John awoke, threw his bare arms over his head, stretching them until the muscles stood out like ropes, and opened his eyes. The room was in darkness save for a dim yellow glow that shone over the high footboard. He wondered sleepily and closed his eyes. When he opened them again the yellow glow hurt them; it came from beside the bed and slowly evolved into a dimly burning lantern. By it Uncle Casper was kneeling, striking matches on the hearth. John wondered what time of night it was and hurled himself over onto his face.

After awhile he awoke again. The windows were cold squares of gray light. In the chimney a fire crackled merrily, throwing leaping shadows about the dim room. By the washstand a tin bucket of hot water sent up curling filaments of steam. John yawned loudly. The door opened and Uncle Casper tiptoed in once more, bearing John’s shoes and trousers, the former shining like patent leather in the firelight, the latter newly brushed and folded. Disposing of these, the darky knelt by the hearth, not without many rheumatic protestations, and replenished the fire. John yawned again.

“Good-morning, Uncle,” he said.

“Mawnin’, sir, mawnin’. I trusts yo’ slep’ well, sir?”

“Like a top!” answered John. “What time is it?”

“Quarter of seven, sir. Mister Phil’s up an’ sends his comp’ments an’ says breakfas’ will be ready right away, sir.”

They had breakfast by lamplight, but the big curtains were drawn back from the high windows and across the valley the morning light swept the shadows into the west. Outside on the gravel a dignified procession of fowls exchanged compliments and observations on the weather and scratched and pecked diligently. The dogs watched the front door anxiously, while Will, the stable boy, sat on the edge of the porch and sung snatches of low-voiced melody and flipped pebbles at the indignant peacocks.

The sun was up, a ball of fire above the eastern hills, when they left the house. The lawn sparkled with frost and there was a pleasant nip in the air. Tudor Maid and the red-and-white setter, Grover, frisked ahead excitedly until they had descended the terrace and were crushing the hoar frost from the turf. Will followed bearing ammunition and lunch. John and Phillip parted company and, with fifty yards of glittering lawn between them, strode briskly toward the lane that skirted the lower edge of the inclosure. Beyond the lane a field of winter wheat began, but along the rail fence the bushes grew undisturbed, and Grover, stealthily creeping toward it, suddenly came to a stand. John, his heart leaping suddenly into his throat, looked to his gun and sent the dog on. Then, with a disconcerting whirr and rush of beating wings, a small covey shot up from the tangle and flew across to the left. John emptied both barrels and a feather or two fluttered lazily downward. Phillip, kneeling, raised his gun. Bang! A partridge quivered in air, thrashed, and then came rushing to earth, turning over and over. Phillip used his left barrel, but missed, for the rest of the covey had swung toward the east. Will picked up the dead bird and dropped it grinning into the bag. John called across the field.

“Were those partridges, Phil?”

“Yes.”

“Thought it was an explosion of dynamite.”

“Better luck next time,” laughed Phillip.

They followed the fence without further result and crossed into a meadow that led with easy slopes to the creek bottom. Half-way down Maid flushed a covey of five birds and Phillip brought down his second bird, while John, his nerves steadier, got a fine shot at a plump cock and exultantly watched it drop. The sun was well over the hilltops now and the fields and knolls were aglow with wan, yellow light. They skirted the creek toward the East Farm, a mile distant, where several coveys were known to have taken up winter quarters.

Back at the house Uncle Casper was sweeping the broad, marble-laid porch, keeping time to the swing of the broom with a quavering song. Uncle Casper’s vocal efforts were reserved for such times as he was certain of being unheard. He had strict ideas of propriety and considered singing beneath the dignity of his office. That is why, when he heard a swishing of skirts at the door, he ceased abruptly in the middle of a bar and muttered objurgations over a wisp of thread which, caught in a splinter of the lintel, obstinately refused to yield to the broom.

“Good-morning, Uncle.”

He turned with well-simulated surprise.

“Good-mawnin’, Miss Margey.”

“You seem very happy this morning, Uncle.”

“Ma’am?”

“Didn’t I hear you singing a moment ago?”

“Singin’? Me singin’?” He looked so distressed that Margaret regretted her suspicion. “No’m; yo’ didn’t hear me singin’; no’m, I don’ sing. Mus’ have been some of them lazy, triflin’ niggers at ther stable, Miss Margey. I got somethin’ better to do than be a-singin’.”

“Have the gentlemen been gone long?”

“’Bout a half-hour, miss. I reckon they down by ther creek now; I heard they guns a-poppin’ bit ago.”

“Mamma’s tray is ready and you can take it up now. Are the lamps ready?”

“Yes’m; they’s on ther table.” He gave a final flourish of the broom, looked scathingly at the obdurate thread and moved toward the door. Margaret, who had been looking out across the sunlit lawn with smiling eyes, turned to him.

“Uncle, has Mister Phil said anything to you——” She paused at a loss. “I mean do you think he has noticed anything different from—from what he was used to?”

Uncle Casper rubbed his chin reflectively and brought his grizzled eyebrows together.

“No’m; least he ain’t said nothin’ to me. Don’ see how he could notice anythin’ diff’rent, Miss Margey. You ’n’ me’s been mighty ca’ful, ain’t we?”

“Yes, I reckon we have, Uncle; but—but—— Oh, I do hope he won’t find out that we’re—not so rich as we were!”

“No’m; ain’t no use in his worryin’ ’bout it, is they? Reckon they’s a heap o’ things fo’ him ter worry ’bout anyhow; reckon bein’ edicated’s mighty tryin’ sort o’ process—’rithmatic—Latin—French—grammar—depo’tment—all they lessons mus’ be pow’ful wearin’ on him. But don’ yo’ trouble, Miss Margey, we’ll git on all right. Hens is layin’ right nice, Cicely ’lows, an’——” He paused to laugh softly and shake his head. “Reckon, though, if that they Mister No’th stays very long they hens’ll git discouraged; he done eat fo’ aigs fo’ his breakfas’ this mawnin’!”

“If we get short of them, Uncle, maybe they’ll let us have some at the East Farm,” said Margaret, smiling.

“Yes’m. Don’ yo’ be a-troublin’, Miss Margey; I gwine say a word to they hens; I gwine tell ’em ’bout this yer Mister No’th bein’ mighty fond o’ aigs. They’s pow’ful reason’ble hens, Miss Margey!”

Margaret entered the house, followed by Uncle Casper, and passed through the dining-room, where Aunt Cicely, a tall mulatto, was clearing the breakfast table, and out onto a small back porch. This was separated from the hill that rose sharply behind the house only by a narrow graveled driveway. The shadow of the building rested half-way to the summit of the wooded slope, but beyond its edge the trees and undergrowth were aglow with mellow sunlight. It was chilly out there, and Margaret, after tying a long apron about her, threw a little white shawl over her shoulders.

Filling the lamps was a duty that Margaret performed herself. On a long table stood oil-can, shears, cloths and an army of lamps, big and little, from the porcelain-globed monster that stood in the drawing-room down to the tiny hand lamps used by the servants. Margaret maintained that filling and trimming lamps was a science beyond the comprehension of Aunt Cicely or Uncle Casper or Daphne, Mrs. Ryerson’s maid, and each morning went at the task with an amount of reverential concentration befitting the performance of a sacred rite. At Elaine lamps never smoked nor went out in the middle of the evening.

But this morning the concentration was not as perfect as usual. Margaret’s thoughts wandered afield—in fact, to a field to the eastward in which two men with guns were rapidly filling the game-bag that swung over the shoulder of a grinning negro. Now and then, ever fainter and fainter, the sound of the guns reached the girl on the back porch, and would have drawn her thoughts eastward had they not already been speeding that way. Sometimes the thoughts seemed pleasant ones, sometimes a little cloud of perplexity filmed the smile in her eyes. Once she sighed softly, and once she turned with chimney and cloth in hand and gazed wide-eyed at the sunlighted summit of the slope for a full minute ere she turned back to her work.

When the last lamp had been filled, the last wick trimmed, the last chimney polished until it shone, and when she had washed and dried her hands and doffed apron and shawl, she entered the house again and ascended to her mother’s bedroom. Mrs. Ryerson was seated at the window, a slim, frail figure in a dove-gray dressing-gown on which the sunlight threw queer floating shadows of branch and twig. A fire smouldered in the chimney-place and a tray on a low table bore the remains of a scanty breakfast. Daphne was tidying up the room, her leisurely journeying to and fro taking her again and again in front of the west window from which it was possible to catch a glimpse of the house garden and a young negro engaged in repairing a fence. Daphne was young and pretty from the viewpoint of the carpenter outside, and room-cleaning and fence-building went slowly.

“They’re not back yet?” asked Mrs. Ryerson in her soft, delicate voice.

“Not yet, mamma,” Margaret answered. “But it’s only half-past nine, you know. I reckon they’ll not come for a long while yet. They must have found plenty of birds; I heard their guns again and again.”

“Yes, I did, too. Well, I hope Phil will be able to keep Mr. North entertained, dear. I should so dislike having him return to his home thinking us shabby and commonplace.” Mrs. Ryerson sighed, folded her white hands in her lap and looked silently out of the window. Margaret found some sewing and drew a small chair into the broad shaft of sunlight.

“He has wonderful eyes, dear.”

Margaret looked from threading her needle and laughed softly.

“Oh, mamma, you’ve ‘done gone’ and fell in love again! And with a Northerner, too!” Mrs. Ryerson smiled and shook her head.

“I hope I shall never grow so old that I shall be indifferent to a man’s looks, Margey,” she answered. After a moment she added: “Your father was the handsomest man I ever saw.”

“Phillip is like him, isn’t he?”

“Yes, greatly like, dear. And more like than ever since he came back. There’s a difference, dear. You’ve observed it?”

“Yes; he seems—well, more quiet. It’s as though he’d rubbed some of his corners off, too. He’s taller, I reckon, and straighter, and—and older.”

“Yes, older,” echoed Mrs. Ryerson. “And more like Phillip—your father, I mean. I think college has done him good already. But—I don’t want him to change much more, Margey.” She dropped into silence again. Then, “You haven’t told him—anything yet?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” answered Margaret, shaking her brown head above the garment in her lap. “What’s the use, mamma? It would only trouble him. I don’t think he has noticed any difference. Perhaps—later—when he comes home for the summer——”

“Yes, he will have to know then. I fear he will feel badly about losing the place, Margey.”

“Yes.” Margaret looked through the window across the morning landscape. “Yes,” she repeated, “I know he will. But——” She didn’t finish the sentence, but went back to her work with a little sigh. Daphne bore the tray away and for several minutes the room was still. Then Mrs. Ryerson withdrew her gaze from the outside world and glanced across at her daughter and smiled as though at her thoughts.

“Don’t you think that he is very good looking, Margey?”

“Phil?”

“No, dear, Mr. North.”

“M—yes,” answered Margaret, in the tone of one considering a question for the first time.

“And you like him, don’t you?”

“I reckon I do,” was the reply. “Anyhow, I don’t dislike him. Of course, Phil thinks he’s very wonderful, and I reckon that’s enough, don’t you? We needn’t all fall down and worship, need we?”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Ryerson, mildly, aggrievedly, “I certainly said nothing about worshiping him. I do think he’s an extremely handsome young man, with grand eyes, and a perfect gentleman if ever there was one; quite like a Virginian. And he has been very kind to Phil, dear, and—and——”

“Of course he has,” Margaret hastened to say, “and I’ll promise to love him dearly, mamma. Only—” she bent and bit off a thread—“I do wish he hadn’t quite such an assured way of talking and doing things—just as though he couldn’t do anything out of the way or say anything that wasn’t just right.”

“But——”

“I know, mamma, that’s what makes it much worse; he never does.”