HIRAM STILL GETS A LEGAL OPINION AND CAPTAIN ALLEN CLIMBS FOR CHERRIES

As Major Welch was anxious to be independent, he declined Still’s invitation to stay with him, and within a week he and Ruth were “camping out” at the Stamper place, which he had rented, preparing it for the arrival of Mrs. Welch and their furniture.

As it happened, no one had called on the Welches while they remained at Still’s; but they were no sooner in their own house than all the neighbors round began to come to see them.

Ruth found herself treated as if she were an old friend, and feeling as if she had known these visitors all her life. One came in an old wagon and brought two or three chairs, which were left until Ruth’s should come; another sent over a mahogany table; a third came with a quarter of lamb; all accompanied by some message of apology or friendliness which made the kindness appear rather done to the senders than by them.

In the contribution which the Carys brought, Ruth found the two old cups she had admired. She packed them up and returned them to Blair with the sweetest note she knew how to write.

As soon as he was settled, Major Welch went to the Court-house to examine the records. He had intended to go alone and had made arrangements, the afternoon before, with a negro near by to furnish him a horse next day; that evening, however, Still, who appeared to know everything that was going on, rode over and asked if he could not take him down in his buggy. He had to go there on some business, he explained, and Colonel Leech would be there and had told him he wanted to see the Major and talk over some matters, and wanted him to be there too.

The Major would have preferred to go first without Still. However, there was nothing else to do but to accept the offer he made of his company; and the next morning Still drove over, and they set out together, Ruth saying that she had plenty to occupy her until her father’s return.

They had not been gone very long and Ruth was busying herself, out in the yard, trimming the old rose-bushes into some sort of shape, when she heard a step, and looking up saw coming across the grass, the small man they had met in the road, who had told them the way to Dr. Cary’s.

He wasn’t “so very busy just then,” he said, and had come to see if they “mightn’t like to have a little hauling done when their furniture came.”

Ruth thought that her father had arranged with Mr. Still to have it done.

“I ain’t particularly busy jest now, and I’d take feed along—I jest thought I’d like to be neighborly,” repeated the man. “Hiram, I s’pect, he’s chargin’ you some’n?”

Ruth supposed so.

“Well, if he ain’t directly, he will some way. The best way to pay Hiram is to pay him right down.”

He asked Ruth if she would mind his going in and looking at the house, and, when she assented, he walked around silently, looking at the two rooms which she showed him: their sitting-room and her father’s room; then asked if he could not look into the other room also. This was Ruth’s chamber, and for a second she hesitated to gratify curiosity carried so far; but reflecting that he was a plain countryman, and might possibly misunderstand her refusal and be wounded, she nodded her assent, and stepped forward to open the door. He opened it himself, however, and walked in, stepping on tip-toe. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked about him, his gaze resting presently on a nail driven into a strip in the Avail just beside the bed.

“I was born in this here room,” he said, as much to himself as to her; then, after a pause: “right in that thar cornder—and my father was born in it before me and his father befo’ him, and to think that Hiram owns it! Hiram Still! Well—well—things do turn out strange—don’t they? Thar’s the very nail my father used to hang his big silver watch on. I b’lieve I’d give Hiram a hoss for that nail, ef I knowed where I could get another one to plough my crop.” He walked up and put his hand on the nail, feeling it softly. Then walked out.

“Thankee, miss. Will you tell yo’ pa, Sergeant Stamper’d be glad to do what he could for him, and ef he wants him jist to let him know?” He had gone but a few steps, when he turned back: “And will you tell him I say he’s got to watch out for Hiram?”

The next moment he was gone, leaving Ruth with a sinking feeling about her heart. What could he mean?

She had not long to think of it, however, for just then she heard the sound of wheels grinding along outside, and she looked out of the door just as a rickety little wagon drew up to the door. She recognized the driver as Miss Cary and walked out to meet her. Beside Blair in the wagon sat, wrapped up in shawls, though the day was warm, an elderly lady with a faded face, but with very pleasant eyes, looking down at Ruth from under a brown veil. Ruth at first supposed that she was Blair’s mother, but Blair introduced her as “Cousin Thomasia.” As they helped the lady out of the vehicle, Ruth was amused at the preparation she made. Every step she took she gave some explanation or exclamation, talking to herself, it appeared, rather than to either of the girls.

“My dear Blair, for heaven’s sake don’t let his head go. Take care, my dear, don’t let this drop.” (This to Ruth, about a package wrapped in paper.)

When at length she was down on the ground, she asked Blair if her bonnet was on straight: “Because, my dear”—and Ruth could not for her life tell to whom she was speaking—“nothing characterizes a woman more than her bonnet.”

Then having been assured that this mark of character was all right, she turned to Ruth, and said, with the greatest graciousness:

“How do you do, my dear? You must allow me to kiss you. I am Cousin Thomasia.”

Ruth’s surprised look as she greeted her, perhaps, made her add, “I am everybody’s Cousin Thomasia.”

It was indeed as she said, she was everybody’s Cousin Thomasia, and before she had been in the house ten minutes, Ruth felt as if she were, at least, hers. She accepted the arm-chair offered her, with the graciousness of a queen, and spread out her faded skirts with an air which Ruth noted and forthwith determined to copy. Then she produced her knitting, and began to knit so quietly that it was almost as if the yarn and needles had appeared at her bidding. The next instant she began a search for something—began it casually, so casually that she knit between-times, but the search quickened and the knitting ceased.

“Blair?——!”

“You brought them with you, Cousin Thomasia.”

“No, my dear, I left them, I’m sure I left them——” (searching all the time) “right on—Where can they be?”

“I saw you have them in the wagon.”

“Then I’ve dropped them—Oh, dear! dear! What shall I do?”

“What is it?” asked Ruth.

“My eyes, my dear—and I cannot read a word without them. Blair, we must go right back and hunt for them.”

But Blair was up and searching, not on the floor or in the road; but in the folds of Miss Thomasia’s dress; in the wrappings of the little parcel which she still held in her lap.

“Here they are, Cousin Thomasia,” she exclaimed, triumphantly drawing them out of the paper. “Right where you put them.”

Miss Thomasia gave a laugh as fresh as a girl’s.

“Why, so I did! How stupid of me!” She seated herself again, adjusted her glasses and began to unwrap her parcel.

“Here, my dear, is a little cutting I have fetched you from a rose which my dear mother brought from Kenilworth Castle, when she accompanied my dear father to England. I was afraid you might not have any flowers now, and nothing is such a panacea for loneliness as the care of a rose-bush. I can speak from experience. The old one used to grow just over my window at my old home and I took a cutting with me when we went away—General Legaie obtained the privilege of doing so—and you have no idea how much company it has been to me. I will show you how to set it out.”

The glasses were on now, and she was examining the sprig of green in the little pot with profound interest, while her needles flew.

“Where was your old home?” Ruth asked, softly.

“Here, my dear—not this place, but all around you. This was Mrs. Stamper’s—one of our poor neighbors. But we lived at Red Rock.”

“Oh!” said Ruth, shocked at having asked the question.

“No matter, my dear,” the old lady went on. “Since we moved we have lived at a little place right on the road. You must come over and let me show you my roses there. But I don’t think they will ever be equal to the old ones—or what the old ones were, for I hear they are nearly all gone now—I have never been back since I left. I do not think I could stand seeing that—person in possession of my father’s and my brother’s estate.” She sighed for the first time, and for the first time the needles, as she leant back, stopped.

“I wrapped up my glasses to keep from seeing it as we drove up the hill. I wish they might let me lie there when I die, but I know they will not.” Her gaze was out of the open door. In the silence which followed her words the sound of a horse’s hoofs was heard.

“There is someone outside, my dear,” she said, placidly. Both Ruth and Blair looked out.

“Why, it is the General,” said Blair, and Ruth wondered who the General was, and wondered yet more to detect something very much like a flutter in Miss Thomasia’s manner. Her hand went to her bonnet; to her throat; she smoothed her already smooth skirts, and glanced around—ending in a little appealing look to Blair. It was almost as if a white dove, represented in some sacred mystery, had suddenly lost tranquillity. When, however, the new visitor reached the door, Miss Thomasia was quietude itself.

He stepped up to the door and gave a tap with the butt of his riding-switch before he was aware of the presence of the three ladies; then he took off his hat.

“Ladies,” he said, with quite a grand bow. At the same moment, both of the ladies who knew him, spoke, but Ruth heard only Miss Thomasia’s words:

“My dear, this is General Legaie, of whom you have often heard, our old and valued friend.” Ruth had never heard of him, but she was struck by him. He was not over five feet three inches high: not as tall by several inches as Ruth herself; but his head, with curling white hair, was so set on his shoulders, his form was so straight and vigorous, and his countenance, with its blue eyes and fine mouth, so handsome and self-contained, that Ruth thought she had never seen a more martial figure. She thought instinctively of a portrait she had once seen of a French Marshal; and when the General made his sweeping bow and addressed her with his placid voice in old-fashioned phrase as, “Madam,” the illusion was complete. Why, he was absolutely stately. Then he addressed Miss Thomasia and Blair, making each of them a bow and a compliment with such an old-fashioned courtesy that Ruth felt as if she were reading a novel.

He had hoped to call and pay his respects before, he told Ruth, when he had finished his greetings; but had been unavoidably delayed, and it was a cause of sincere regret that he should be so unfortunate as to miss her father. He had learned of his absence several miles below, but he would not delay longer paying his devoirs to her; so had come on. “And you see the triple reward I receive,” he said, with a glance which included all three ladies, and a little laugh of pleasantry over himself.

“See what an adept he is,” said Blair: “he compliments us all in one breath.”

The General looked at Miss Thomasia as if he were going to speak directly to her, but she was picking up a stitch, so he shifted his glance to Blair, and, catching her eye, laughed heartily.

“Well? Why didn’t you say it?”

Miss Thomasia knitted placidly.

He shrugged his shoulders, laughed again, and changed his bantering tone.

“Have you seen Jacquelin?” asked Miss Thomasia, who had calmly ignored the preceding conversation.

“Yes, he’s all right—he came back yesterday and has gone in with Steve Allen. They’ll get along. He’s just the sort of man Steve needed; he’ll be his heavy artillery. He is looking into the matter of the bonds.”

Miss Thomasia sighed.

“Two young gentlemen of the County who are great friends of ours, Miss Welch,” explained the General.

Meanwhile, Major Welch and Mr. Still had reached the county seat. During their ride, Still had given Major Welch an account of affairs in the County, and of most of those with whom he would come in contact. Steve Allen he described as a terrible character. It had been a dreadful struggle that he himself and other Union men had had to wage, he said. Leech was the leading Northern man in the County, and was going to be Governor. But he was disposed to caution Major Welch somewhat against even him. Leech did not exactly understand things; he did not rely enough on his white friends. He would have turned out all the white officials and filled their places with negroes. But Still had insisted on keeping, at least, Mr. Dockett, the Clerk, in; because he had charge of all the records. But Mr. Dockett had not acted exactly right, he said, and he was afraid at the next election “they’d have to let him go.” He had been “getting mighty unreasonable.” Some people wanted his son, Wash, the Doctor, to run, but he “didn’t know about it?” he said, with an interrogation in his voice.

Major Welch had supposed that the Doctor would find his profession more profitable, or at least that it would take up all his time if he proposed to follow it; but Still explained that there was not a great deal of practice, and that the clerk’s place was a “paying office.”

When they arrived at Leech’s house Major Welch found it a big, modern affair with a mansard roof, set in the middle of a treeless lot. To Major Welch’s surprise, Leech was not at home. Still appeared much disconcerted.

As they crossed the yard, the Major observed a sign over a door: “Allen and Gray. Law Office.”

“If necessary we could secure their services,” he said, indicating the sign.

Still drew up to his side, and lowered his voice, looking around: They were the lawyers he had told him of, he said. That was “that fellow Allen, the leader in all the trouble that went on.”

“Who’s Gray?” The Major was still scanning the sign.

Still gave a curious little laugh.

“He’s the one as used to own my place—Mr. Gray’s son. He’s a bad one, too. He’s just come back and set up as a lawyer. Fact is, I believe he’s set up as one, more to devil me than anything else.”

Major Welch said, dryly, that he did not see why his setting up as a lawyer should bedevil him. Still hesitated.

“Well, if he thinks he could scare me——”

“I don’t see how he could scare you. I would not let him scare me,” said Major Welch, dryly.

“You don’t know ’em, Colonel,” said Still. “You don’t know what we Union men have had to go through. They won’t let us buy land, and they won’t let us sell it. They hate you because you come from the North, and they hate me because I don’ hate you. I tell you all the truth, Colonel, and you don’t believe it—but you don’t know what we go through down here. We’ve got to stand together. You’ll see.” The man’s voice was so earnest, and his face so sincere that Major Welch could not help being impressed.

“Well, I’ll show him and everyone else pretty quickly that that is not the way to come at me,” said Major Welch, gravely. “When I get ready to buy, I’ll buy where I please, and irrespective of anyone else’s views except the seller’s.” And he walked up to the door, without seeing the look on Still’s face.

The only occupants of the clerk’s office were two men; one was an old man, evidently the clerk, with a bushy beard and keen eyes gleaming through a pair of silver spectacles. The other was a young man and a very handsome one, with a broad brow, a strongly chiselled chin, and a very grave and somewhat melancholy face. He was seated in a chair directly facing the door, examining a bundle of old chancery papers which were spread out on his knee and on a chair beside him, and as the visitors entered the door he glanced up. Major Welch was struck by his fine eyes, and the changed look that suddenly came into them. Still gave his arm a convulsive clutch, and Major Welch knew by instinct that this was the man of whom Still had just spoken.

If Jacquelin Gray was really the sort of man Still had described him to be, and held the opinions Still had attributed to him, he played the hypocrite very well, for he not only bowed to Major Welch very civilly, if distantly, but to do so even rose from his seat at some little inconvenience to himself, as he had to gather up the papers spread on his knee. It is true that he took not the least notice of Still, who included him as well as the clerk in his greeting, the only evidence he gave of being aware of the presence of his former manager, being contained in a certain quiver of the nostrils, as Still passed him.

Major Welch was introduced by Still to the clerk, and stated his errand, wondering at the change in his companion’s voice.

“He’s afraid of that young man,” he thought to himself, and he stiffened a little as the idea occurred to him; and at the first opportunity he glanced again at Jacquelin, who was once more busy with his bundle of papers, in which be appeared completely absorbed. Still was following the clerk, who, with his spectacles on the tip of his long nose, was looking into the files of his deed-books; but Major Welch saw that Still was not attending to him; his eyes were turned and were fastened on the young lawyer, quite on the other side of the room. As the Major looked he was astonished to see Still start and put out his hand as though to support himself. Following Still’s gaze he glanced across at Jacquelin. He had taken several long, narrow slips of paper out of the bundle, and was at the instant examining them curiously, oblivious of everything else. Major Welch looked back at Still, and he was as white as a ghost. Before he could take it in, Still muttered something and turned to the door. As he walked out he tottered so that Major Welch, thinking he was ill, followed him.

Outside, the air revived Still somewhat, and a drink of whiskey which he got at the tavern bar, and told the bar-keeper to make “stiff,” set him up a good deal. He had been feeling badly for some time, he said; thought he was a little bilious.

Just as they came out of the bar, they saw young Gray cross the court-green and go over to his office.

They returned to the clerk’s office, and Major Welch was soon running through the deeds, while Still, after looking over his shoulder for a moment or two, took a seat near Mr. Dockett and began to talk to him. He appeared much interested in the old fellow, his family, and all that belonged to him, and Major Welch was a little amused at the old man’s short replies.

His attention was attracted by Still’s saying casually that he’d like to see the papers in that old suit of his against the Gray estate, if he could lay his hands on them, and the clerk’s dry answer that he could lay his hands on any paper in the office, and that the papers in question were in the “ended-causes” case. “Mr. Jacquelin Gray was just looking over them as you came in,” he said, as he rose to get them.

“Well, let him look,” Still growled, with a sudden change of tone. “He can look all he wants, and he won’t git around them bonds.”

“Oh, no! I don’t say as he will,” the old officer answered.

“I’d like to take ’em home with me—” Still began; but the clerk cut him short.

“I can’t let you do that. You’ll have to look at ’em here in the office.”

“Why, they’re nothin’ but—I want Colonel Welch here to look at ’em—they’ll show him how the lands come to me—I’ll bring ’em back——”

“I can’t let you take ’em out of the office.” His tone was as dry as ever.

“Well, I’d like to know why not? They don’t concern nobody but me, and they’re all ended.”

“That’s the very reason you can’t take ’em out; they’re part of the records of this office——”

“Well, I can take the bonds out, anyway,” Still persisted; “they is mine, anyhow.”

“No, you can’t take them, either.”

Still did not often lose his temper, or show it, if he did; but this time he lost it.

“Well, I’ll show you if I can’t, before the year is out, Mr. Dockett. I’ll show you who I am!” He rose with much feeling.

“I know who you are.” The old fellow turned and shot a piercing glance at him over his spectacles, and Major Welch watched complacently to see how it would end.

“Well, if you don’t, I mean to make you know it. I’ll show you you don’t own this County. I’ll show you who is the bigger man, you or the people of this County. You think because you been left in this office that you own it; but I’ll——”

“No, I don’t,” the old man said, firmly; “I know you’ve got negroes enough to turn me out if you choose; but I want to tell you that until you do I’m in charge here, and I run the office according to what I think is my duty, and the only way to change it is to turn me out. Do you want to see the papers or not? You can look at ’em here just as everybody else does.”

“That’s right,” said Major Welch, meaning to explain that it was the law. Still took it in a different sense, however, and quieted down. He would look at them, he said, sulkily, and, taking the bundle, he picked out the same slips which young Gray had been examining.

“You’re so particular about your old papers,” he said, as he held up one of the slips, “I wonder you don’t keep ’em a little better. You got a whole lot o’ red ink smeared on this bond.”

“I didn’t get it on it.” The clerk got up and walked across the room to look at the paper indicated, adjusting his spectacles as he did so. One glance sufficed for him.

“That ain’t ink, and if ’tis, it didn’t get on it in this office. That stain was on that bond when Leech filed it. I remember it particularly.”

“I don’t know anything about that—I know it wa’n’t on it when I give it to him, and I don’t remember of ever having seen it before,” Still persisted.

“Well, I remember it well—I remember speaking of it to him, because we thought ’twas finger-marks, and he said ’twas on it when you gave it to him.”

“Well, I know ’twant,” Still repeated, hotly. “If ’twas on thar when he brought it here he got ’t on it himself, and I’ll take my oath to it. Well, that don’t make any difference in the bond, I s’pose? It’s just as good with that on it as if ’twant?”

“Oh, yes; that’s so,” said Mr. Dockett. “If it’s all right every other way, that won’t hurt it.”

Still looked at him sharply.

As they drove home, Still, after a long period of silence, suddenly asked Major Welch, within what time after a case was ended a man could bring a suit to upset it.

“Well, I don’t know what the statutes of this State are, but he can generally bring it without limit, on the ground of fraud,” said the Major, “unless he is estopped by laches.”

“What’s that?” asked Still, somewhat huskily, and the Major started to explain; but Still was taken with another of his ill turns.

That same afternoon, a little before Major Welch’s return, Ruth was walking about the yard, looking, every now and then, across the hill, in the direction of Red Rock, from which her father should soon be coming, when, as she passed near a cherry-tree, she observed that some of the fruit was already ripe. One or two branches were not very high. She had been feeling a little lonely, and it occurred to her that it would be great fun to climb the tree. She had once been a good climber, and she remembered the scoldings she had received for it from her mother, who regarded it as “essentially frivolous,” and had once, as a punishment, set her to learn all the names of all the branches of a tree which hung on the nursery wall, and represented, allegorically, all the virtues and vices, together with a perfect network of subsidiary qualities. She could remember many of them now— “Faith, Hope, Temperance,” and so on.

“Dear mamma,”she thought, with a pang of homesickness, “I wish she were here now.” This reflection only made her more lonely, and to overcome the feeling she turned to the more material and attractive tree.

“I could climb that tree easily enough,” she said,”and there’s no one to know anything about it. Even mamma would not mind that much. Besides, I could see papa from a greater distance and I’ll get him some cherries for his tea.”

These last two considerations were sufficient to counterbalance the idea of maternal disapproval. So Ruth turned up the skirt of her dress, pinned it so that it would not be stained, and five minutes later was scrambling up the tree. Higher and higher she went up, feeling the old exhilaration of childhood as she climbed. What a fine view there was from her perch! the rolling hills, the green low-grounds, the winding river, the blue mountains behind and, away to the eastward, the level of the tide-water country almost as blue at the horizon as the mountains to the westward. How still it was too! Every sound was distinct: the lowing of a cow far away toward Red Rock, the notes of a thrush in a thicket, and the chirp of a sparrow in an old tree. Ruth wished she could have described it as she saw it, or, rather, as she felt it, for it was more feeling than seeing, she thought. But the best cherries were out toward the ends of the limbs, so she secured a safe position and set to work, gathering them. She was so engrossed in this occupation that she forgot everything else until she heard the trampling of a horse’s feet somewhere. It was quite in a different direction from that in which she expected her father, but supposing that it was he, Ruth gave a little yodel, with which she often greeted him when at a distance, and climbed out on a limb that she might look down and see him. How astonished and amused he would be, she thought. Yes, there he was, coming around the slope just below her, but how was he going to get across the ditch? If only that bough were not in the way! Ah! now she had the bough and could pull it aside. Heavens! it was a stranger, and he was near enough for her to see that he was a young man. What should she do? Suppose he should have heard her! At the moment she looked he was putting his horse at the ditch—a splendid jump it was. She let the bough go and edged in toward the body of the tree, listening and half seeing the rider below through the leaves as he galloped up into the yard. Perhaps he had not seen her? She crouched down. It was a vain hope, for the next instant he turned his horse’s head toward the tree and drew him in almost under her.

“I say—Is anyone at home?” he asked. The voice was a very deep and pleasant one. Although Ruth was sure he was speaking to her, she did not answer.

“I say, little girl, are Colonel Welch and his daughter at home?”

This time he looked up. So Ruth answered. No, they were not at home. Her voice sounded curiously quavering.

“Ah! I’m very sorry. When will they be at home? Can you tell me?”

“Ah! ur—not exactly,” quavered Ruth, crouching still closer to the tree-trunk and gathering in her skirts.

“You have some fine cherries up there!”

Oh, heavens! why didn’t he go away!

To this she made no answer, hoping he would go. He caught hold of a bough, she thought, to pull some cherries; wrapped his reins around it, and the next moment stood up in his saddle, seized a limb above him and swung himself up. In her astonishment Ruth almost stopped breathing.

“I believe I’ll try a few—for old times’ sake,” he said to himself, or to her, she could not tell which, and swung himself higher. “I don’t suppose Colonel Welch would object.”

The next swing brought him up to the limb immediately below Ruth, and he turned and looked up at her where she sat in the fork of the limb. Her face had been burning ever since she had been discovered, and was burning now; but she could not help being amused at the expression which came into the stranger’s eyes as he looked at her. Astonishment, chagrin, and amusement were all stamped there, mingled together.

“What on earth!—I beg your pardon—” he began, his eyes wide open with surprise, gazing straight into hers. The next instant he burst out laughing, a peal so full of real mirth that Ruth joined in and laughed with all her might too.

“I’m Captain Allen, Steve Allen—and you are——?”

“Miss Welch—when I’m at home.”

He pulled himself up to the limb on which Ruth sat and coolly seated himself near her.

“I hope you will be at home—Miss Welch; for I am. I used to be very much at home in this tree in old times, which is my excuse for being here now, though I confess I never found quite such fruit on it as it seems to bear to-day.”

The twinkle in his gray eyes and a something in his lazy voice reminded Ruth of Reely Thurston. The last part of his speech to her sounded partly as if he meant it, but partly as if lie were half poking fun at her and wished to see how she would take it. She tried to meet him on his own ground.

“If you had not made yourself somewhat at home you would not have found it now.” She was very demure.

Steve lifted his eyes to her quickly, and she was rather nettled to see that he looked much amused at her speech.

“Exactly. You would not have had me act otherwise, I hope? We always wish our guests to make themselves at home. You Yankees don’t want to be behind us.”

She saw his eyes twinkle, and felt that he had said it to draw her fire, but she could not forbear firing back.

“No, but sometimes it does not seem necessary, as you Rebels appear inclined to make yourselves at home—sometimes even without an invitation.” Her chin went up a point.

Steve burst out laughing.

“A good square shot. I surrender, Miss Welch.”

“What! so easily? I thought you Rebels were better fighters? I have heard so.”

Steve only laughed.

“‘He that fights and runs away,’ you know. I can’t run, so I surrender. May I get you some cherries? The best are out on the end of the limbs, and I am afraid you might fall.” His voice had lost the tone of badinage and was full of deference and protection.

Ruth said she believed that she had all the cherries she wanted. She had, perhaps, a dozen—. She was wondering how she should get down, and was in a panic lest her father should appear and find her up in the tree with this strange young man.

In reply to her refusal, however, Steve looked at her quizzically.

“You want to get down.” This in assertion rather than in question.

“Yes.” Defiantly.

“And you can’t get down unless I let you?”

“N—n— “ She caught herself quickly, “I thought you had surrendered?”

“Can’t a prisoner capture his captor?”

“Not if he has given his parole and is a gentleman.” Steve whistled softly. His eyes never left her face.

“Will you invite me in?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because——”

“I see.” Steve nodded.

“Because my father is not at home.”

“Oh! All the more reason for your having a protector.”

“No. And I will make no terms with a prisoner.”

With a laugh Steve let himself down to the limb below. Then he stopped and turning looked up at her.

“May I help you down?” The tone was almost humble.

“No, I thank you, I can get down.” Very firmly.

“I must order your father to remain at home,” he smiled.

“My father is not one to take orders; he gives them,” she said, proudly.

Captain Allen looked up at her, the expression of admiration in his eyes deepened. “I think it likely,” he said with a nod. “Well, I don’t always take them so meekly myself. Good-by. Do you require your prisoner to report at all?” He held out his hand.

“Good-by—I—don’t know: No.”

He smiled up at her. “You don’t know all your privileges. Good-by. I always heard you Yankees were cruel to prisoners.”

It was said in such a way that Ruth did not mind it, and did not even wish to fire back. The next minute Steve was on his horse, cantering away without looking back, and curiously, Ruth, still seated on her leafy perch, was conscious of a feeling of blankness.

“I hate that man,” she said to herself, “he has been doing nothing but make fun of me. But he is amusing—and awfully handsome. And what a splendid rider! I wonder if he will have the audacity to come back?”

As she reached the ground she saw her father far across the field, coming up the same road along which her visitor was going away. When the two men met they stopped and had a little talk, during which Ruth watched with curiosity to see if Captain Allen would return. He did not, however. It was only a moment and then he cantered on, leaving Ruth with a half disappointed feeling, and wondering if he had told her father of their meeting.

When Major Welch arrived, Ruth waited with some impatience to discover if he had been told. He mentioned that he had met Mr. Allen and thought him a striking-looking and rather nice fellow; had invited him to return, but he said he could not, that he had seen her, and would call again.

“He is a gentlemanly fellow, but is said to be one of the most uncontrolled men about here, the leader in all the lawlessness that goes on.”

Ruth thought of what the old mammy at Dr. Cary’s had told her. She wished to change the subject.

“Did he say where we met?” she asked, laughing and blushing.

“No, only said he had met you.”

“He caught me up in a cherry-tree.”

“What! Well, he’s a nice fellow,” said her father, and Ruth had begun to think so too.