In the deep peace that rested like a benediction on the pine-clad slopes of Scratch Hill the boy Hannibal followed at Yancy's heels as that gentleman pursued the not arduous rounds of temperate industry which made up his daily life, for if Yancy were not completely idle he was responsible for a counterfeit presentment of idleness having most of the merits of the real article. He toiled casually in a small cornfield and a yet smaller truck patch, but his work always began late, when it began at all, and he was easily dissuaded from continuing it; indeed, his attitude toward it seemed to challenge interference.

In the winter, when the weather conditions were perfectly adjusted to meet certain occult exactions he had come to require, Yancy could be induced to go into the woods and there labor with his ax. But as he pointed out to Hannibal, a poor man's capital was his health, and he being a poor man it behooved him to have a jealous care of himself. He made use of the dull days of mingled mist and drizzle for hunting, work being clearly out of the question; one could get about over the brown floor of the forest in silence then, and there was no sun to glint the brass mountings of his rifle. The fine days he professed to regard with keen suspicion as weather breeders, when it was imprudent to go far from home, especially in the direction of the Crenshaw timber lands, which for years had been the scene of all his gainful industry, and where he seemed to think nature ready to assume her most sinister aspect. Again in the early spring, when the young oak leaves were the size of squirrel's ears and the whippoorwills began calling as the long shadows struck through the pine woods, the needs of his corn ground battled with his desire to fish. In all such crises of the soul Mr. Yancy was fairly vanquished before the struggle began; but to the boy his activities were perfectly ordered to yield the largest return in contentment.

The Barony had been offered for sale and bought in by Crenshaw for eleven thousand dollars, this being the amount of his claim. Some six months later he sold the plantation for fifteen thousand dollars to Nathaniel Ferris, of Currituck County.

“There's money in the old place, Bob, at that figure,” Crenshaw told Yancy.

“There are so,” agreed Yancy, who was thinking Crenshaw had lost no time in getting it out.

They were seated on the counter in Crenshaw's store at Balaam's Cross Roads, where the heavy odor of black molasses battled with the sprightly smell of salt fish. The merchant held the Scratch Hiller in no small esteem. Their intimacy was of long standing, for the Yancys going down and the Crenshaws coming up had for a brief space flourished on the same social level. Mr. Crenshaw's rise in life, however, had been uninterrupted, while Mr. Yancy, wrapped in a philosophic calm and deeply averse to industry, had permitted the momentum imparted by a remote ancestor to carry him where it would, which was steadily away from that tempered prosperity his family had once boasted as members of the land-owning and slaveholding class.

“I mean there's money in the place fo' Ferris,” Crenshaw explained.

“I reckon yo're right, Mr. John; the old general used to spend a heap on the Barony and we all know he never got a cent back, so I reckon the money's there yet.

“Bladen's got an answer from them South Carolina Quintards, and they don't know nothing about the boy,” said Crenshaw, changing the subject. “So you can rest easy, Bob; they ain't going to want him.”

“Well, sir, that surely is a passel of comfort to me. I find I got all the instincts of a father without having had none of the instincts of a husband.”

A richer, deeper realization of his joy came to Yancy when he had turned his back on Balaam's Cross Roads and set out for home through the fragrant silence of the pine woods. His probable part in the young life chance had placed in his keeping was a glorious thing to the man. He had not cared to speculate on the future; he had believed that friends or kindred must sooner or later claim Hannibal, but now he felt wonderfully secure in Crenshaw's opinion that this was not to be.

Just beyond the Barony, which was midway between Balaam's and the Hill, down the long stretch of sandy road he saw two mounted figures, then as they drew nearer he caught the flutter of skirts and recognized one of the horsewomen. It was Mrs. Ferris, wife of the Barony's new owner. She reined in her horse abreast of his cart.

“Aren't you Mr. Yancy?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am, that's me—Bob Yancy.” He regarded her with large gray eyes that were frankly approving in their expression, for she was more than commonly agreeable to look upon.

“I am Mrs. Ferris, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The same here,” murmured Yancy with winning civility.

Mrs. Ferris' companion leaned forward, her face averted, and stroked her horse's neck with gloved hand.

“This is my friend, Miss Betty Malroy.”

“Glad to know you, ma'am,” said Yancy.

Miss Malroy faced him, smiling. She, too, was very good to look upon, indeed she was quite radiant with youth and beauty.

“We are just returning from Scratch Hill—I think that is what you call it?” said Mrs. Ferris.

“So we do,” agreed Yancy.

“And the dear little boy we met is your nephew, is he not, Mr. Yancy?” It was Betty Malroy who spoke.

“In a manner he is and in a manner he ain't,” explained Yancy, somewhat enigmatically.

“There are quite a number of children at Scratch Hill?” suggested Mrs. Ferris.

“Yes, ma'am, so there are; a body would naturally notice that.”

“And no school—not a church even!” continued Mrs. Ferris in a grieved tone.

“Never has been,” rejoined Yancy cheerfully. He seemed to champion the absence of churches and schools on the score of long usage.

“But what do the people do when they want to go to church?” questioned Mrs. Ferris.

“Never having heard that any of 'em wanted to go I can't say just offhand, but don't you fret none about that, ma'am; there are churches; one's up at the Forks, and there's another at Balaam's Cross Roads.”

“But that's ten miles from Scratch Hill, isn't it?”

“It's all of that,” said Yancy. He sensed it that the lady before him, was a person of much force and energy, capable even of reckless innovation. Mr. Yancy himself was innately conservative; his religious inspiration had been drawn from the Forks and Balaam's Cross Roads. It had seemed to answer very well. Mrs. Ferris fixed his wavering glance.

“Don't you think it is too bad, Mr. Yancy, the way those children have been neglected? There is nothing for them but to run wild.”

“Well, I seen some right good children fetched up that-a-ways—smart, too. You see, ma'am, there's a heap a child can just naturally pick up of himself.”

“Oh!” and the monosyllable was uttered rather weakly. Mr. Yancy's name had been given her as that of a resident of weight and influence in the classic region of Scratch Hill. Miss Malroy came to her friend's rescue.

“Mrs. Ferris thinks the children should have a chance to learn at home. Poor little tots!—they can't walk ten or fifteen miles to Sunday-school, now can they, Mr. Yancy?”

“Bless yo' heart, they won't try to!” said Yancy reassuringly. “Sunday's a day of rest at Scratch Hill. So are most of the other days of the week, but we all aspire to take just a little mo' rest on Sunday than any other day. Sometimes we ain't able to, but that's our aim.”

“Do you know the old deserted cabin by the big pine?—the Blount place?” asked Mrs. Ferris.

“Yes, ma'am, I know it.”

“I am going to have Sunday-school there for those children; they shan't be neglected any longer if I can help it—I should feel guilty, quite guilty! Now won't you let your little nephew come? Perhaps they'll not find it so very terrible, after all.” From which Mr. Yancy concluded that when she invaded it, skepticism had rested as a mantle on Scratch Hill.

“Every one said we would better talk with you, Mr. Yancy, and we were hoping to meet you as we came along,” supplemented Miss Malroy, and her words of flattery were wafted to him with so sweet a smile that Yancy instantly capitulated.

“I reckon you-all can count on my nevvy,” he said.

When he reached Scratch Hill, in the waning light of day, Hannibal, in a state of high excitement, met him at the log shed, which served as a barn.

“I hear you-all have been entertaining visitors while Uncle Bob was away,” observed Yancy, and remembering what Crenshaw had told him, he rested his big hand on the boy's head with a special tenderness.

“There's going to be a school in the cabin in the old field!” said the boy. “May I go?—Oh, Uncle Bob, will you please take me?”

“When's this here school going to begin, anyhow?”

“To-morrow at four o'clock, she said, Uncle Bob.”

“She's a quick lady, ain't she? Well, I expected you'd be hopping around on one leg when you named it to me. You wait until Sunday and see what I do fo' my nevvy,” said Yancy.

He was as good as his implied promise, but the day began discouragingly with an extra and, as it seemed to Hannibal, an unnecessary amount of soap and water.

“You owe it to yo'self to show a clean skin in the house of worship. Just suppose one of them nice ladies was to cast her eye back of yo' ears! She'd surely be put out to name it offhand whether you was black or white. I reckon I'll have to barber you some, too, with the shears.”

“What's school like, Uncle Bob?” asked Hannibal, twisting and squirming under the big resolute hands of the man.

“I can't just say what it's like.”

“Why, didn't you ever go to school, Uncle Bob?”

“Didn't I ever go to school! Where do you reckon I got my education, anyhow? I went to school several times in my young days.”

“On a Sunday, like this?”

“No, the school I tackled was on a week-day.”

“Was it hard?” asked Hannibal, who was beginning to cherish secret misgivings; for surely all this soap and water must have some sinister portent.

“Well, some learn easier than others. I learned middling easy—it didn't take me long—and when I felt I knowed enough I just naturally quit and went on about my business.”

“But what did you learn?” insisted the boy.

“You-all wouldn't know if I told you, because you-all ain't ever been to school yo'self. When you've had yo' education we'll talk over what I learned—it mostly come out of a book.” He hoped his general statement would satisfy Hannibal, but it failed to do so.

“What's a book. Uncle Bob?” he demanded.

“Well, whatever a body don't know naturally he gets out of a book. I reckon the way you twist, Nevvy, mebby you'd admire fo' to lose an ear!” and Mr. Yancy refused further to discuss the knowledge he had garnered in his youth.

Hannibal and Yancy were the first to arrive at the deserted cabin in the old field that afternoon. They found the place had been recently cleaned and swept, while about the wall was ranged a row of benches; there was also a table and two chairs. Yancy inspected the premises with the eye of mature experience.

“Yes, it surely is a school; any one with an education would know that. Just look!—ain't you glad yo' Uncle Bob slicked you up some, now you see what them ladies has done fo' to make this place tidy?”

Shy children from the pine woods, big brothers with little sisters and big sisters with little brothers, drifted out of the encircling forest. Coincident with the arrival of the last of these stragglers Mrs. Ferris and Miss Malroy appeared, attended by a colored groom.

“It was so good of you to come, Mr. Yancy! The children won't feel so shy with you here,” said Mrs. Ferris warmly, as Yancy assisted her to dismount, an act of courtesy that called for his finest courage.

Mrs. Ferris' missionary spirit manifested itself agreeably enough on the whole. When she had ranged her flock in a solemn-faced row on the benches, she began by explaining why Sunday was set apart for a day of rest, touching but lightly on its deeper significance as a day of worship as well; then she read certain chapters from the Bible, finishing with the story of David, a narrative that made a deep impression upon Yancy, comfortably seated in the doorway.

“Can't you tell the children a story, Mr. Yancy? Something about their own neighborhood I think would be nice, something with a moral,” the pleasant earnest voice f Mrs. Ferris roused the Scratch Hiller from his meditations.

“Yes, ma'am, I reckon I can tell 'em a story.” He stood up, filling the doorway with his bulk. “I can tell you-all a story about this here house,” he said, addressing himself to the children. He smiled happily. “You-all don't need to look so solemn, a body ain't going to snap at you! This house are the old Blount cabin, but the Blounts done moved away from it years and years ago. They're down Fayetteville way now. There was a passel of 'em and they was about as common a lot of white folks as you'd find anywhere; I know, because I come to a dance here once and Dave Blount called me a liar right in this very room.” He paused, that this impressive fact might disseminate itself. Hannibal slid forward in his seat, his earnest little face bent on Yancy.

“Why did he call you a liar, Uncle Bob?” he demanded.

“Well, I scarcely know, Nevvy, but that's what he done, and he stuck some words in front of it that ain't fitten I should repeat.”

Miss Malroy's cheeks had become very red, and Mrs. Ferris refused to meet her eye, while the children were in a flutter of pleased expectancy. They felt the wholly contemporary interest of Yancy's story; he was dealing with forms of speech which prevailed and were usually provocative of consequences more or less serious. He gave them a wide, sunny smile.

“When Dave Blount called me that, I struck out fo' home.” At this surprising turn in the narrative the children looked their disgust, and Mrs. Ferris shot Betty a triumphant glance. “Yes, ma'am, I struck out across the fields fo' home, I didn't wish to hear no mo' of that loose kind of talk. When I got home I found my old daddy setting up afo' the fire, and he says, 'You come away early, son.' I told him what Dave Blount had called me and he says, 'You acted like a gentleman, Bob, with all them womenfolks about.”'

“You had a very good and sensible father, Mr. Yancy. How much better than if—” began Mrs. Ferris, who feared that the moral might elude him.

“Yes, ma'am, but along about day he come into the loft where I was sleeping and says to me, 'Sun-up, Bob—time fo' you to haul on yo' pants and go back yonder and fetch that Dave Blount a smack in the jaw.'” Mrs. Ferris moved uneasily in her chair: “I dressed and come here, but when I asked fo' Dave he wouldn't step outside, so I just lost patience with his foolishness and took a crack at him standing where I'm standing now, but he ducked and you can still see, ma'am”—turning to the embarrassed Mrs. Ferris—“where my knuckles made a dint in the door-jamb. I got him the next lick, though!”

Mr. Yancy's moral tale had reached its conclusion; it was not for him to boast unduly of his prowess.

“Uncle Bob, you lift me up and show me them dints!” and Hannibal slipped from his seat.

“Oh, no!” said Betty Malroy laughing. She captured the boy and drew him down beside her on a corner of her chair. “I am sure you don't want to see the dents—Mr. Yancy's story, children, is to teach us how important it is to guard our words—and not give way to hasty speech—”

“Betty!” cried Mrs. Ferris indignantly.

“Judith, the moral is as obvious as it is necessary.”

Mrs. Ferris gave her a reproachful look and turned to the children.

“You will all be here next Sunday, won't you?—and at the same hour?” she said, rising.

There was a sudden clatter of hoofs beyond the door. A man, well dressed and well mounted had ridden into the yard. As Mrs. Ferris came from the cabin he flung himself out of the saddle and, hat in hand, approached her.

“I am hunting a place called the Barony; can you tell me if I am on the right road?” he asked. He was a man in the early thirties, graceful and powerful of build, with a handsome face.

“It is my husband you wish to see? I am Mrs. Ferris.”

“Then General Quintard is dead?” His tone was one of surprise.

“His death occurred over a year ago, and my husband now owns the Barony; were you a friend of the general's?”

“No, Madam; he was my father's friend, but I had hoped to meet him.” His manner was adroit and plausible.

Mrs. Ferris hesitated. The stranger's dress and bearing was that of a gentleman, and he could boast of his father's friendship with General Quintard. Any doubts she may have had she put aside.

“Will you ride on with us to the Barony and meet my husband, Mr.—?” she paused.

“Murrell—Captain Murrell. Thank you; I should like to see the old place. I should highly value the privilege,” then his eyes rested on Miss Malroy.

“Betty, let me present Captain Murrell.”

The captain bowed, giving her a glance of bold admiration.

By this time the children had straggled off into the pine woods as silently as they had assembled; only Yancy and Hannibal remained. Mrs. Ferris turned to the former.

“If you will close the cabin door, Mr. Yancy, everything will be ready for next Sunday,” she said, and moved toward the horses, followed by Murrell. Betty Malroy lingered for a moment at Hannibal's side.

“Good-by, little boy; you must ask your Uncle Bob to bring you up to the big house to see me,” and stooping she kissed him. “Good-by, Mr. Yancy, I liked your story.”

Hannibal and Yancy watched them mount and ride away, then the boy said:

“Uncle Bob, now them ladies have gone, won't you please show me them dints you made in the doorjamb?”