I was up and abroad upon the plantation early the next morning, Old Master having sent me to look for a colt that had been missing for several days. In a wild bit of thicket-land I found the colt in a sink hole and was rejoiced to discover that it was not hurt. But it was weak and when I had helped it out, it trotted off with its knees knocking together. I followed along to drive it to the stable and was putting up the bars after seeing the hungry creature stumble into the lot, when someone accosted me. I looked up, pausing with a bar in my hand, and there stood the doctor muffled to the ears. "I want you to drive me to town," he said.

I finished my work of putting up the bars before I answered him, and this apparent sullenness smote upon his sense of resentment, for when I turned toward him he was gazing hard at me. "Did my Master say that I was to drive you?" I asked. I was looking down and I saw the frozen ground grinding under his heel; I glanced at his face and his countenance was aflame with wrath. With both hands he tore the muffler from about his neck; he looked about and appeared to stand harder on the ground—all this before he spoke again, and when he did speak his voice had a hissing sound. "You yellow dog, I ought to cut your liver out."

"But I am sure that my master did not tell you to do that," I was bold enough to reply. He leaped toward me. I was strong enough and skillful enough to have given him an unmerciful beating, and my blood burned to knock his teeth down his throat, but judgment had not deserted me, and putting one hand upon the top bar, I leaped lightly over, leaving him swearing on the other side. Had he made a motion to pursue me I would have run away, but I saw Old Master coming, so I stood my ground. The doctor saw him, too, and turned away, muffling his throat as he went. Breakfast was over and I hastened straightway to my Master's room. He was writing as I entered, but he looked up pleasantly and asked if I had eaten, and when I told him no, bade me go at once to the servants' hall.

"I had better not go now," I replied. "I met the doctor out in the lot and he ordered me to drive him to town, and—"

"That's enough," he broke in, and putting down his pen, went to the front window and looked out. "I wonder if he is gone yet," he said, speaking more to himself than to me. "I repented of my action of last night, but now I wish I had kicked him down stairs. I wonder how long God wants me to put up with that fellow."

"If I am allowed an opinion, sir," I replied, "I don't think that God takes him into account."

He looked at me with a smile. "You are allowed that opinion and I will help you entertain it," he said, and a moment later he added: "Come down with me and get something to eat."

The front hall door stood open and as we turned the bend in the stairs we saw the doctor driving off from the gate. Old Master came up the steps from the hall. "I see he's gone," said the young man.

"Yes, thank God," Old Master replied. "There's only one way that Bates has given me pleasure and that is to see him driving away. But I don't think he's as bad as he used to be. He used to worry the life out of me with trying to buy Dan when he might have known that it was against my principles to sell a slave."

"It's not against my principles to sell anything that annoys me," said Old Miss, coming out with her keys jangling. "As for you, General, you are always willing enough to get rid of white men but you stick close enough to your negroes. Dan," she added, "I want you to take up the sitting-room carpet and beat it."

"Mother," Young Master interposed, "he has had no breakfast. And besides, that is not his work."

"Any work that I tell him to do is his," Old Miss replied, drawing her thin lips together. I gave her a bow of most humble obedience, not that I felt any reverence for her, but that I would protect Young Master against all spiteful upbraiding. "Dan," she said, "tell Tilly to give you something to eat, and then I want you to beat that carpet."

I looked at Bob and he nodded assent, gracefully enough, but I could see that he was not at all pleased. I was turning away when his voice arrested me, though his words were addressed to his mother. "At times I have an odd fancy," said he. "When I am making a speech in my mind and a coldness chills my words, I imagine that the chill is an inheritance from you, mother."

Old Master laughed, and pressed his bony fingers till his knuckles cracked. But Old Miss did not make a laughing matter of it; perhaps she felt the sting of its truth. "It's a singular thing," she replied, "that so cold a mother should bring up so warm a son. General, I wish you wouldn't grin at me that way!"

"Which way shall I grin?" he asked. "If you know of any better way, just show me, and I'll adopt it. But come, madam, don't be put out. You must remember that an old man's humor dries with his advancing years."

"Humor!" she said. "You haven't a vestige of it, and even if you had, you—" Her lips trembled and the corners of her mouth went down. "I have seen trouble enough—"

"There, now," said the old man, his voice soft with tenderness. "Robert, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for speaking that way. Your mother is not cold, sir," he almost stormed, "and if ever I hear you intimate it again, I'll thrash you, I don't care how old you are. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, sir."

"I am," said Bob, and swiftly crossing the floor he kissed his mother. She put her arm about his neck and said that she knew he did not mean it; and then Old Master turned upon me. "Go on, sir," he cried, "and don't stand there gaping like a fool. Confound it, you think you ought to hear every word that's spoken on the place."

I hastened away, wondering what she meant by saying that she had seen trouble enough. Surely she would permit no conversation to be wholly agreeable, certain it was that her manner invited no affection.

The news of Miss May's engagement had spread among the negroes, and many a nappy head was thrust forth seeking a look at the man as he walked about the grounds. I learned from Bob that the wedding was soon to take place. The journey was long, and the man had said that he would not return home without his bride. I had passed him many times in the hall, in the woods, in the road leading to town, but not until one evening when I was summoned to mend the parlor fire did I get an estimating look at him. I had put on a log and had turned about to go when he asked my name. I told him, and he asked laughingly if I were a descendant of the Daniel who was cast into the lion's den? I told him that I was a Daniel who had come to many a judgment and been found wanting.

"Dan belongs to brother," said Miss May, "and they read the same books. Brother thinks a great deal of him."

"Evidently," Mr. Marston replied. He was a trim looking man of medium size and with black whiskers. His teeth were very white and his brow was broad and smooth. He was easy in manner and was quick to perceive, for noticing my almost instantaneous measurement of him, he looked at me sharply and said: "Well, I suppose you have no objection to my marrying your young mistress?"

"No one could object to her choice," I replied, pleased with myself, and Miss May, smiling sweetly, said: "Thank you, Dan. Shut the door as you go out."

I took this as a dismissal, whether she meant it or not, and it cut me. But my mind was soon made to feel at rest for as I was going up the stairs she came out and called me softly: "Dan," she said, "I didn't want you to talk very much to Mr. Marston. He is from the far South and thinks that a negro that can read is a great danger to the community, and after I had indiscreetly told him that you and brother read the same books, I thought that it was time for you to go—I didn't want him to say anything to hurt your feelings. I want you to like him."

This simple act of kindness brought the tears to my eyes. Ah, through the misty years I can see her now, standing in the hall with upturned face, sweet and beautiful.

Preparations for the wedding were hastened forward, and one day the negroes peeped through the parlor door, as we had peeped, long ago, at an array of flowers, Miss Lou lying among them. But now there was no black man to lift his faltering voice in grief—he was gone long years ago and lay sleeping under a dead apple tree; there were soft words of love; and at night there was feasting, the sounds of quick feet, and the spirit of the fiddle was borne upon the air.