessed him with a straight face; for he saw, with a secret pride and pleasure that no one suspected, that Adelaide was the most charming young girl in all that neighbourhood. It filled him with pride for which he could not account when he observed that she could hold her own in any company, and that, wherever she went, she was the centre of admiration and interest.

Now, it was not long before the promoters of a railway line from Atlanta to Malvern came knocking at the doors of Shady Dale. Mr. Sanders and a number of others were inclined to be more than hospitable to the enterprise, but old Jonas Whipple was opposed to it tooth-and-nail. His arguments in opposition to the enterprise will be thought amusing and ridiculous in this day and time, but it is notorious, the world over, that any man with money can have a substantial following without resorting to bribery, and there were many in Shady Dale, who, basing their admiration on the fact that he had been very successful as a money-maker, in the face of the most adverse conditions, were ready to endorse anything that old Jonas said; he was an oracle because he knew how to make money, though it is well known that the making of money does not depend on a very high order of intelligence. Old Jonas's objections to a railway were not amenable to reason or argument; it was sufficient that they were satisfactory to him. He had them all catalogued and numbered. There were six of them, and they ran about as follows:

1. A railroad would add to the racket and riot of the neighbourhood, when, even as things were, it was a difficult matter for decent people to sleep in peace. 2. (This objection was impressive on account of its originality; no one had ever thought of it). The passing of railway trains would produce concussion, and this concussion, repeated at regular intervals, would cause the blossoms of the fruit trees to drop untimely off, and would no doubt have a disastrous effect on garden vegetables. 3. The railroad would not stop in Shady Dale, but would go on to Atlanta, thus making the little town a way-station, and drain the whole county of its labour at a time when everybody was trying to adjust himself to the new conditions. 4. Instead of patronising home industries and enterprises, people would scramble for seats on the cars, and go gadding about, spending anywhere but at home the little money they had. 5. Every business and all forms of industry in the whole section adjacent to the line would be at the mercy of the road and its managers; and, 6. What did people want with railroads, when a majority of the loudest talkers had earned no more than three dollars apiece since the war?

Mr. Sanders tried hard to destroy these objections by means of timely and appropriate jokes. But jokes had no effect on Mr. Whipple. Moreover, there was one fact that no jokes could change: a great body of land belonging to old Jonas lay right across the face of the railway survey, and there was no way to avoid it except by making a detour so wide that Shady Dale would be left far to one side. You would think, of course, that it was an easy matter to condemn a right of way through old Jonas's land, and so it would have been but for one fact that could not be ignored. There was a bitter controversy going on between the people and the roads, and the managers were trying to be as polite as they could be under the circumstances. The controversy referred to finally resulted in the passage of the railway laws that are now on the statute books of the state. The promoters of the line to Shady Dale had no desire to arouse the serious opposition of Mr. Whipple and his friends; they had no idea of making a serious contest in view of the state of public opinion, and they had made up their minds that if they failed to secure the right of way through old Jonas's lands by fair words, they would leave Shady Dale out of their plans altogether. They had already surveyed another line that would run six or seven miles north of the town, and work on this would have begun promptly but for the representations of Mr. Sanders and other substantial citizens, who declared that only a short delay would be necessary to bring old Jonas to terms. But that result, by the interposition of Providence, as it were, was left for others to accomplish.

Of the contest going on between the old-fashioned, unprogressive faction, headed by her uncle, and the spirited element of which Mr. Sanders was the leader, Adelaide had no particular knowledge. She knew in a general way that some question in regard to the new railroad was in dispute. She had heard the matter discussed, and she had laughed at some of the comments of Mr. Sanders on the obstinacy of her uncle, but the whole matter was outside the circle of her serious thoughts and interests until, at last, it was brought home to her in a way that the novel writers would call romantic, though for some time it was decidedly embarrassing.

Blushing and laughing, she told Mr. Sanders about it afterward. That genial citizen regarded it as a good joke, and, as such, he made the most of it. She was walking about in the garden one day, thinking of childish things, and remembering what fine times she and Mr. Sanders had had when she was a tiny bit of a girl. She was very old now—quite seventeen—but her childhood was still fresh in her remembrance, and she was quite a child in her freshness and innocence. The corn-patch was in a new place now, but to her it was still the Whish-Whish Woods. In the days when she brought down the Boogerman with her cornstalk gun, the corn was growing in the garden next to a side street on which there was very little passing to and fro; but now the corn-patch was next to a thoroughfare that was much frequented. Remembering how delighted she had been when Randall, the Boogerman, responded so completely to her pretence of shooting him with her cornstalk gun, she was seized by a whim that gave her an almost uncontrollable desire to repeat the performance.

By a gesture which, whether magical or not, admirably served its purpose, Adelaide became a child again. Her beautiful hair, unloosed, fell below her waist, and her face had the same little pucker of earnestness that it wore when, as a child, she was intent on her business of make-believe. She found a cornstalk that suited her purpose, stripped off the blades, and concealed herself in the Whish-Whish Woods, holding her gun in readiness to make a victim of the first person that passed along the street. As Providence would have it, she was not kept waiting, for almost before she could conceal herself, she heard the sound of feet. Whoever it was had no idea of the danger that awaited him, for he was walking along, whistling softly to himself, showing that he was either in high feather, or seriously uneasy with respect to certain plans he had in his head. As he came to the ambush, Adelaide promptly thrust her cornstalk gun forward, with a loud cry of "bang!" The result was as surprising as, and far more embarrassing than, when she made-believe to shoot Randall. This time the victim, instead of falling on the ground and writhing, as a man should do if he is seriously wounded, nearly jumped out of his skin, crying, "Good gracious!"

The voice was strange to Adelaide's ears, and when she was in a position to see her intended victim, she discovered that her innocent joke had been played at the expense of a young man whom she had never seen before; he was an utter stranger. The young man, glancing back to see who had waylaid him, caught a glimpse of Adelaide, and politely raised his hat. Adelaide, frightened at what seemed to be her boldness, could hardly articulate clearly, but she managed to say, in the midst of her confusion and embarrassment, "Oh, excuse me! I thought—" but there she paused.

"So did I," said the young man, with a laugh, "and you are quite excusable." Adelaide said to herself that he was making fun of her, but she did not fail to see, in the midst of her vexation and confusion, that he was very pleasant looking. In short he had a clear eye and a strong face. Having seen this much, she gathered her skirts free of her feet, and went running to the house. She couldn't resist the temptation to stop in the kitchen and give Lucindy the story of her exciting adventure, and in the midst of it, she paused to say how handsome the young man was. When the narrative was concluded, Adelaide asked Lucindy what she thought of it all. The old negro woman must have had very deep thoughts, judging from her silence. She asked no questions and merely nodded her head while Adelaide was talking; and then, while the excited young woman was waiting for her to make some comment, the little-used knocker on the front door fell with a tremendous whack.

"Whosomever it mought be," remarked Lucindy, "it look like dey er bleedze ter git in, kaze dey er breakin' de door down!"

"Oh, I believe it's the young man I tried to shoot!" cried Adelaide in distress, "and I wouldn't meet him again for the world! I wonder where Uncle Jonas is—and why he don't have a bell placed on the door?" Then the young woman asked with some indignation, "Mammy Lucindy, do you suppose that young man is knocking at the door because I made a goose of myself in the garden?"

"Lawsy, honey," said Lucindy, soothingly, "don't git ter frettin'; I'm gwine ter de door—yit I lay ef you had been up ter yo' neck in de flour-bairl, I wouldn't let you run ter de front door an' grin at whomsomever mought be dar! I lay dat much."

"But, Mammy! I'm afraid the person at the door is the young man I was rude to when he was passing the garden. Oh, I wish Uncle Jonas would hire a housemaid; I can't be running to the front door all the time."

"I ain't seed you run much, honey, kaze dat's de fust time dat door-knocker is bangded in many's de long day. You want a house-gal, does you? Well, you better not fetch no gal in dis house fer ter make moufs at me right 'fo' my face. She sho' won't last long; I tell you dat right now!"

Lucindy prepared to answer the summons, but before she could wipe the flour from her hands, Adelaide changed her mind. She said she would answer the knock herself, and, as she went into the house, Randall came around the corner and went into the kitchen. He was somewhat excited, and Lucindy inquired if he was ill. "Mammy," he said, "does you know who that is knockin' at the door? Well, it aint nobody in the roun' worl' but ol' Marster's grandson; it's Miss Betty's boy. Of all people on top of the ground, that's who it is."

Lucindy leaned on the kitchen table, and gazed at Randall in speechless surprise. "De Lord he'p my soul!" she exclaimed when she could find her voice. "What he been up ter dat he ain't never is been here befo'? He sholy can't be much mo' dan knee-high ter a puddle-duck." She persisted in thinking of her young mistress as she had known her a quarter of a century before. Randall could tell her little beyond the fact that he had "know'd the favour," and had spoken to the young man on the street, asking if he were not kin to the Bowdens.

This simple question developed into a long conversation, with the result that Randall was as enthusiastic about Miss Betty's boy as he was about Miss Betty, who had saved his life. "He sho' have got the blood in 'im. He don't look strong, like all de balance of the Bowdens, but he's got their ways. He walks an' holds his head jest like Miss Betty."

When Adelaide opened the door, and saw standing there the young man at whom she had aimed her cornstalk gun, she was surprised to find that she was not at all embarrassed. She had no idea that this particular meeting had been arranged and provided for long ages ago. But she wondered why she should feel so cool and collected, when she should be confused and blushing. This is the way young women act in story books, and Adelaide had often longed for the opportunity to stammer and blush when a strange but noble young man appeared before her; but now that the young man had come, she felt as if she had known him a long, long time. He was the embarrassed one, while she observed that he had nice brown eyes, to light up his handsome countenance, and these brown eyes seemed to be trying to apologise for something or other; and all the time the young man was thinking that he had never seen such beautiful blue eyes as those that were shyly glancing at him from under their long lashes. It was a desperate moment for all concerned, but Providence was there, and laid its calm, cool hand on the situation. The young man asked for Mr. Whipple, but Providence had been before him, and Mr. Whipple was not to be found in the house, though Adelaide tried hard to find him, not knowing that if her uncle could have been found just at that particular time, a great many possibilities would have been destroyed. Adelaide inquired if the brown eyes wouldn't come in and wait for Uncle Jonas, who was to be expected at any moment, and the brown eyes softly admitted that nothing would please them better if such an arrangement were perfectly agreeable to everybody, otherwise not for the world would they intrude—and then, as a matter of course, the blue eyes were compelled to see to it that the time of waiting would be made perfectly pleasant.

After awhile the sound of footsteps was heard on the veranda, and Adelaide, with a secret regret, declared that Uncle Jonas must be coming. But Providence was looking out for the interests of the young fellow with a keener eye, for the footsteps they heard were those of Mr. Sanders. He came in without knocking, as usual, and Adelaide ran to meet him, just as she always did. "You look as flustrated as ef you had man company," Mr. Sanders remarked, as she greeted him. She slapped him lightly on the arm by way of warning and rebuke. "An' I'll lay I kin guess his name: it's Winters." Adelaide was very red in the face as she shook her head. "Then it's Somers," he declared; "I know'd it was one of the seasons that had dropped in on you out'n season. But it happens to be the very chap I'm arter." He stalked in to the sitting-room, and shook hands with young Somers, calling him Jonah, though his name was John.

Then he casually inquired as to the whereabouts of Mr. Jonas Whipple, in spite of the fact that he already knew. "You see how it is," he remarked to the young man; "you thought you wanted to see Jonas, but it wasn't Jonas you wanted to see at all." Mr. Sanders pursed his mouth, and stared at the ceiling. The remark he had made was interpreted by Adelaide in a way he had not intended, but she was quite equal to the emergency.

"Well, Mr. Sanders," she inquired with great dignity, "whom did Mr. Somers desire to see?"

He turned a bland and child-like smile upon her. "Why, he wanted to see me, of course. Who else could it 'a' been?" Adelaide's dignity was not made of the strongest stuff, and she was compelled to laugh. "I understood him to inquire for Uncle Jonas," she said simply, "but I may have been mistaken."

"No; I really want to see Mr. Whipple," the young man insisted. "That is my business here."

Mr. Sanders beamed upon him with a smile that was as broad and sweet as a slice of pie. "I've allers took notice," he remarked, "that wimmen an' children, an' young folks in gener'l, will ax for the identical things they ought not to have. They're made that-a-way, I reckon."

In a little while the young man bowed himself out, followed by Mr. Sanders. "You young fellers worry me no little," remarked the Sage of Shady Dale, as they went along the street together. "I happen to know about the business that fetched you here, an' I mighty nigh swallered my goozle when I seed you makin' for Jonas's."

"Well, I really thought Mr. Whipple was the proper person to see. I was told that he held the key to the situation," young Somers replied.

Mr. Sanders smiled benignly. "Old Jonas has been seed an' he's been saw'd," said the elder man so drolly that Somers laughed outright. "I reckon you've been to college, ain't you? I 'lowed as much. The trainin' is all right, but you'll have to fergit a heap you've l'arned ef you want travellin' for to be easy. Old as I am, I wish I had some of your knowledge, but if you was to put it all in a hamper basket an' gi' me the right to paw it over, you'd be surprised at what I'd pick out. My experience is that when a feller gits through college, an' begins for to face the hard propositions that he ain't never thought about, he allers takes a notion that somethin's wrong somewhar.

"I reckon maybe you've got the idee that argyment, ef it's got all the facts behind it, is the thing that's bound for to win, an' you'll have to git bumped by a barnyard full of billy-goats before you find out that nineteen-hundred squar' miles on 'em ain't wuth one little inch of persuasion. It's all right in the books, whar they l'arn you how to think an' put up a nice article of argyment, but it don't work in reel life. You can't carry none of your p'ints wi'out doin' some mighty purty dancin' on t'other side of the line. Now I've saved you from one of the wust bumpin's that a young feller ever had, and the beauty about it is you'll never have a suspicion of it ontel you're old enough for to have grandchildren. It'll not hurt you for to hit some of the rough places as you go slidin' through this vale of tears, but it'll never do you any reel good for to climb four flights of sta'rs an' then jump out'n the top window when you want to come down."

"I should think that even a fool would know that," the young man declared.

"Well, some on 'em don't," responded Mr. Sanders. "Thar's diffunt kinds of fools, an' diffunt kinds of houses, an' heap higher jumps, an' you'd 'a' had the experience of it ef you'd 'a' found old Jonas at home. The next time you go thar don't ax for him. Call for Adelaide—call for Lucindy the cook (she use' to belong to your Gran'daddy Bowden)—call for Randall—call for any an' ever'body but old Jonas."

"But what am I to do?" the young man inquired somewhat impatiently. "It seems that I may as well go back to Malvern or Atlanta; and when I do that, I'll have to hunt for another job."

Mr. Sanders hummed a tune, and apparently paid no attention to the young man's last remark. "Old Jonas is mighty quar'," he said after a pause. "When his sister died up thar in Atlanta, you couldn't 'a' told from the motions he made that he'd hearn the mournful news; but sence he's had for to take keer of Adelaide, her daughter, his gizzard has kinder softened up. Why, that man thinks that the sun rises an' sets whar Adelaide lives at."

"Well," said the young fellow, "she certainly is charming; I don't think I ever met a young lady that so impressed me."

"Forty years from now you'll be able for to say the same thing," remarked Mr. Sanders. "Well, as I was a-tellin' you, old Jonas ain't nigh as mean as he looks to be, but when I found out that he reely had a heart, you mought 'a' knocked me down wi' a feather. It was the time your gran'daddy died. Why, Jonas walked the floor all night long. That much I know bekaze I seed it wi' my own eyes. An' then thar's that nigger Randall—thar ain't no tellin' how much Jonas has done for him, nor how much he will do. But when it comes to makin' a fuss, Jonas ain't in it. He's too hard-headed for to let people know him as he is. Now, don't think I'm doin' any obiturary work, bekaze the fact is old Jonas ain't a bit better than he ought to be. I reckon, he is too hard-headed for to let people know him as he is, but the fact is that old Jonas is human; he ain't a bit better than the rest on us—an' he may be wuss in some spots. Ef you've ever took notice, the people between the best man in the world an' the wust, make a purty fa'r average. I reckon," Mr. Sanders went on, regarding Somers with a child-like smile, "I reckon you ain't never played poker as a habit?"

"Not as a habit," replied the young man, laughing.

"Well, the hand I've dealt to you is known as a royal straight flush, an' it sweeps ever'thing before it. Look it over when you git time, an' ef anybody calls you, jes spread out the kyards on the table, an' ax 'em what they think of the lay-out."

"I don't think I know what you mean," said the young man, with some show of embarrassment.

"Maybe not," replied Mr. Sanders, "but I leave it to you ef that's my fault; I've dealt you the hand, an' ef you dunno how to play it, you can't blame me. I see Tidwell across yander, an' I want to have a talk wi' him; maybe he'll loan me his pocket-han'kcher. So-long!"

Young Somers went to his room in the tavern and pondered long over the problem that Mr. Sanders had presented with confident smiles. He tried to think it out, but, somehow, he could think of nothing but a laughing face, dimpled and sweet, blue eyes and golden hair, and lovely white hands lifted in eloquent gesture. He could concentrate all the powers of his mind on these, and he could think a little, just a little, of the wonderful personality of Mr. Sanders, who had persisted in remaining a boy, in spite of his years and large experience, but so far as puzzles and problems were concerned, his mind refused to work.

It was the same the next day, and the next. He walked about the little town by way of recreation, but by far the largest part of his time was spent in his room at the tavern. On the morning of the third day of his stay in Shady Dale, he concluded to visit the old place where his grandfather had lived, and where his mother was born. Of the whereabouts of the place he had not the slightest idea, though he knew it was about a mile from the centre of the town. While he was debating whether or no he should wander about and try to find it for himself, or whether he should make inquiries as to the direction, he heard the rustle of skirts behind him. Turning he beheld his vision of blue eyes and golden hair. This, however, was the reality. The young fellow had a queer notion, momentary but vivid, that somewhere or somehow, in some dim, mysterious region under the stars, he had come suddenly upon this same experience, under precisely the same conditions—and the thought gave him a thrill the like of which he had never felt before—the kind of thrill that, as Mr. Sanders once suggested, makes you think that you've clerked in a dry-goods store in some other world.

Blue eyes and dimples were very gracious. "You left too soon the other day," they declared; "Uncle Jonas came in shortly after you went away, and you were hardly out of the house before one of your mother's old servants came in to see you. It was Mammy Lucindy, our cook, and she was very much disappointed to find you had gone."

"I'm sorry," the young fellow said, and he was so emphatic, and so serious, that Adelaide laughed. "I have heard my mother speak of Lucindy and her son Randall."

"When Uncle Jonas came in," remarked Adelaide, "I told him you had called. He frowned and said he supposed you wanted to see him on business; but I suggested that perhaps you had called because you were Judge Bowden's grandson. He declared you had never thought of such a thing; but the possibility that you might have had such a thought pleased him greatly. I don't know when I have seen him in such high good humour."

They were walking along as they talked, and the young man made a mental note of old Jonas's pleasure. The sun was shining brightly, the air was fresh and cool, the jay-birds in the China trees were hilarious, and, somehow or other, the two young people felt very happy as they walked along. They had no particular reason for their happiness, but they seemed to be in the atmosphere in which happiness arises like the sparkling dew of early morning. A deaf old lady sitting on her piazza, on the opposite side of the street, smiled sweetly at Adelaide, and held her trumpet to her ear, as if, by means of its echoing depths, she could hear what the laughing young woman was saying. Adelaide did have something to say, evidently—something that an ear-trumpet could not interpret across the wide street, for she made a little gesture with her head, which her companion failed to see, and she sent some signal whirling through the air by means of a fluttering white hand. This signal he did see, but he was unfamiliar with the code that prevails among women-kind the world over: yet he had no difficulty in taking it to be an ordinary salutation, especially as the smiling old lady waved the trumpet around her head with an air of triumph. Still there was something in it all that seemed to be a trifle beyond him—and from the feminine point of view it was a neat and pretty piece of work.

He had small opportunity to give the matter any thought, for Adelaide, laughing, turned toward him, and began to speak of the affection her Uncle Jonas had felt for Judge Bowden, and the high esteem in which he held the judge's memory. She acknowledged that it was very queer that a man long dead should play a living part in her uncle's thoughts, but she explained that people had wrong ideas about her uncle. "They seem to think," she declared, "that Uncle Jonas is very mean and stingy, and hard-hearted; but if they knew him as well as I do, they would think differently."

The young fellow would have protested, but Adelaide stopped him with a dignified wave of her versatile white hand. "I know what people say," she insisted. "Mr. Sanders tells me, and so does Randall, whose life was saved by your mother; they tell me everything that is said about Uncle Jonas. And I always tell him about it, but he doesn't seem to care; he laughs as if it were a good joke, and declares that people have more sense than he has been willing to credit them with. Really, I believe he likes it, but it is not at all agreeable to me."

Young Somers hardly knew what to say; he had heard old Jonas described as the meanest man in twenty states, and the promoters of the railway enterprise who had sent him to Shady Dale were not at all backward in expressing their opinion of the man who was causing them so much unnecessary trouble and delay. So he walked on in silence for awhile. Then: "Speaking of my grandfather, I was just on the point of inquiring about the old place, but when you made your appearance just now, dropping out of the sky, I forgot all about it. I should like very much to see the home where my mother was born, and where my grandfather was born and died. I have heard my mother talk about Shady Dale and about the old home-place ever since I could understand what she said. I remember, when I was a child, that I had a queer idea that the town was shaped like a bowl or saucer; all the good people that chanced to come by stumbled and fell in, there to remain, and all the bad people crawled over the rim and fell out; and I couldn't help having a feeling of disappointment when I found that Shady Dale is very much like other towns."

"Now, don't say that!" protested Adelaide. "I have seen a great many towns, but never one like this—not one as pretty."

"Why, in North Carolina——" the young fellow began, but Adelaide interrupted him with a laugh so genuine and unaffected that it was delightful to hear. Yet, in spite of the fact that he enjoyed the rippling sound, he felt his face turning red. "You think North Carolina is a joke," he went on, "but you would be surprised to know what a great state it is."

"I was laughing at one of Mr. Sanders's jokes," said Adelaide, still smiling. "Once there was a tobacco peddler came here driving a big covered waggon. Mr. Sanders discovered he was from North Carolina, and shook hands with him very cordially, and asked about a great many people he never heard of. The tobacco man said they must have moved away, but Mr. Sanders said he thought not, for the reason that the only three North Carolinians he ever saw that were able to settle at the toll-gates and ferries, made their way straight to Alabama, and formed a business firm. He said the name of this firm was 'Tar, Pitch, and Turkentime'—that's the way he pronounced the names. The tobacco man didn't get angry; he laughed as loudly as anybody, and Uncle Jonas says that was because he wasn't conceited."

Here Adelaide paused; she had come to the house of the friend she proposed to visit, and from the gate she pointed out the trees that grew so abundantly on the Bowden place, and her attitude seemed to say to the young man that should he get lost, he would be safe so long as she was within calling distance. He had been used to more dignity and less charm on the part of most of the young women he knew, and he rather preferred the variety which he had now come in contact with for the first time. And yet, when he came to the old homestead, where his grandfather lived and died, and where his mother was born, he was attacked by none of the emotions that would have seized upon the soul of his mother. He had been educated in a different environment, and he was essentially modern in his sense of the importance of business affairs. As he read the friendly inscription on the tomb of his grandfather—the family burying-ground being not far from the picturesquely simple old house—he was conscious of a strong desire to know whether failure or success would crown his negotiations with Mr. Jonas Whipple.

The vagrant winds blew through the tops of trees more than two centuries old, the house frowned grimly over the reminiscences of past hospitality, and the whole scene appealed strongly to sentiments that are now said not to be strictly scientific. But it must not be supposed that the young man had no poetry in his soul, or that his nature was free from emotions of a sentimental character. He lived entirely in the present, and the past had no meaning for him save that which was coldly historical. He found his inspiration in the rhythmical clatter and cackle of intricate machinery; he was stirred by the interweaving and interlacing business problems, and the whole movement, shape, and pattern of huge commercial enterprises.

Nor was this a misfortune. Being modern and practical, he was wholly free from the entanglements and misconceptions of prejudices that had outlived the issues that gave rise to them; and he went about his business with a mind at once clear, clean, and cheerful, bearing the signal of hope on his forehead. As he walked about the old place, it was characteristic of him, that he should be seeking the solution of the puzzle which Mr. Sanders had placed before him in the shape of a "royal straight flush," but in a matter of this kind, his mathematics availing him nothing: nor did it occur to him that the solution was to be found somewhere in the region from which the nations of the world draw their not over-abundant supplies of poetical metaphor. After an interval which he deemed seemly and proper, he turned his steps in the direction whence he had come. The street being straight as well as wide, afforded a fine perspective of sun and shade, to say nothing of the sand. As he went on, he walked more and more rapidly, so that he could have been accused of fleeing from the ghosts of his ancestors; but the propelling influence was the sight of Adelaide, who, having completed her morning call, was emerging from the gate-way that led to the house of her friend. She was for moving on, but seemed suddenly to remember about the young man. Turning, she saw him coming, and waited, sauntering slowly, her mind full of a swarm of thoughts that had been fighting for its possession since she first saw him.