A red rose, while ever a thing of beauty, is not invariably a joy forever. The white bulldog, as he plodded along the sunny highway, was sunk in depression. Being trammeled by the limitations of a canine horizon, he could not understand the whims of Adorable Ones met by the way, who seemed so glad to see him that they threw both arms about him, and then tied to his neck irksome colored weeds that prickled and scratched and would not be dislodged. Lacking a basis of painful comparison, since he had never had a tin can tied to his tail, he accepted it as condign punishment and was puzzledly wretched. So it was a chastened and shamed Chum who at length wriggled stealthily into the seat of the stranded automobile beside his master and thrust a dirty pink nose into his palm.

John Valiant lifted his hand to stroke the shapely head, then drew it back with an exclamation. A thorn had pricked his thumb. He looked down and saw the draggled flower thrust through the twist of grass. “Oh, pup of wonders!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get that rose?”

Chum sat up and wagged his tail, for his master’s tone, instead of ridicule, held a dawning delight. Perhaps the thing had not been intended as a disgrace after all! As the careful hand drew the misused blossom tenderly from its tether, he barked joyously with recovered spirits.

With the first sight of the decoration Valiant had had a sudden memory of a splotch of vivid red against the belted gray-blue of a gown. He grinned appreciatively. “And I warned her,” he chuckled. “Told her not to be afraid!” He dusted the blossom painstakingly with his handkerchief and held it to his face—a live brilliant thing, breathing musk-odors of the mid-moon of paradise.

A long time he sat, while the dog dozed and yawned on the shiny cushion beside him. Gradually the clover-breeze fainted and the lengthening shadows dipped their fingers into indigo. On the far amethystine peaks of the Blue Ridge leaned milky-breasted clouds through which the sun sifted in wide bars. A blackbird began to flute from some near-by tree and across the low stone wall he heard a feathery whir. Of a sudden Chum sat up and barked in earnest.

Turning his head, his master saw approaching a dilapidated hack with side-lanterns like great goggles and decrepit and palsied curtains. It was drawn by a lean mustard-tinted mule, and on its front seat sat a colored man of uncertain age, whose hunched vertebrÆ and outward-crooked arms gave him a curious expression of replete and bulbous inquiry. Abreast of the car he removed a moth-eaten cap.

“Evenin’, suh,” he said,—“evenin’, evenin’.”

“Howdy do,” returned the other amiably.

“Ah reck’n yo’-all done had er breck-down wid dat machine-thing dar. Spec’ er graveyahd rabbit done cross yo’ pahf. Yo’ been hyuh ’bout er hour, ain’ yo’?”

“Nearer three,” said Valiant cheerfully, “but the view’s worth it.”

A hoarse titter came from the conveyance, which gave forth sundry creakings of leather. “Huyh! Huyh! Dat’s so, suh. Dat’s so! Hm-m. Reck’n Ah’ll be gittin’ erlong back.” He clucked to the mule and proceeded to turn the vehicle round.

“Hold on,” cried John Valiant. “I thought you were bound in the other direction.”

“No, suh. Ah’m gwine back whah I come f’om. Ah jus’ druv out hyuh ’case Miss Shirley done met me, en she say, ‘Unc’ Jeffe’son, yo’ go ’treckly out de Red Road, ’case er gemman done got stalled-ed.’”

“Oh—Miss Shirley. She told you, did she? What did you say her first name was?”

“Dat’s huh fus’ name, Miss Shirley. Yas, suh! Miss Shirley done said f’ me ter come en git de gemman whut—whut kinder dawg is yo’ got dar?”

“It’s a bulldog. Can you give me a lift? I’ve got that small trunk and—”

“Dat’s a right fine dawg. Miss Shirley she moughty fond ob dawgs, too.”

“Fond of dogs, is she?” said Valiant. “I might have known it. It was nice of her to send you here, Uncle Jefferson. You can take me and my traps, I suppose?”

“’Pens on whah yo’ gwineter,” answered Uncle Jefferson sapiently.

“I’m going to Damory Court.”

A kind of shocked surprise that was almost stupefaction spread over the other’s face, like oil over a pool. “Dam’ry Co’ot! Dat’s de old Valiant place. Ain’ nobody lives dar. Ah reck’n ain’ nobody live dar fer mos’ er hun’erd yeahs!”

“The old house has a great surprise coming to it,” said Valiant gravely. “Henceforth some one is going to occupy it. How far is it away?”

“Measurin’ by de coonskin en th’owin’ in de tail, et’s erbout two mile. Ain’ gwineter live dar yo’se’f, suh, is yo’?”

“I am for the present,” was the crisp answer.

Uncle Jefferson stared at him a moment with his mouth open. Then ejaculating under his breath, “Fo’ de Lawd! Whut folks gwineter say ter dat!” he shambled to the rear of the motor and began to unship the steamer-trunk.

“By the way,”—John Valiant paused, with the portmanteau in his hands,—“what do you ask for the job?”

The owner of the hack scratched his grizzled head. “Ah gen’ly chahges er quahtah er trunk f’om de deepo’ less’n et’s one ob dem ar rich folks f’om up Norf.”

“I don’t happen to be rich, so we’ll make it a dollar. What makes you think I’m from the North?”

Again the aguish mirth agitated the other, as he put aboard a hamper and one of the motor’s lamps, which Valiant added as an afterthought. “Ah knows et,” he said ingenuously, “but Ah don’ know why. Ah’ll jes’ twis’ er rope eroun’ yo’ trunk. Whut yo’ gwineter do wid dat-ar?” he asked, pointing to the car. “Ah kin come wid ole Sukey—dat’s mah mule—en fotch it in in de mawnin’. Ain’ gwineter rain ter-night nohow.”—

This matter having been arranged, they started jogging down the green-bordered road, the bulldog prospecting alongside. A meadow-lark soared somewhere in the overarching blue, dropping golden notes; dusty bumble-bees boomed hither and thither; genial crickets tuned their fiddles in the “tickle-grass” and a hawking dragon-fly paused for an impudent siesta between the mule’s gyrating ears.

“S’pose’n de Co’ot done ben sold en yo’ gwineter fix it up fo’ de new ownah,” hazarded Uncle Jefferson presently.

Valiant did not answer directly. “You say the place hasn’t been occupied for many years,” he observed. “Did you ever hear why, Uncle Jefferson?”

“Ah done heerd,” said the other vaguely, “but Ah disremembahs. Sumpin dat happened befo’ Ah come heah f’om ol’ Post-Oak Plantation. Reck’n Majah Bristow he know erbout it, er Mis’ Judith—dat’s Miss Shirley’s mothah. Her fathah wus Gen’l Tawm Dandridge, en he died fo’ she wus bawn.”

Shirley Dandridge! A high-sounding name, with something of long-linked culture, of arrogant heritage. In some subtle way it seemed to clothe the personality of which Valiant had had that fleeting roadside glimpse.

Uncle Jefferson stared meditatively skyward whence dropped the bubbling lark song. “Dat-ar buhd kin sing!” he said. “Queeh dat folkses cyan’ do dat, dey so moughty much smahtah. Nevah knowed nobody could, dough, cep’n on’y Miss Shirley. Tain’ er buhd nowhah in de fiel’s dat she cyan’ mock.”

“You mean she knows their calls?”

“Yas, suh, ev’y soun’. Done fool me heap er times. Dah’s de cook’s li’l boy et Rosewood dat wuz sick las’ summah, en he listen ev’y day ter de mockin’-buhd dat nes’ in one ob de tulip-trees. He jes’ love dat buhd next ter he mammy, en when et come fall en et don’ come no mo’, he ha’at mos’ broke. He jes’ lay en cry en git right smaht wussur. Et las’ seems lak de li’l boy gwine die. When Mis’ Shirley heah dat, she try en try till she jes’ git dat buhd’s song ez pat ez de Lawd’s Prayah, en one evenin’ she gwine en say ter he mammy ter tell him he mockin’-buhd done come back, en he mammy she bundle him all up in de quilt en open de winder, en sho’ nuff, dah’s Mistah Mockin’-buhd behin’ de bushes, jes’ bus’in’ hisse’f. Well, suh, seems lak dat chile hang on ter living jes’ ter heah dat buhd, en ev’y evenin’, way till when de snow on de groun’, Mis’ Shirley she hide out in de trees en sing en sing till de po’ li’l feller gwine ter sleep.”

Valiant leaned forward, for Uncle Jefferson had paused. “Did the child get well?” he asked eagerly.

The old man clucked to the leisurely mule. “Yas, suh!” he said. “He done git well. He ’bout de on’riest young’un roun’ heah now!

“Reck’n yo’-all come f’om New York?” inquired Uncle Jefferson, after a little silence. “So! Dey say dat’s er pow’ful big place. But Ah reck’n ol’ Richmon’s big ernuf fo’ me.” He clucked to the leisurely mule and added, ”Ah bin ter Richmon’ onct. Yas, suh! Ah nevah see sech houses—mos’ all bigger’n de county co’ot-house.”

John Valiant expressed a somewhat absent interest. He was looking thoughtfully at the blossom in his hand, in an absorption through which Uncle Jefferson’s reminiscences oozed on:

“Mos’ cur’ousest thing wus how e’vybody dar seem ter know e’vybody else. Dey got street-kyahs dar, no hoss en no mule, jes’ shoot up de hill en down ergen, lak de debble skinnin’ tan-bahk. Well, suh, Ah got on er kyah en gib de man whut stan’ on de flatfawm er nickel, en Ah set dar lookin’ outen de win’ow, till de man he call out ‘Adams,’ en er gemman whut wah sittin’ ercross f’om me, he git up en git off. De kyah start ergen en de nex co’nah dat ar man on de flatfawm he yell out ‘Monroe.’ En Mistah Monroe, he was sittin’ up at de end, en he jump up en git off. Den de kyah took anuddah staht, en bress mah soul, dat ar man on de flatfawm he hollah ‘Jeffe’son!’ Ah clah’ ter goodness, suh, Ah nebbah skeered so bad en mah life. How dat man know me, suh? Well, suh, Ah jump up lak Ah be’n shot, en Ah says, ‘Fo’ de Lawd, boss, Ah wa’n’t gwineter git off at dis co’nah, but ef yo’ says so, Ah reck’n Ah got ter!’ So Ah git off en Ah walk erbout fo’ miles back ter de deepo!”

Uncle Jefferson’s inward and volcanic amusement shook his passenger from his reverie. “En dat ar wa’n’t de wust. When Ah got ter de deepo, Ah didn’ have mah pocketbook. Er burglar had ’scaped off wid it en lef me es nickelless ez er convic’.”