MOTHER LOVE

A FAMILY HISTORY

by

Buena Crimminger Feeney

I

About the year 1791, when George Washington was touring the southern part of the United States and so endearing himself to the people that he was called "The Father of His Country," a child who was ultimately to bear his name was being christened in Bristol, England. A carriage transported him from his ancestral home to the Anglican church. There in the presence of friends and relatives the Bishop pronounced his name and admonished those responsible for him that it was their duty to nourish and bring up this child for the Lord, and that it was fitting they should renew the confession of their faith before God.

When the parents and god-parents had recited the creed of their faith, the Bishop dipped his hand in a bowl of water held for him by an attendant and sprinkled some drops on the child's head. He then asked that it be granted that this child, having been in God's own time born again by the Holy Ghost, may come to years of understanding, that he may confess the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom He has sent.

As the carriage returned to the home, followed by those who were invited to the feast that ended the christening ceremony, the poor people of the city gathered in the streets and were favored by coins tossed from the carriages by way of thanksgiving for the life and health of the child. When the home was reached all the relatives crowded around, wishing to kiss or touch the little boy. He became weary of so much attention and raised his voice in protest. He was given into the care of his Dutch nurse who lifted him in her arms. She placed the long folds of his beautifully embroidered dress across her shoulder and bore him to a secluded place where he went to sleep with his thumb in his mouth.

II

The city of Bristol has long been a thriving seaport, lying on both sides of the Avon river at its confluence with the Frome. Its ship owners carried on trade with the colonies before and after independence, bringing Africans to sell as slaves and carrying back products from the new world. On a late spring afternoon the Thomas Jefferson, a ship from Charleston, South Carolina, lay in the harbor. It was near sailing time and all hands were busy loading the manufactured articles which were to pay for the rice, indigo and resin the ship had brought. Two of the passengers, relatives of the owner of the ship, were late in arriving. They had stayed too long at a tavern and even now seemed in no hurry as they were to be seen weaving their way toward the docks. As they came near they noticed a small, well-dressed boy, who looked to be five or six years old, standing apart from the busy sailors and watching them with intense interest. He wore fawn-colored velvet britches that came a few inches above the tops of his black kid shoes. A frilled white collar came to a V over his blue velvet jacket. He was bareheaded, his brown hair muffled by the breeze. In his fair face his blue eyes glowed with interest in a scene he was evidently seeing for the first time.

The two men stopped and looked at him.

"What a pretty little boy!" one of the men exclaimed.

"Too pretty to be in a place like this," said the other. "Let's take him with us."

They came up to him, took off their hats and bowed deeply. "Good afternoon, young sir."

The child was surprised, but answered courteously, "Good afternoon."

"You seem to be interested in the ship."

"Yes, sir. I've never seen one before."

"Is that so? Then you ought to get a better look. Let's move up a little closer."

They each took an arm and urged him toward the gang plank. He pulled back a little. They slowed, but continued to hold him.

"It's more interesting on board. There is so much to see. Come on, we'll show you."

"I mustn't, sir. Kat won't know where I am."

"Did you run away?"

"Oh, no, sir. Kat was busy talking and I just came closer so I could see them load the ship."

"It won't hurt to go a little closer. We'll bring you back before Kat misses you."

So they went on board. The boy was fascinated with all the activity, but soon remembered that he should go back.

"No, no," said one of the men. "We have something to show you. Shotwell," he called to a sailor nearby, "Our friend here wants to hear you make music with your nose."

The sailor looked surprised. "Mr. Abbott, you know I can't do that. You, too, Mr. Walker."

"Go ahead, my man, go ahead," Abbott urged.

The sailor began to hum through his nose, depressing first one side, then the other. The two men laughed uproariously. The child giggled uncertainly.

"Where do you sleep?" he asked.

"We'll show you." They took him to their quarters and lifted him up to see their bunks.

"Try it." Abbott suggested, "See how you like it."

"It's nice."

"Rest a little while," the man urged.

The child lay down and was soon fast asleep. The two drunken conspirators tiptoed from the cabin. Some hours later they returned, having seen the ship set sail, eaten their evening meal, and amused themselves for a while on deck. The episode of the afternoon was completely forgotten. They made a light and prepared to sleep. Abbott approached his bunk.

"Walker," he whispered, "look here."

Walker came up and whistled softly at sight of the sleeping child. "Who is it?"

"I don't know who he is nor what he is doing here."

The two men looked at each other in perplexity. Abbott pointed a finger at Walker.

"Did you bring him aboard?"

"No. You must have. He's in your bunk."

Abbott shook his head. "I don't remember. Maybe we both did it. You know we both had too much to drink at that pub. We'll have to get him off the ship."

Walker turned away. "Let's wait 'til tomorrow. The Captain is too busy for us to bother him now. You know how mad he gets." And he got into his bunk.

"But where am I going to sleep?"

"Get in here with me."

The child stirred. Hastily they put out the light and got into the other bunk. It was definitely not large enough for both of them, but they were still too much under the influence of their after noon's spree to lie awake long.

It seemed as if they had just dozed off when they were awakened by the child crying. They sat up in amazement. The sun was just coming up. By the light of the rays slanting through the porthole they could see the boy sitting up in Abbott's bunk, his lovely clothes wrinkled, his face tear-streaked and his eyes filled with alarm. When he recognized the two men he grew quiet, trying in spite of his fear to remember his manners.

"Good morning, sirs," he gulped piteously. "You will take me home now?"

They looked at him in consternation. He began to cry again. Abbott lifted him from the bed acid sat down with him on his knee.

"Don't cry, . . . ." He groped for a-name. "Don't cry, little fellow. We'll take care of you. We'll send your father word where you are and he'll come and get you. What's your name?"

The child cried harder. "Kat!" he said, "Kat" over and over.

All their efforts to quiet him were in vain.

"Better get the Captain," Abbott said finally.

"Do we have to?" Walker asked.

"Well, I can't do anything with him. Here, you try."

"I'll get the Captain," Walker answered hastily.

He hurried off. The Captain was having his breakfast., but was willing to listen. When he heard the story he seemed at first to be very angry. But a sudden thought stopped his profane outburst.

"Who is he?"

"We don't know. We saw him watching the men load the ship yesterday. Evidently he had slipped away from his nurse. We asked him if he'd like to come aboard and look over the ship. It seemed like a good joke last night but this morning it doesn't sound like such a good one."

"Let me think," snapped the Captain. "I'm fifteen hours out of Bristol and I got a good breeze. I can't turn back now. I guess I can take him on to Charleston and write back and try to find out who he is. Bring him up here."

The child was still crying and refused to walk; so Abbott had to carry him to the Captain's quarters. Several sailors were near, including Shotwell, and were watching to see what the Captain would do.

''Stop that screaming!" was his first order.

The little fellow cried harder.

"Put him down," the Captain ordered Abbott. The boy refused to stand and fell to the floor where he lay sobbing violently. A sailor tried to lift him, but he kicked and fought so ferociously that his foot got caught in the man's pants and almost pulled them off. At a sign from the Captain he was glad to let go.

"What's his name?" the Captain asked.

Abbott shook his head. "We don't know."

"Well, find out!"

Walker bent down to the youngster. "What's your name, little fellow? We can't get you back home if we don't know who you are or where you live. Where do you live?"

The only answer was a wail. "Kat! I want Kat!"

The Captain was looking at him spectulatively. "One of you," motioning to the sailors, "you, there, what's your name?"

"Shotwell, sir."

"Shot, take him below, give him something to eat and keep him with you until we anchor. Then I'll take charge of him. Now get him out of here. Drag him out if you have to."

And drag him out they did, several of them, with difficulty. The Captain closed his door. The sailors scattered to their work. Abbott and Walker went to their breakfast. Shot sat downs on the deck beside the boy. He asked him his name.

"Kat!" he sobbed. "I want Kat!"

Shot played music on his nose as he had done the afternoon before, but the child paid no attention.

"If you'll go below with me I'll show you how to do that," he offered. The offer was ignored.

He attempted to pick him up, but was violently rebuffed. Shot sat and waited until the child was exhausted. Then with no difficulty he picked him up and took him below. On the second day out Shot was able to persuade him to eat. Indeed he was the only one who succeeded in winning the child to any measure of confidence, and that not to the extent of conversation. Mostly he followed Shot around or sat quietly where he worked. Anyone who approached him was watched warily. When he was pressed to tell his name he ended up crying piteously for Kat. Eventually he came to be called Kat. Abbott and Walker never came near him but once, when they tried to make friends with him only to be pounded fiercely with his fists.

On the afternoon the Thomas Jefferson docked in the Charleston harbor Kat was told to come ashore with the Captain. By this time he had lost some of his belligerence and made no resistance, but followed the Captain docilely down the gang plank and through narrow muddy streets to a mean house set flush with the street. Behind them came a sailor who carried a well-tied bundle on his shoulder. They entered the house through a door which opened off a narrow side porch. The sailor put the bundle on the floor and left.

From his seat astride a bench Denby Bigin, squat, dark and bearded, peered at them through small, pig-like eyes.

"Howdy, Bigin," said the Captain.

"Ho, Cap'n, didn't know ye. Bresh that stuff off that there cheer and make yourself at home. Who's 'at you got wi' ye?"

"A boy I found. Thought may be you'd like to have him."

"Me? What'd I be wantin' with a young'un like that? I need a bundle o' leather worse'n I need a boy." And he went back to his work, rubbing a stirrup shaped piece of wood which he held in his hand.

"I brought you the leather." The Captain waved his hand toward the bundle on the floor. "I think you'll find what you want there at the price you said you'd pay. I've heard you say several times that you'd like to have an apprentice. So when this fellow come on board my ship I brought him to you."

Bigin got up and got the bundle of leather. He examined it carefully and grunted his approval. "How much?"

"What about the boy?"

"Don't look much. Too little."

"He'll outgrow that. He's a likely one, quick to learn. Easy to git along with. Won't take him long to catch on to your ways."

"Ho, ho, ho!" Bigin laughed wickedly, then searched the Captain's face with his little eyes. "You gonna give 'im to me?"

"Well, it cost me to bring him over. I ought to git something for my trouble and expense."

Kat paid no attention to the conversation that was settling his future. While they haggled over the price Denby Bigin would pay for him, he sank to the floor apathetically, his eyes turned unseeingly on the rough plank. Presently he became aware of a column of ants marching across his line of vision. Dispiritedly he picked out a group of three carrying an insect, two at the front end and one at the back. He let his eyes follow them until they disappeared through hole at the base of the wall. Then letting his gaze wander around the room, he began to realize that it was one of the dirtiest he had ever seen.

Cobwebs filled the corners, while the upper walls and ceiling were covered with the homes of dirt daubers. Bits of leather and wood lay here and there on the floor, or were pushed against piles of shavings in the corners and near the hearth. Saddles and harness in various stages of completion hung from nails on the walls or lay on benches. A table was piled high with lumber in short pieces and of various widths. On top of the lumber was quite a lot of leather. The tools needed in cutting and smoothing the wood and leather used in Bigin's harness and saddle shop lay on a bench near where the man sat.

Kat's incurious survey of the room was interrupted by a movement en the part of Bigin who got to his feet and went to the mantle where he fumbled in a box to extract a key. He unlocked a small trunk and took out a tin box. From it he counted carefully a sum of money which he gave to the Captain who pocketed it with satisfaction and rose to go.

"That pays for the leather and the boy. And, Denby, I think you'll find him satisfactory, but if he has any other ideas I know you can make him change them. And now that our little business is finished I'll be gittin' back to my ship. Want to git started unloading my cargo."

Kat got up and followed him to the door.

"No, boy, you stay here."

Kat watched as the Captain left. He turned to find Bigin staring at him. He stared back, curiously, thinking he must be the ugliest man in the world.

Bigin laughed malevolently. "Ho, ho, ho! You be'nt so perty yourself. What with them fine clothes all wrinkled and dirty, and your hair ain't been combed since you left England, I warrant. What's yo' name?"

Kat continued to stare solemnly without answering.

The man roared. "I said what's yo' name? Ain't you got no tongue?"

Kat jumped and his eyes filled with tears, but he still did not answer. Bigin struck him once, hard, across the side of his head, and knocked him to the floor where he lay sobbing and terrified.

"Git up!" the man snarled, kicking him for emphasis.

Kat struggled to his feet. Bigin took him by the arm and shook him.

"Stop that goddam blubbering and tell me your name."

"Kat!" snuffed the child.

"Cat! What kind o' name is that fer a Christian?"

"I - don't - know."

"What's the rest o' ya name?"

"I don't know. Kat is all I know."

"Well, cat or dog, you jest as well learn now who's boss in this here house. When I ast you sumpin I mean fer you to answer, and when I tell you to do sumpin I mean fer you to do it. You understand that?"

"Yes," the frightened boy whispered.

"Say yes sir to me," Bigin roared, raising his hand threateningly.

"Yes, sir!"

The man laughed harshly. "Now, set down in that there cheer and I'll tell ye what ye got to do. You're mine now. I bought the right to have you bound out to me from your gardeen, the Cap'n. You got to work fer me 'til you're twenty- one. You ain't big enough yet to do much 'bout making things, but I 'low I can find enough fer ye to do to earn ye keep. You look like you half dead. Be ye hungry?"

"Yes - yes, sir."

"There's some stew in that there pot. Eat it."

Following the direction of a jerked thumb, Kat stumbled over to the fireplace where a small fire smouldered. In an uncovered pot on the hearth was a mixture such as he had never seen before. He stirred in it disinterestedly. Observing Bigin's eyes on him, he spoke.

"I have no plate."

"Eat out o' the pot. I did."

Kat raised the spoon to his lips. The stew had a warmed-over, fish-like taste, but being hungry he ate some of it.

The man laughed harshly. "Dainty, ain't you? Well, you'll soon git over that. Come on now and I'll show you where you're to sleep."

Kat followed him through a door into a room scarcely less untidy than the one they had just left. Old clothes hung from nails in the walls. A cot stood at one side of the room. Obviously the man lived alone. From a table piled high with an assortment of clothing and other things, Bigin pulled some sacks and coats and a quilt. He put them on the floor in a corner of the room. "Crawl in over here," he said, "and mind now, you be ready to git up when I call ye termor. You got to work to make up for the money I give the Cap'n fer ye." Ane he went out, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone, Kat sat on the edge of the cot. What a contrast he presented to the clean, well-dressed, clear-eyed, composed youngster who had gone aboard the Jefferson with such confidence. Now he was unkempt, dirty, sullen, aloof and suspicious. He cried often. When his nose dripped he brushed it with his coat sleeve. His hair was long and matted, his eyes filled with torment. He often felt a gnawing inside himself which food could not satisfy. The thought came to him now that if he could get away from all the people who had been bothering him ever since he slipped away from his nanny he could get back to his home again. He tiptoed over to the door and listened. He could hear Bigin moving around, talking to himself and now and then laughing a little. Kat stood there until he heard Bigin coming to the door. He sped over to the pile of coats in the corner, lay down and pulled the quilt over him.

III

The next day was one which ranked in Kat's memory with the terror of his first day on board the Jefferson. He was prodded awake about dawn by the toe of Denby Bigin's foot. Evidently Bigin was a person who got up on the wrong side of the bed every morning.

"Git up," he ordered, "and go start the fire to burnin' in the shop."

He went back to the cot to put on his shoes. Kat struggled up, sore and still half asleep. He staggered into the other room and sat down on the hearth. He began to nod, soon tumbled over and went back to sleep. He was brought suddenly awake by a kick which landed him in the ashes. Denby Bigin stood over him.

"Didn't I tell you to start the fire to burnin'? Here I am ready tor my breakfast and no fire to cook it with. Now you git to work."

He went through a door opening from the shop into a third room, evidently a storage room, for he emerged presently carrying a frying pan, fat meat, a knife, and a coffee pot. Kat had picked himself out of the ashes and was staring at the fireplace, wondering what the man expected him to do. He backed away as Bigin approached.

"I don't know what to do - sir," remembering yesterday's lesson.

 "You don't know what to do," mimicked Bigin. "Hell, what sort of demfool be you? Didn't you ever make a fire in yo' life?"

"No, sir," whispered the child, eyeing fearfully the long narrow strip leather the man was taking down from the wall after carefully putting his food and utensils on the hearth.

"Well, I'll learn you," he broke out in a sudden bellow that was almost as terrifying as the lashes he began to lay on the boy, holding him by the so he could not escape. Shame hidden somewhere in a submerged conscience caused him to stop after a few blows. Turning to the fireplace he told to watch while he fed and coaxed the embers to a flame.

After breakfast had been prepared and eaten, he told Kat to clean up. Pausing on the threshold of the outer door he asked, "Do you know what that means?"

"No - sir."

"Haint ye never done nothin' in yo' life?"

"No, sir."

Curiously, "Where did you come from?"

"I don't know, sir."

"How did you git on the ship?"

"Two men took me on to show it to me."

"Where did you live before you went on the ship?"

"I don't - in a house."

"A house like this?"

"No, sir, a big house."

"A fine house, eh? With servants?"

"Yes, sir."

"And washed ya and put ye clothes on?"

"Yes, sir."

His voice changed to a bawl when he finally realized the trick the Captain had played on him, stealing a boy who could do nothing, to have bound out to him. "Well, you won't find no servants here. You'll have to be yo' own servant, and mine, too. So take them things back in that room and put them on the table. And then clean up this floor." The thought came to him that this child might not know what a broom was, so he found one under a bench and pitched it toward him. "Use that to git the trash together and ya better have it clean when I git back or I'll use 'at broom on ye'."

The bewildered boy did the best he could to carry out Bigin's instructions. When he had swept and raked and pulled the litter on the floor into one pile he did not know what to do next. Fear brought a knot into his throat when he heard someone at the door. But when it opened a pleasant-faced stranger stood there.

"Heigh-o! Who are you?"

"I'm Kat." he gulped, remembering that he should answer when spoken to.

"When did Bigin git you?"

"Yesterday." Then reassured by the friendliness in the stranger's voice, he asked. "What shall I do with it?"

The stranger stared. "With what? The broom?"

"That." He pointed to the pile of trash on the floor.

Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes when he saw the trash. "So Bigin's got you cleanin' up. And not before it was needed either. I'd leave the trash there if I were you. It's been there for months."

"No, he'll beat me."

"What?" And for the first time the stranger really looked at Kat. He saw welts on his face and hands already turning blue. "Why, that devil. He'll kill you. Sweep the mess in the fire place and be done with it." He turned toward the door. "I've got to go now, but tell Bigin I'll be back, and I'll speak my mind about the way he's treatin' you."

"Take me with you," Kat implored.

The man paused, struck by the child's evident misery. "You poor rascal! I wish I could. I tell you what I will do. I'll see Bigin and tell him he's got to treat you better or I'll - I'll take you away from him. Go ahead and finish your sweeping. I'll do something for you."

Kat never did see him again, but he did do something for him which could hardly be said to have been to his liking. Evidently he met Bigin outside for the man came in presently in a rage over something that had been told to him about the way he treated his apprentice. He slapped Kat so hard it sent him spinning across the room and into a heap on the floor.

"So you wanta leave me, huh? Go off with somebody you never saw before after me paying' the Cap'n my good money for bringin' ya to me. And 'at's another thing, I paid fer somebody to he'p me. And what does he bring? A chap that can't do nothin'. I went over to the quay to git ma money an' he was already gone. Played a dirty trick on me. And 'at feller outside tryin' to tell me how to treat ma 'prentice. Said he'd report me to the Governor if I didn't do better. Jes let him go ahead en' do that. I'll fix him."

Still muttering, he seated himself on his bench and went to work. He ignored Kat who inched himself across. the floor and into the sleeping room. There on the heap of would-be bedding he moaned himself into a troubled sleep. He was aroused by a shout from Bigin. With a choice of expletives that would have done credit to the Captain he was announcing to the world that Kat had put out the fire. The pile of trash which the stranger had told him to sweep into the fireplace had smothered the few coals kept there from day to day to use in kindling a fire for cooking or heating the room. Without stopping to think Kat sprinted across the room and hid under the farthest corner of the cot. Deliberately Bigin came into the room and hunted him out. He administered another beating with the strap that almost left the child unconscious.

Dashing some water in his face that brought him up gasping, Bigin ordered, "Go to 'at house next to this un and git some far. Here, take this pot. All ye got to do is tell the man Mr. Bigin wants some far. I got to cook me sumpan to eat."

Kat found himself out on the street with no idea what was expected of him. Only one thing was clear to him, now he could get away from that terrible man. A little way from him he saw a man get out of a wagon and hitch his horse to a post. He came toward Kat, glancing at him distastefully until he noticed a welt across his cheek and one eye swollen.

"What's the matter, boy? Git a whoopin'?"

He nodded his head.

"You live here?"

"No, yes, yes sir."

"Well, I'm going in. Want to go with me?"

"No, sir. I'm scared of him."

"If your father's just whooped you he won't do it again right now." And he pushed Kat ahead of him up the steps, across the porch and through the door into the shop. Bigin looked up with a scowl, but changed at the sight of a possible customer.

"Howdy."

"Are you Denby Bigin?"

"I be, at your service, sir."

"I'm Frank Thompson from Camden. Maybe you heerd of Carpenter up there who makes saddles?"

"Yes, and very fine saddles they be, I hear tell."

"I had to come to Charleston and he asked me to git him some pigskin. He's got an order for a fine saddle. He thought I might git the stuff from you."

"Yes, sir," Bigin hastened to agree. "I got a fine bundle from England yistiddy. You wanna see it?"

Thompson nodded and Bigin turned toward the storage room, casting a threatening look at Kat and muttering, "Go git 'at far."

Kat hurried out. On the street he again paused, one thought uppermost in his mind, to hide where Bigin could not find him. He went toward Frank Thompson's wagon. He climbed into it, crawled under the seat and pulled some sacks up over himself. It was hot, but he could bear the heat better than Bigin's whippings.

Soon Thompson came out, tossed a package in the back of the wagon, got in and drove away. He stopped once and left the wagon. Kat was afraid to peep out for fear of being discovered. When the man returned he drove until sundown. Kat slept, waking with the cessation of the noise made by the wagon wheels in the sand. He was cramped and hungry, but afraid to move. He heard Frank go up to a house and ask permission to camp in the yard. He came back with a plate of food and sat in the back of the wagon to eat. That done, he prepared to sleep. He pulled the sacks from under the wagon seat and discovered Kat.

"Boy! Boy! What in the name of sense are you doing in my wagon?" He was so surprised that he shook the child, who at once began to cry.

Frank was conscience-stricken. "Here, now, I didn't go to hurt you. But what are you doing in my wagon? Ain't you Denby Bigin's boy?"

Kat struggled to compose himself. "I - I don't - want to stay with him; he beats me."

"But ain't you his boy?"

"No! No! No! I comed on a big ship across the water and he paid the Captain for me."

"But what you doing in my wagon?"

"I hid."

"What fer?"

"He beat me."

Frank looked closely at the little fellow; even in the half-light he could see how severely he had been beaten. He spoke briskly.

"Well, now, you must be half dead from lying under that seat all this time, and hungry too, I warrant. I'll git ya somethin' to eat and then you can tell me all about yourself."

IV

In 1733 James St. Julian, by authority of George II of England, selected and surveyed a township twelve miles square in the Wateree River to be reserved for settlers. It was named Fredericksburg. Each settler was to have a plot of land consisting of twelve acres. A few people took plots, but hardly any settlers showed up until twenty years later, when about fifty families of Irish Quakers spread up and down the river valley and called their settlement Pine Tree Hill. Malaria-bearing mosquitoes from the swamps along Pine Three Creek, and the scalp-hungry Cherokees scattered most of them in a few years to more settled parts of the country.

In 1758 Joseph Kershaw came up from Charleston and established a store on Pine Tree Hill. He called the place Camden, after Charles Pratt, Lord Camden, who was a friend of the colonists in Parliament. Other settlers drifted in. By 1768 the Act of Assembly provided that courts should be established.

Three miles north of this settlement a battle of the Revolutionary War was fought on August 16, 1780, known as the Battle of Camden. Lord Cornwallis led a British army of 3,000 against an army of 3,100 militiamen and regulars commanded by General Gates. The fighting was severe and the militiamen panicked, leaving the regulars under Baron de Kalb to withstand the British. They fought bravely, but when the battle ended a thousand lay dead and another thousand were taken prisoner. Nathanael Greene superseded Gates as general and was in turn defeated by the British the next year at Hobkirk's Hill, which was known as the second Battle of Camden.

In 1791, by the legislative Act of Incorporation, the town was officially designated as Camden and Joseph Kershaw became the first Intendent, or Mayor. The Camden of 1796 was an important point for the distribution of trade, being at the head of Wateree navigation. There were several stores of which the chief was that of Samuel Mathis and Company; there was also the Quaker Meeting House, the Presbyterian Church and the Market.

The Market was a very important building. It was a square, two-story structure. The first floor housed the activities which gave the building its name, as craftsmen brought their wares there to be sold or exchanged. No sales could be made every morning until a certain time when a bell would be rung. Twice a year fairs were held so that all homemade articles might be exhibited. Trade was encouraged in this way. An important part of the fair was the sale of live stock. The second floor of the Market was the Town Hall and Council Chamber. Public meetings were held there, as was the Sunday school of all denominations meeting together.

The streets of the town were unpaved; consequently they were muddy in wet weather and dusty in dry weather. The flag-stoned sidewalks were separated from the carriage lanes by rows of low posts driven into the ground. The houses were strung along the streets in disorderly arrangement, some with gable ends near the street, others set back in gardens. Education was mainly gained in the home, but there were two schools, The Orphan Society and Mr. Adams' Academy.

Another important place was Dinkins' Tavern which was the gathering place for the men of Camden. There they could have a glass of rum or madeira and indulge in political discussions. It was the stopping place for the stage coaches, of which there was one from Charlotte and Monroe one week and one from Columbia and Charleston the next.

The stores carried such wares as copperas and saltpetre, pepper and ginger, pans, coffee pots, candlesticks, Bibles and almanacs. They advertised as being willing to exchange goods for gold or silver coins, a bank bill on any of the banks of South Carolina, or bills of any of those gentlemen who issued bills.

Many families had shops in their homes where they made articles by hand on order, or for exchange at the Market for hand-made articles from other households. Furniture, shoes, stockings, clothing, hats, soap, candles, baskets, saddles, buttons, handkerchiefs and ribbons were among the articles made in the homes. The Market fairs were held in April and October for the purpose of buying, selling, or exchanging these articles.

While only a village, Camden was a place where the people enjoyed life. When General Washington visited there Colonel John Chestnut gave a dinner for him at which seventeen toasts were drunk, but the ladies retired to the drawing room after the third. The young people attended balls, tea parties, dinners, exhibitions and lectures. They paid morning calls and went sailing on the river. The young men made up hunting and fishing parties, played cricket on the town square, and patronized lotteries. The young ladies attended afternoon quilting frolics to which the young men sometimes came in the evening for games and refreshments. Summer time was a constant battle against mosquitoes from the swamps along the river.

Down on Broad Street in the southern part of Camden stood the home of Frank Thompson. It was a wooden building with a low porch across the front and sat well back from the street among rows of sunflowers and hollyhocks. The. steep roof sloped down into low projecting eaves. There were four rooms, a large attic and a chimney at each end of the house. Three of the rooms made up the living quarters of the family. A back porch had been boarded up to serve as a storage room for the supplies necessary in carrying on Frank's trade. The right hand room on the front was a work-shop, sales room and occasional sitting room.

Frank Thompson was a tall, spare man, in the words of his neighbors, with keen dark eyes. His hands were noticeable, being large with long tapering fingers skilled in the craft that made him his living, for Frank was a basket maker. He supplied all the baskets that were needed for all Kershaw County, market baskets, cotton baskets, potato baskets, fruit baskets, storage baskets, and sewing baskets. Some were decorative, woven of fine willow twigs in a pattern and stained brown or red. Others were practical ones of white oak.

He went several times a year to the Lancaster County farm of his brother- in-law, Samuel Love, to get material for splits, and in return supplied the Love household with baskets. He felled the trees, trimmed them, cut them into logs and beat them with a mall until they were ready to split naturally. He then split them and took them home. He trimmed them to the desired length and thickness and soaked them in water until they were pliable enough to be woven into baskets. The finished baskets were displayed in the shop. Many were made on order, and others were sold or exchanged at the fair.

Frank's family consisted of his wife, Adeline, and their six year old son, Billy. Adeline was tall and thin like her husband and with his calmness. She had an air of friendliness and her face constantly wore a placid expression. She pampered her husband and spoiled her son. The little blond boy was fascinated by the activities on his uncle's farm. He stoutly maintained that when he got big he would be a farmer like Uncle Sam Love and have "darkies" to work for him so he could pop a whip like Mr. Jonas, the overseer. Frank did not like to chide his son about this ambition for reasons of his own.

Adeline Thompson was very much surprised when her husband came in from his trip to Charleston accompanied by a small boy. When Frank explained that he had found him hiding under the wagon seat, she clucked with sympathy and set about fixing them some supper in her orderly kitchen where the iron pots were arranged in a neat row on the hearth and the blue and white dishes stacked against the wall on the well-scrubbed, home-made table.

While the travelers ate big hominy and fried pork she told of trivial happenings during his absence, knowing that Frank would not want to talk about the child until they were alone. By the time they had finished Kat's head was nodding into his plate. Adeline put him and Billy to bed, then came back to the kitchen.

"Now, Frank Thompson, you tell me what you mean by bringing that boy home with you."

He was not alarmed by her tone for he knew how tender-hearted she was. "I thought you didn't have enough work to do, so I brought you somebody else to take care of. Besides Billy needs somebody to play with."

"That dirty little thing! Why I could hardly bear to put him in bed with Billy, but he was too sleepy to be cleaned up tonight."

"Let me tell you about him first. Then we can decide what to do with him."

So he told her as much as he had been able to learn by questioning Kat endlessly on the ride home. He judged that the child had been stolen from a wealthy family in England, brought to Charleston and sold as an apprentice to a saddler. He was unable to learn who his parents were, where the ship had sailed from, or even his name. He said he was called Kat. Adeline was shocked and incredulous. They talked until the candle was beginning to sputter and they knew they must get some rest.

Billy was out of bed soon after his parents the next morning.

"Mama, Papa, who is that boy that slept with me last night?"

Frank answered, "He is called Cat. He was stolen away from his home in England and brought to Charleston. The Captain of the ship had him bound out to a man who treated him so mean that he run away. He hid in my wagon and I didn't find him 'til I was half-way home night before last. I didn't have time to take him back; besides, the man was so mean to him he didn't deserve to have him. So I brought him home with me."

"Is he going to stay with us?"

Frank looked at his son curiously. "Would you like to have him for a brother?"

"No." The boy was sure. "I want a sister. Besides he's too big. Anne was a little teeny thing when Aunt Kitty and Uncle Sam got her."

"Eat your breakfast," Adeline reprimanded, "and go on out to play Papa and I have work to do."

They left him alone and went to get Kat. The boy was sleeping restlessly, but aroused when they spoke to him. He must have been dreaming for he threw out his arms violently and struck Adeline in the face. Frank grasped him and held him as he struggled. He began to cry.

"Kat! Kat!"

"Is Cat your mama?" Adeline asked.

"Mama?" he said uncertainly, and looked at her strangely. "Will you take me to my Mama?"

"If you will tell me your name, I'll try to find her."

He moved his head from side to side, moaning "Kat," over and over.

Adeline sat on the side of the bed and gathered him in her arms, rocking him back and forth. "Poor little lamb. Poor little feller. Too little to be so broke up."

When he grew quiet Frank said, "Let's wash him and give him somethin' to eat. Then maybe we can talk to him."

Sometime later a clean little boy dressed in Billy's out-grown britches and "body" ate some breakfast and seemed to feel better. Frank sat down to talk with him while Adeline washed the dishes.

"Now tell me, little feller, who is Cat?"

The child looked at him with unwavering blue eyes and said not a word.

"Was Cat your nanny?"

He still only looked at Frank, but put his thumb in his mouth.

"What did your Mama and Papa call you?"

The thumb came out briefly. "Baby."

"What does your Papa do?" He shook his head.

"What did your Mama call your Papa?" Another shake of the head.

"What city did you live in?" A blank stare.

"Tell me somethin' about yourself. I want to send you home."

"Can't I stay with you? I don't want to be on the ship."

"Child, what would I do with you?"

"Can't I work for you like the mean man wanted me to do?"

"I already have a boy. I can't take care of another one."

Kat just looked at him and tears began to gather in his eyes. Frank touched him kindly. "It's all right little feller. I'll think of something."

Adeline signaled to him and he went over to her. They held a low-voiced conversation while Kat sat staring into space.

"Couldn't you have him bound out to somebody here, Frank?"

"I was wonderin' about that, but I don't know nobody that wants an apprentice."

"What about Wes?"

"Wesley Carpenter? I never heerd him say nothing 'bout wanting one."

"But he orter have one. This boy's big enough to help him same as Billy helps you. Besides Susie's a good ma going to waste."

"That she is," Frank agreed. "It might be the very thing for them and for the little feller, too. I'll go talk to them." He turned to Kat. "I'll be gone for a little bit, but I'll be back. You stay here with - with her. You'll be all right." The child stared after him, then turned his solemn gaze on Adeline.

Presently Frank returned. He was pleased. "They think. they might want him," he whispered to Adeline. "They want me to bring him over there. You come, too."

V

Next door to the Thompsons lived Wesley Carpenter, the saddler, and his wife Susannah. Their house was similar to their neighbor's, but with the gable end facing, and much nearer, the street, while the front door opened onto Adeline's flower-filled yard in the distance. A hall ran the length of the house with two rooms on each side and an attic reached by a ladder and trap door. One room was the shop and work room, the one next to it the storage room for supplies. Across the hall was the bedroom and kitchen. In the back yard was the tanning pit where Wesley tanned some of his leather.

He was not overly tall even when he stood straight, but now his shoulders were stooped and his eyes strained from long hours over the saddles which he turned out well-mortised and tightly sewn. Too little sunlight gave him a sallow complexion. He was a mild-mannered, peace-loving man, yearned over by his tall wife because they had no children. The care her capable hands would have bestowed on a child was lavished on him. Her heart ached with unspent motherhood when she saw him run his hands through his thinning hair while solving a problem in measurement. It was evident that he, too, missed having children around. He loved working with wood. Sometimes he surprised her sitting by a half-finished saddle tree whittling tiny animals which he used as gifts for children when they came visiting.

It was into this household that Frank Thompson introduced the waif who was called Kat. The boy had very little to say, but the hearts of the childless couple went out to him. Wesley agreed that he ought to have an apprentice and could make good use of a little fellow right now. Susannah was excited, but a little afraid, at the prospect of bringing up a boy. A sudden thought occurred to her.

"We've got to give him a name!"

Frank rose to the occasion. "Kat, come over here to the window and watch the men building the house over there."

Obediently the child watched through the shutterless window while the four adults selected a name for him. Frank thought it unseemly to discuss him in his presence as if he were a piece of furniture.

"It ought to be a good name, seein' as how he's nobody now," Adeline gave as her opinion.

"After an important man," Susannah added.

"How about William Moultrie?" Frank suggested.

"Or Benjamin Franklin," Wesley added.

"That's my name, " Frank protested. "You don't want to name him after me."

"There ain't any better man, " Adeline scolded.

"Aw, come, now. Let's talk sense. Name him George Washington."

Everyone spoke at once, pleased with the suggestion. Then Wesley voiced a note of caution.

"I don't know if we could call him that without the President's word, but maybe we could name him George Washington Cat."

There was a pause while this thought was being digested.

"That would give him some connection with his past," Susannah ventured.

"But cat," Adeline protested, "it's so - so - I can't say what, but I don't like it."

"We could spell it different," Frank suggested, "like C-a-t-t. It might sound like a house cat, but it wouldn't look like one."

A little laughter relieved the strain, and they called the boy over to tell him the news. "You tell him, Frank," Susannah urged.

"Boy," Frank began, "we thought of a name for you, George Washington Catt. How do you like it?"

He looked at each one in turn, swallowed and said nothing. Frank put his arm around the solemn-eyed child.

"Nobody's going to bother you no more about your name. You're George Washington Catt and we're gonna call you George. George Washington is a great and good man and it is a honorable thing to be named after him. It's a name you gonna always be proud of."

Adeline reached over and took his hand. "Howdy, George," she said.

Susannah and Wesley did the same. "You're gonna come and live with us and be our little boy," Wesley added. "Will you like that?"

The newly named George did not answer, but he almost smiled.

Susannah was perturbed at the thought of bringing up a little boy. She did not have the instincts that are supposed to come to life when one gives birth to a child, and, truth to tell, she was really afraid. Besides, when George looked at her with those solemn eyes she couldn't tell if she were doing right or wrong, or if he were pleased. He was docile, always trying to do what he was told, but had to be shown how to do the simplest things. This puzzled her. She mentioned it to Adeline.

"Let me show you something," Adeline said, and she brought the little velvet suit he had worn when Frank brought him home. She had tried to clean it, to little avail, but it still showed the quality of material.

"You see how fine it is sewed and how pretty the cloth was. He's not from any such family as our'n His folks must be quality, rich with servants to do everything. This boy don't know how to do nothing because he never expected to have to do nothing. Frank says maybe Cat was what he called his nanny. And look here, Susie, the only thing he brought with him was this little iron pot. Frank says Mr. Bigin told him to git some far and give him this pot to put it in. Here, I'd better give it to you. He orter be 'lowed to keep it."

"La, Adeline," Susannah moaned, "how'm I ever going to bring him up right? I don't know what to do."

"Don't worry, Susannah, he'll be all right. Right now everything's so strange to him. Jes' be good to him 'tit he gits used to you. Let him come out and play with Billy. There's time enough for him to learn to be a saddler. Let him be a little boy for a while."

So George was sent out to play with Billy. It didn't work out quite as Adeline had anticipated. Billy was accustomed to being the fair-haired boy in both households, indulged by-Susannah and Wesley as much as by his parents. Consequently he was not overly pleased with the attention the four adults gave the newcomer.

Billy had made a path through his mother's flowers and pretended to visit the store and Market. He used little rocks as wares. When George came out and sat on the steps Billy stood up and looked at him. Then he stuck cut his tongue. So did George. Billy looked at the rocks in his hand and tossed them at the other boy. They struck George in the face and scattered over the porch. His face puckered and tears came in his eyes.

"Cry-baby!" Billy shouted.

George gathered up the rocks and threw them back at Billy, but they went wide of their mark.

Billy laughed jeeringly, "You can't hit the side of a house, cry-baby."

"Don't say that any more," George commanded.

"Make me, cry-baby, cry-baby, cry-baby!"

George went over to Billy and pushed him. Billy pushed back and George fell down. At once Billy was on top of him punching him with his fists. There's no telling what would have happened if Adeline had not noticed the wild waving of her hollyhocks. She rushed out and pulled the boys apart, marching them both into Susannah's kitchen. George's face was bloody from his sanguinary nose and both boys were covered with dirt. Susannah trembled with excitement.

"What's the matter? What's happened?"

"Nothing to worry about," Adeline answered cheerfully. "They just had a little fight."

"A fight! My goodness, what'll we do? They must be hurt bad. Look at all that blood!" "It's just a little nose bleed. It happens ever time two boys git together. Let's wash 'em up." When the boys were again presentable Susannah spoke with dread, "What are we going to do with them?"

"Nothing," Adeline answered, "Why?"

"Orten't they to be whooped for fightin'?"

George gave a cry, broke away and ran to the room in which he had been sleeping. He crawled under the bed and lay very still in the farthest corner. No one came for him until it was time for dinner. Then Susannah came to the door and called.

Seeing no one, she went back and reported to Wesley. "He has to be in there unless he slipped out the back door."

They searched the yard, then went over to the Thompson's. He wasn't there.

"Frank, see if you can find him," Susannah implored. "He thinks you're his friend."

"So I am. What was you saying to him when he broke and run?"

"I'm not shore," she faltered. "I believe I was sayin' somethin' about whoopin' both o' the boys."

"That's it," Frank countered. "Bigin beat him half to death. He must've thought that's what you meant to do. I expect I know where he is."

Frank went to the bedroom, alone, and searched until he found the child in his hiding place. His eyes were big with fright. Frank sat on the bed and pulled the boy down beside him. "George, don't be scared. I'm your friend. You believe me, don't you?" The child nodded slowly, his eyes searching Frank's face. "You can tell me anything in the world and I'll take care of it, and I'll always tell you the truth Now tell me why did you hide?"

"She was going to whip me."

"She wouldn't hurt you. When she was little like you, if she didn't behave herself she got a whoopin'. That's all people knowed to do to little folks. But she wouldn't whoop like Bigin. Nobody else whoops a young'un like that. Anyhow, she's changed her mind. She ain't gonna whoop you. She says you're a good boy and don't need no whoopin'."

"I'm afraid of her," the boy insisted.

"You don't need to be afraid. They both like you. All they want is for you to learn to do right."

"If they will tell me, I'll do it," he said earnestly, "but can I talk to you about it?"

"Shore, feller, shore. We'll always be friends, you can depend on it. Now let's go git some dinner. They've been looking for you."

"Mister, can I ask you something?"

"What is it?"

"What do I call them?"

"How about Mama and Papa?" The boy shrank away and Frank realized the words had meaning for him. "No, that won't do. How about Mr. Wes and Mis' Susie? And if I was you I'd tell them what you just told me."

"What?"

"That if they tell you what they want you to do you'll do it."

Hand in hand they went into the kitchen where Susannah and Wesley, Adeline and Billy waited. George walked straight to Susannah.

"I'm sorry I was bad. If you will tell me what is right, I will do it."

Susannah blushed and stammered, "I - it's all r-right, George, We'll get along. Now let's have some dinner. Come on, everybody, set down."

"We'll go on home," Adeline said. "Papa and Billy, let's go. Good day."

Wesley now set himself to the task of making friends with his apprentice. George was too young to be of much help in the shop, but he could hold the leather while Wesley sewed, and hand him tools. He was very quiet, but quick to learn. Sometimes Wesley talked to him, explaining what he was doing and why. George listened carefully and later proved that he understood by being more proficient. He kept the canvas wet and held the thread while Wesley sewed it over the wooden tree. He also helped prepare the coverings, turning the hides in their tanning bath and helping to work them over months later with the striking pin. All things considered, he made a satisfactory apprentice, though they both thought him too quiet.

One day he found a piece of paper in the basket with the tools. It had something printed on it. He showed it to Wesley.

"What does it say?" he asked.

Wesley took the paper and looked at it closely. "It's a page from the Bible. It says, 'To the most high and mighty Prince James, by the grace of God, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the faith, the translators of the Bible with grace, mercy and peace through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"

George had a rapt look on his face. "You can read!" he breathed.

Wesley laid the paper down and went back to work, asking casually, "Would you like to learn to read?"

"Oh, yes, sir, very much, sir, if I could."

Wesley spoke to Susannah about it. "Why don't you teach him?" "Well," she said dubiously, "I can try, but I don't know very much."

"Go as fer as you can, then we'll see what else we can do."

She put a wide plank across her kitchen table, got a partly burned stick from the fireplace and drew the ABC's. She gave George his first lesson. It wasn't long before he had mastered these and was recognizing and spelling words. He progressed so rapidly that they were at a loss for material to keep him busy.

"Wes, you learn him sums," Susannah suggested.

So arithmetic was added to George's curriculum and in this, too, he was an apt pupil.

"I wish," Wesley told Susannah, "that I could send him to the Orphan's Society so he could get more learning."

"Maybe you best not put out no more than you can help on him," she answered slowly. "When his time is up, he'll leave you. Then where'll you be with him gone and your money, too?"

"I don't know, Susie," he spoke anxiously, running his hands through his hair, "if he was at home with his pa, he'd git education. Here, he's got nobody."

"He's got us."

"Yes, and we're responsible for him. I'd like to do as good a part by him as I could, seeing as how we don't have no children of our own to do things fer."

Susannah caught her breath sharply. It always hurt for Wesley to mention their childlessness. It somehow made her feel guilty, as if she had failed him. She placed her hand on his knee.

"Maybe you could borry some books fer him. Mr. Mathis would know somebody who's got some. He's got something to do with the Orphan Society, ain't he?"

Wesley's face brightened. "Yes, he has. I'll ask him termor. I got a saddle to take to him." While George was getting his education and becoming a saddler, he was also growing from a little boy into a big boy. He was quiet and efficient, mannerly and dependable, but with an air of wariness as if he had always to be on guard. He was relaxed with Wesley and Frank Thompson, and sometimes with Susannah and Adeline, but never with Billy. Some little boys make friends by first having a fight, then they become pals, regardless of who won, but not these two. Billy had been the pet of the two households too long to relinquish even a portion of his popularity willingly. So he teased George, and bullied him, and got him into trouble whenever he could. One thing he did which was good, however; he broke him of crying. After his first encounter with Billy, George resolved that no one would ever call him cry-baby again.

VI

About twenty miles slightly northeast of Camden, in Lancaster County, lay the farm of Samuel Love. It consisted of some six hundred acres of land and was tended by ten or a dozen Negro slaves under the overseer Chapman Jonas. The house was not directly on the Monroe Road, but was reached by a long carriage lane. It sat picturesquely in a grove of oaks and hickories. It had been a small house to begin with, but rooms had been added as they were needed by a growing family. The kitchen was a separate building and stood at the back of the main house; hence the habit, sometimes still noticed in the rural South, of speaking of the living room and bedrooms as "the house" and the kitchen as the "cook-room."

Back of the Love home was a large orchard of numerous apple trees, some peach and a few plum trees, also a grape arbor. This orchard supplied families for miles around with fruit, but most especially with cider. It was so well known that it was spoken of as the Love Orchards and eventually came to be called The Orchards. Albert Barstow, who owned the plantation next to it, exchanged work with the Loves for cider.

Samuel Love was of medium height, with snappy dark eyes and a deep tan that he never lost even in winter. He had a dry wit that only his natural geniality kept from being barbed. His wife, Katherine, was the sister of Frank Thompson, to whom she was similar in disposition, kind, sympathetic, understanding. She was rather short and plump and had a nose that, in the days before her marriage, was her despair because it was large and flat. She thought it quite spoiled what might otherwise have been a pretty face.

But Samuel Love had never agreed with her about this. He thought her altogether lovely, but he did agree that he might he prejudiced. She had a reputation for being a good neighbor. Her children adored her because she was never too busy to help them with their problems, which even though they might seem trifling to the grown-ups, were of tremendous importance to the children. She was patient but firm with the "darkies" and they granted her cheerful obedience. She meant so much to so many people that she epitomized the word mother. In most ways Samuel Love was an ordinary husband, but in his appreciation of his wife he was extraordinary. When he wished to reprove her he might sometimes have called her Mistress Love. But, feeling himself lucky to have won her and realizing how regularly the babies were arriving, in tender moments he called her "little Mother" and sometimes "Mother Love,"

At the time Frank had gone on his trip to Charleston and came back with the little waif, George Washington Catt, Sam and Katherine had one child, Anne, age three. By the time George and Billy were nearing their teens, besides three boys who had died in infancy, they had two more girls, Cynthia and Jane, and a small son, Robert. Since Adeline Thompson had no girls of her own she was always glad when her husband's nieces could come for a visit. They would sometimes come home with him when he made a trip to The Orchards for splits for his baskets. Adeline was good about asking George to come over when the girls were there, and Susannah was willing for the solemn-eyed lad to go. She said he stayed alone too much and she didn't want him to grow up to be funny.

One spring Cynthia and Jane came together. They were still rather small, and Billy, all of thirteen, thought he was too big to play with babies and so delegated to George the task of amusing the little girls.

"I have to help Papa in the shop," he told George loftily.

"I have to help Mr. Wes with the saddles," George answered promptly.

"He's going to let you off, though. Mama asked him and he said he could do without you for a while every day. I've got to help Papa trim some splits for baskets for Aunt Kitty."

Unwillingly George obeyed Susannah's request and went out to play with the girls under the mulberry tree in a corner of the Thompsons' yard. He went unwillingly because he knew Billy was not really working but was looking out the window in his father's shop and grinning. George stood with his hands in his pockets and watched Cynthia and Jane make mud pies.

When Cynthia was small Anne had been required to give in to her when there was a conflict of wills. By the time Jane came along Cynthia had acquired the habit of having her own way and with a tenacity that was to characterize her the rest of her life she clung to the privilege. George watched with sympathy as Cynthia gave orders and the tiny Jane obeyed. Neither was he noticeably slow in doing what she demanded of him. The pies were done, the table was set and everyone sat down to eat. They might have had to eat the mud pies to satisfy Cynthia's desire for realism if Adeline had not called to them at that moment.

Big drops were already beginning to fall, so they raced into Frank's shop. They stood by the window and watched their mud pie dinner disappear in the downpour.

Jane remarked, "Our little turkeys got drownded."

"Why?" Billy asked.

"It rained," Cynthia volunteered, "and nobody brought 'em in."

"Did you have a funeral?" Billy asked mischievously.

"What's a funeral?" Cynthia demanded.

"When somebody dies you put him in the ground and cover him up."

"Is that all?" Jane asked.

"Oh, you sing songs and somebody preaches."

"What else?"

"Well - somebody prays and people cry and - and - he's covered up - and that's all."

Cynthia was listening closely. George looked at her fair face alight with lively interest, her violet eyes glowing with a new idea. He thought, she's prettier than any of the girls that go to Sunday school at the Market – she's probably the prettiest girl in the world. Then he looked at Jane. Her soft brown eyes were filled with tears at Billy's description of how the people cried at a funeral. With a brotherly gesture he used the tip of his finger to wipe away a tear that lay on her cheek.

He whispered, "Let's go watch Mr. Frank."

She smiled happily, slipped her hand in his and pulled him away to where her uncle was working. Presently Cynthia came, too.

"It's stopped raining. Let's go out and play funeral."

"It's too wet to go out now," Frank observed. "Better play something else 'til after dinner."

In the afternoon Cynthia came outside with Billy and Jane and imperiously summoned George. "We're going to have a funeral."

"What you gonna bury?" Billy asked.

"One of Aunt Lina's turkeys."

"We ain't got no turkeys."

"Well, we'll bury one of her geese, then."

"We ain't got no geese neither."

Cynthia's eyes flashed. She didn't like to be thwarted. She spied, clasped in Jane's arms, a doll made of a stick with a piece of cloth wrapped around it for a dress and a stuffed rag tied on for a head.

"We'll bury Jane's doll," and immediately appropriated it.

"You'll have to have a coffin," Billy announced.

"What's that?"

"A box to put it in."

"Go git one."

Surprisingly, Billy went. He came back with four pieces of wood and rawhide string. "Mama said tie these around it and that'll do."

George dug the grave. Billy preached.

"The Lord is my shepherd. I 'shall not want. He makes me lie down in pass of richness for His namesake. Yea, do I walk through the valley of deaf I will fear no eagle thou nontest my head in presents from my enemies. Surely goodness merry shall foller me all the days of my life in the house of the Lord forever."

In a clear high voice Cynthia sang: "Amazin' grace how sweet the sign that saved a rich like me. I once was loss but now I'm fine, was blind but now I see."

Now Billy lowered the doll into the grave and repeated the Lord's Prayer. George covered it while Cynthia pretended to weep softly. Jane as chief mourner was directed to cry, but she stood by dry-eyed until the last rites were performed. Billy closed the service.

"Now 'bideth faith, hope an' charty, but the gravest of these is charty."

Cynthia started away. "Come on, Jane, the funeral is over."

"I want my doll," Jane said.

"No, Jane. It's dead you have to leave it here. Now, come on."

"I want my doll!" Jane began to cry.

Cynthia stamped her foot. "You can't have it. You can't take nothing dead home with you, can you, Billy?"

Billy shook his head, but Jane cried all the more. "I don't want to leave my doll in the nasty wet ground."

Something stirred in George, an almost forgotten memory of a time when a little boy had cried heart-brokenly for something gone forever. He uncovered the doll, shook the dirt from it and gave it to Jane. Cynthia's eyes blazed. She came and slapped him swiftly, then turned and ran into the house. Billy laughed tauntingly. George raised a threatening fist, then lowered it, plunged his hands into his pockets and walked to his own door. Billy laughed again, but Jane ran after him.

"George, untie my doll, George."

He stopped to untie the doll, then started on.

"Play with me, George."

He stopped again and looked down at the child, so tiny for her age, skin, hair and eyes all a golden brown. She liked him! And he wasn't sure anyone else did. Cynthia had slapped him! And Billy had laughed because she did it. He sighed wearily. "Come on and less see what Mr. Wes is doing."

VII

A few times in his life Billy had been allowed to go to The Orchards to visit his cousins. Adeline would not let him go often or stay very long; he was her only child and she missed him sorely when he was away. The summer he was fifteen it was decided he should spend a part of the season there. Wesley and Susannah were persuaded to let George go with him. Ostensibly they were to help with the cider making.

George did not look forward to the trip very much, though he wondered what it would be like on the farm. He had not been outside Camden since he first came there. Billy, he knew, would tease him unmercifully once he was away from his parents. Cynthia would be scornful because he wouldn't know anything at all about much that she had known all her life. Jane would be glad to see him, for since his rescue of her doll he was her hero.

Frank made a special trip to take them in July when the horse apples were beginning to ripen, Most of the darkies were busy bunching, cotton--cutting out the last big bunches of grass as laying-by time came in the summer crops. So the help of the boys would be welcome in handling the always huge crop of apples.

The Love house was made of logs, but was ceiled inside with wide smooth pine boards. George was amazed at the number of rooms in the house. He and Billy had a room all to themselves. And there was a room used only for sitting. The first day the boys were there George spent most of his time just looking. He followed Billy around, bumping into things because he was always locking back at something he wanted to see more of. He was laughed at so much that Jane felt sorry for him. She slipped her hand in his.

"I'll show you, George."

"I'll help," Cynthia said.

So George was shown around The Orchards by the two girls, followed by the toddler Robert, while Billy went off to see what Anne was doing. He saw the kitchen with its huge fireplace in which hooks were fastened for the iron pots used in cooking vegetables; also the bricked-in oven beside it for keeping the food warm. Then there was the little three-legged oven on the hearth. It had a sort of upside-down lid on which coals were heaped to reinforce those placed underneath for the baking of bread. The delicious odor of corn light bread permeated the atmosphere. Nearby was the milk-house, dark and cool, with a stream of water running through in which the jugs of milk were cooling. Farther on stood the smokehouse where cured hams and shoulders and slabs of side meat hung in the darkness. Behind these buildings was the lot where the stock was kept--cows, horses, mules, sheep and the fowls. In it also were the barns, cribs, cow stalls and stables, plus a shelter for the sheep, pig pens and hay racks.

At one side of these buildings were the slave quarters. They were small cabins with a fireplace and home-made furniture. The darkies were an interesting lot. There was Teen, short for Teeny which was meant for tiny because she stayed so small for so long. She was about the size of Anne, but was several years older. It was her job to look after the white children. Jim, huge and black as midnight, had been sent for the doctor on the night Robert was born, and had always felt sort of protective toward him ever since. He sometimes gave the little fellow a ride on the back of the mule he was working, holding him there as carefully as he would his own little pickaninny. There was old Mose whose wife was dead and who grinned suggestively at Rachel, the cook and Silvy, the milkmaid. There were several half-grown boys and girls who were regular field hands, with their parents, and little fellows who were not large enough to work yet, and who, with thumbs in mouths and unwinking black eyes, stared at George as the two girls showed him the sights of the farm.

One of the daily chores of Teen, with which the white children often helped, was to drive the geese from the barn lot to a fenced-in cotton patch where they ate the grass. Teen opened the gate for the geese in the mornings. They were crowded there waiting for her to come. They had a regular path which they invariably followed. The old gander led the way and the geese came behind single file. Teen closed the gate and hurried ahead to open the one into the cotton patch. The white children enjoyed going with her in the late afternoon to herd the geese back into the lot. Teen stayed at the gate to the lot. The children went to open the one at the cotton patch. As the geese marched out one by one, the children got in front of them and began to run at their top speed. This caused the geese to spread their wings and fly overhead straight into the lot. All this was tremendous fun for the children and they rolled on the grass in helpless laughter.

When Katherine Love first heard George's story from her brother she felt a deep interest in him. Having lost children of her own she knew what his parents must have suffered. Her first child had been a boy and if he had lived he would have been about the age of this little lost fellow. In her heart she wished she might come to know him and do what she could to replace the mother he had lost. She had seen him a few times when she had visited in Camden, but had not been able to spend any time with him; there were always so many people around, especially the children who wouldn't understand her interest in him. She was secretly pleased when she knew he was coming to spend a part of the summer at The Orchards.

But since he came there didn't seem to be an opportunity to get to know him. The children were always busy with one thing or another. Besides George was so quiet and shy. He did not mingle too easily with the other children, but he was cooperative and unselfish in play and invariably considerate of the little fellows, even the little darkies who also played with the white children. Billy and Anne kept together, as did George and Jane, while Cynthia told everyone what to do and little Robert was always happily underfoot. They were a noisy bunch, what with the hunting dogs always lying around in the way, the hens cackling and scratching for food, the blue jays and mocking birds in the oaks and the hickory trees.

One or another of the children was always getting hurt with stubbed toes, briar scratches, skinned knees, a nail stuck in a foot, or a stone bruise. All these Katherine took care of with a calm motherliness that comforted the young patients and calmed their fears. The day that George stuck a nail in his head gave her a chance to make friends with him.

The children were playing in the hay mow. They had pressed down a path from top to bottom to make a slide and were taking turns going down. They shouted with laughter and piled into each other at the base of the stack. George had found a place for himself at last and was thoroughly enjoying the play. He took one of the little darkies up and sat down on the slide behind him. The little fellow turned loose too soon and tumbled heels over head to the bottom of the slide breathless but unhurt. While the others laughed themselves weak, George hunched up in readiness for his slide. A nail sticking down from the roof stuck in his head. He slide down, got up and put his hand up to his head. It came away red with blood. Sanguinary as he had always been, there was enough to set the girls screaming. Everyone ran to Katherine.

Sensing that so much noise and blood was making George nervous, Katherine sent the children away and took him into the kitchen. She clipped away the matted hair and saturated the wound with something that stung, noting that it was not very deep and so not dangerous.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am, a little."

"How did it happen?"

He told her. "It was funny to see the darkie tumble down like that. I think he was scared, but everybody laughed so he forgot about it."

"You wasn't scared when you started bleeding, was you?"

"No, ma'am, well, a little, maybe, but I always bleed a lot."

"It's stopped now, and the place isn't very deep, so it's gonna be all right, but I don't believe I'd play very hard any more today if I was you." She smiled warmly at him and he smiled back which was so pleasing that she sat down. "Wait a little bit before you go back to play, George. It's pretty hot out there and you lost a lot o' blood. Maybe you ought to set here for a spell. Less have a glass o' milk." She poured two glasses and brought him a piece of cake. As they ate they talked.

"It's nice, having you spend part of the summer with us, George."

"I like it. I've never been on a farm before."

"It's a little different from Camden, ain't it?"

"Yes'm."

"What do you like most about the farm?" Katherine queried idly.

When he did not answer she looked at him and saw that he was blushing painfully. But he met her eyes and answered, "You!"

Katherine was surprised and genuinely pleased. "I'm glad, for I like you. I've wanted to know you ever since I heard about you. I think you are a fine boy and I hope my Robert grows up to be like you."

"Thank you - ma'am - Mis' Love."

"George," Katherine said seriously, "you don't seem to knew what to call me. Let me tell you a little secret. When Sam - Mr. Love - is pleased with me he calls me Mother Love. It's a sort of joke between us because I've always been so crazy about my children. So if you want to, I'd be pleased for you to call me Mother Love."

At that moment the children called to him from outside, so he did not answer, but the shine in his eyes when he looked at her was all she wanted. She knew she had made a friend.

Soon now the cider making started and everyone was very busy. The apples had to be brought from the orchard in baskets and the blemishes cut out. Then they were crushed in a mill and squeezed until the juice ran out. It flowed down a sluice and through a funnel into a demi-john which when full was closed with a cork stepper. These jugs, already encased in split coverings made by Frank Thompson, were stored in the cellar.

After a week or so the cider making was done and all the hands went out to finish bunching the cotton and laying by the corn. Only Teen was left at the house to look after the children. They played in the space between the house and the kitchen where Katherine could watch them as she supervised the preparation of the supper. As the afternoon waned she appeared in the kitchen door.

"Teen, you better go drive up the cows. Silvy's helping with the cotton and it may be sundown before she gits here."

"Yas'm," Teen answered with a flash of white teeth. "Wot I do wi' de baby?"

"Leave him there in the yard. Robert, you stay in the yard."

"Aunt Kitty, I'm going too," Billy called.

"We're all going," Anne called.

But Katherine had gone back into the kitchen, where she was measuring out rations for the quarter, and did not hear. The children went along a path through the orchard and down a rough wagon road to the corn bottoms through which flowed a creek. They crossed the creek on a foot log made by a tree which had fallen across a little pool below the place where the cows could wade through and get a drink. The girls shivered delightfully, looking down at the water, and George held Jane in front of him. They had to go so far to find the cows that Jane and Cynthia got tired and wanted to go back. George went with them, but Anne and Billy went on with Teen. When they came to the footlog Jane, who was running ahead, called back, "There's Robert in the creek."

Cynthia and George hurried to see and found that she was right. The little four-year-old had evidently followed them without their knowing it and, in attempting to cross the footlog, had lost his balance and fallen into the creek. Cynthia called to him. He lay so still the sight brought George's heart into his throat. He waded through the shallow water and picked him up. He was so cold and still that George was thoroughly frightened and started with him toward the house as fast as he could go. At that Cynthia and Jane began to cry.

"George, come back! We're scared. Help us across."

He carefully laid Robert down on the grass and went back, walking through the water beside the log to guide the girls across. Then silently with dread in their hearts they plodded up the hill to the house, George carrying Robert. The nearer they came to the house the faster they tried to go. As they went through the orchard they heard Katherine calling Robert.

With a strangled cry Cynthia ran ahead. "Mama! Mama!"

Katherine heard and came to meet them. "Oh, my God!" she cried when she saw the dripping form in George's arms. She took the child and rushed into the house. She put him on her bed, whisked off his clothes and began to rub him with a rough towel. All the time she prayed.

"Oh, God, let him be all right! Don't let anything be wrong with him! Make him all right, please God. Make him all right."

She rubbed and rubbed, but his flesh did not turn pink. He remained cold and still. At last she stood up in despair with tears running down her cheeks. George and the girls were staring at her. Now, seeing her tears, Cynthia and Jane began to whimper. Katherine ran from the room.

"Sam! Sam! Where are you, Sam?"

Samuel was just returning from the field with the darkies, and soon the yard was filled. Anne, Billy and Teen came back with the cows. The white children went into the house with Samuel, Katherine and Jonas, and shut the door. Sensing trouble, the darkies began to moan. This was broken up when Jonas came out and sent Jim to saddle a horse for him to ride to Camden. The darkies surrounded him.

"Wha'sa matta, boss?" they beseeched him.

"Young Master Robert got drownded."

"Oh, Lawdy, hab mussey on ma soul!"

"Go and sit your work done," he ordered, "and then go to your cabins, and don't bother the Master and Mistress tonight. They got their own troubles."

The darkies did as they were told, but as night came on they sat in the yard of their cabins and sought to express their sympathy. First there was a low moaning, then a rhythm that rose and fell as they cried to each other of the universal feeling that death awakes in everyone.

Then a deep bass voice rose above the moaning: "Oh, Lawd, hab mussy on ma so-oo-oo-oo-oul."

A glorious soprano followed from the next yard: "Sweet Jesus, save the little chil-il-lun." Now everyone joined in, carrying all parts, never missing a beat: "Oh, Lawd, hab mussy on ma so-oo-oo-oo-oul! Sweet Jesus, save the lit-tle chil-il-lun."

After a few minutes this died away into the low moaning with which it had begun. Then again the majestic bass voice bagan:

"Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home. I looked over Jerdan and what did see-ee, comin' for to carry me home; a band of angels comin' after me-e, comin' for to carry me home."

Unobtrusively, George kept close to Katherine for the rest of his time on the farm. Once he came into the kitchen when she was making the biscuits for dinner: He surprised her in tears and came to lean against her.

"Don't cry, Mother Love, Couldn't I be your boy now is place of little Robert?"

Katherine took her hands out of the dough, wiped them on her apron and held him close to her side. "I need a boy, George, to keep me from missing mine so much. Please be my boy."

During the next week big black Jim haunted the back door of the house until he learned the cause of Robert's death. With rare anger he seized an axe at the woodpile and stepped down to the creek. He pulled the footlog from its place, carried it down the stream to a wide, deep place and threw it in, big end first, where it stuck briefly in the mud on the bottom, then floated to a rocky ledge and stayed there to catch debris and make a tiny swimming and fishing pool forever more. In its place Jim laid two cedar poles to which he nailed split halves of logs, making a bridge a toddler could cross-only too late!

VIII

Young hearts forget easily, and time heals older ones. And time seemed to speed by as the children grew and changed from year to year. Cynthia grew into a beauty with a petal-fair complexion, violet eyes and long dark hair which she arranged in curly tendrils on her forehead and knotted in the back to fall in more curls on her neck. This tall, queenly young lady was prideful, ambitious and capable, scornful of those she could rule, impatient with clumsiness or ignorance, and sharp-tongued toward those with whom she disagreed. Yet she could be gracious as a queen and make those upon whom she bestowed her favor feel especially blest.

Jane grew into a small, fragile, curly-haired, expressive-eyes brunette. Where Cynthia was imperious, Jane was tenacious and persuasive. She was kindness itself, even to stray kittens and crippled chickens. She was capable of soothing wounded vanity and making everyone so comfortable that one wore her presence like a favorite old coat. And she had lost none of her hero worship of George. To her he was the knight-errant on the white charger in spite of Cynthia's slightly contemptuous affection for him.

And Anne - Anne was the home body, not fair like Cynthia, nor dark like Jane, but blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and brown-haired. She made no pretense to beauty, for she had inherited her mother's nose. Yet she would have been considered pretty had she not been overshadowed by Cynthia. She helped with tile housework, more so than the other two girls, though all were required to learn to card, spin, weave, dye, sew, and cock. Anne also learned the secrets of hog-killing time, what to do with all the milk the cows gave, and how to keep the Negro women both busy and happy. Also she anticipated for months the summer visits of Billy and George to The Orchards and her own trips to Camden in the winter to see uncle Frank and Aunt Lina.

Samuel and Katherine grew a little gray, a little stooped and worried looking, and were apt to say Anne when they meant Cynthia or Jane. Katherine was still the mother she was when the children were small. They still brought their problems to her and were usually helped. And there was as always her particular interest in George. She could not explain why they were drawn to each other. She only knew he was all the little boys she had lost, come to her in one who was himself lost. In each other they had found some lost part of themselves.

Truth to tell, George had never been able to get really close to Susannah. Her uncertainty had kept her from any proffered tenderness and by the time he knew she was really gently inclined toward him the habit of reticence was too strong on him to be broken. He knew how much he owed them. They had taken him in when there was no place for him to go. They had given him as good an education as could be gotten in Camden, having placed him under the tutelage of a teacher furnished by Samuel Mathis. They had clothed and fed him until he was able, by the trade they had taught him, to make it possible for Wesley to earn more money and to repay them in part by bringing in money himself. Now they were very proud of him and the feeling of security he gave them made them glad of the day they consented to befriend the homeless waif called Kat.

Frank and Adeline, too, were showing the effects of time. Frank's absorption in fine craftsmanship, his efforts to make as good a living for Adeline as Samuel Love made for Katherine, his work with the mall on the heavy white oak logs, gave him a flush that to Adeline, who was growing a bit plump with not a wrinkle or a gray hair to be seen, meant abundant health.

Billy grew to young manhood with the desire to be a planter still uppermost in his mind. When at The Orchards, he spent much of his time with the girls. And his eyes grew soft when they rested on Anne, which they did quite often. But he also went with Jim to the fields and worked some every day. He rode with Jonas and listened to him harangue the darkies, trying to get as much work out of them as possible.

To Billy, Jonas confided, "I've been saving my money. I'm gonna quit this job of overseeing one of these days and buy me a farm and some darkies of my own. I got a wife and some young'uns and I wanta see them have things good same as anybody else. Mr. Barstow wants to sell his place and move to Tennessee and I'd like to buy it."

"I'll take your job," Billy boasted. "I'm gonna be a planter myself."

"You hang around and I'll show you all I know," Jonas promised.

Billy had not left home yet, as he very much wanted to do, because Adeline insisted that he was needed by his father.

"Why didn't he have somebody bound out to him like Mr. Wes did?" Billy complained. "He could a kept George."

"He had you," Adeline pointed out. "He didn't need two boys."

"Well," tossing his head defiantly, "he knowed he was gonna need somebody some day, for I've said ever since I was a little boy that I was gonna to be a planter. He knowed I didn't want to be a basket maker."

"It's a good trade. Your Pa had made a mighty good name for hisself."

Billy's face grew dark. "Yes, but I want to grow cotton. There's money in it. The time is gonna come when the cotton planters will be the most important people in the South. Already we could sell lots more cotton than we're growing. And the cotton gin is going to help us because it won't take so long to get it ready for the market. Besides, we got a easy way to git it to market cause Camden is right on the Wateree where a lot of ships come and go."

Adeline was astounded. "Why, Billy! Where did you hear all that talk?"

"At the Tavern," he answered sulkily.

"You've got no business down there!"

"Aw, Mama, everbody goes to Dinkins' Tavern. I went with Papa. All the travelers come there and you get to hear the news. There's been a lot o' talk lately about trouble with England. We might have war. It's mighty good to hear what the people have to say about other parts of the world. You ought to go there sometime, Mama."

Adeline was scandalized. "I never heerd of sich a thing." She went into the shop where Frank was at work.

"I want to know what you mean by taking that boy to The Tavern?"

"I heerd what he said. It done no harm. If he's gonna live in the world, he's got to know what's going on. He's old enough to hear man talk." Frank spoke mildly but firmly.

"He may be right about The Tavern and about cotton, but you still need somebody to help you."

"Maybe so and maybe not. I got some idees on that subject myself. Billy ain't gone yet. We'll make some arrangements by the time he's ready to marry."

Adeline was surprised to see Billy blush violently. She had never known him to take an interest in any particular girl and she puzzled over why he took his father's remarks so seriously.

"I'm going over to see George," he said abruptly.

George was at work smoothing a pair of wooden stirrups. He had become an expert saddler and took many tedious jobs off Wesley's hands, helping him remember little details of individual orders. For Wesley was getting absent-minded, as well as pale, stooped and bald. Susannah worried constantly about him.

She came to the shop door. "Wes, I need some -." She stopped, seeing only George. "Where's Wes?"

"He went out, Mis' Susie. There wasn't much to do. He said he was going down to the Tavern and see if anybody comes in on the stage."

"I declare! That man! I wanted he'd cut me some wood."

"I'll cut it for you."

"You better if you want any dinner."

When George brought the wood into the kitchen Billy was there talking to Susannah.

"Let's go sporting tonight, George," he greeted him.

"I've got a saddle to finish," George answered, really wanting to read a book he had borrowed. from the Academy teacher.

"Mr. Wes don't 'spect you to work at night," Billy protested.

"Course not," Susannah sniffed. "You're always staying home with your nose stuck in a book, George. You ought to git out more. You never see no young people 'cept when the Love girls come to town. There's a lot o' nice girls around here, Caroline Jones, Elizabeth Cary, Mary Murchison. Git you a chance with one of them."

At the mention of the Love girls both boys had blushed. George wondered if anyone guessed what he hoped was hidden in the deepest recesses of his being, that from boyhood he had passionately adored the beauteous Cynthia. Jane was like a dear sister, but Cynthia was the sovereign of his heart, though, heaven knew, he often thought with bitterness, he had little enough reason to hope she would ever feel the same toward him. While she seemed to be unaware of his dogged devotion, she knew that her graciousness could fill his day with sunshine and one sharp word bring on a mood so black. that life seemed not worth living.

"What about it, George?" Billy asked, looking at him.

George nodded, wishing he could get out of it. He'd rather read. Besides, Billy had a way of poking fun at him in a crowd, like calling him George Washington, and saying, "Give him a book," when he had been quiet for too long.

Billy got to his feet and started toward the door, saying carelessly, "We might go up to The Orchards this Saturday if we can get a way. I can furnish a horse. It's about time for a turkey hunt."

IX

Some fifty years before George Washington Catt was stolen away from his home in England, a family whose descendants would have a marked effect on his fortunes was finding itself in straitened circumstances in Germany. One, Christopher Klemminger, had fought valiantly for his king, Frederick the Great of Prussia, in the first War of the Austrian Succession. During that time his farm had grown up in weeds and his possessions had dwindled away. By dint of hard work and good management he recouped his fortunes and had hopes of a good life. He added basket making to his accomplishments which art he taught to his sons and thus brought in help when the farm was not producing. Soon however his king called again for troops in the second War of the Austrian Succession, and Christopher had to answer the call to service. Finding his farm in the same condition as before when he returned from war, he was discouraged. But again he set about building up his land and re-establishing his basket industry. He worked in close connection with his brother-in-law who was also a farmer and in addition a painter. When a third war loomed on the horizon he and his neighbors set about planning a way out of this undesirable periodicity.

They had heard glowing accounts of America, a place where land was free for the taking and opportunity abundant. Christopher now had a wife and a son. He joined with his brother-in-law in a group planning to go to America as a number of others whom they knew had already done. At the last minute Christopher began to have trouble with an old war injury which brought on complications and took his life. His widow went home to stay with her parents. But rather than have her son, Frederick, subjected to the kind of life his father had been forced to lead, she prevailed upon her brother to take the lad along.

The company went first to England, then sailed from there on the ship that was bringing the Liberty Bell to the United States. On ship board Frederick's uncle became acquainted with the man who was responsible for delivery of the bell. The ship docked in Philadelphia. These who came to get the bell decided it needed painting and Frederick's uncle was commissioned to do the job, with which Frederick helped. In later life, when he knew the importance of this to the citizenry of the United States, he liked to boast about painting it, often seeming to forget that he was only his uncle's helper.

While the bell was being painted in Philadelphia, the other Germans spread out into the countryside in search of a settlement of their countrymen. Wherever they found them they were welcomed and allowed to stay while they looked for a home site. But already much of the land had been claimed, for many Germans had become fed up with the wars and hardships back home and had come to America for identical reasons. By the time Frederick Klemminger and his uncle arrived, their friends had collected tools and utensils and were ready to move to another place. They told of having heard land was plentiful farther south so they packed their tools, their utensils and their Bibles in wagons and migrated to North Carolina.

Enough came to form a small colony. First they built a church, a Lutheran church, then their homes. The church served as a house of worship, a school house and a place for all public meetings. These people were sober, honest, hard-working, religious folk intent on making a new life for themselves in this free country.

Christopher Klemminger's son Frederick grew to young manhood in the home of his uncle and aunt in this settlement. When the colonies felt that they could no longer bear to be ruled by England and declared their independence in 1776, Frederick felt that he was one with them. The spirit of revolt fostered by his father back in Germany was strong in him. He organized the youngsters of his settlement in a unit and practiced marching and attacking. As soon as they were old enough they volunteered for the militia. Frederick was elected captain and took his company to Wilmington first, then to join General Gates at Camden. Not being very well trained, the militia did not distinguish themselves there. Frederick was among the large number of prisoners taken and sent to Charleston. Later he was paroled and allowed to return to his home in the Pleasant Hill community of Mecklenburg County, later to become Cabarras County, North Carolina.

While Frederick was at home after his first experience in war, he met a lovely young lady, Catherine Lyles, who lived with her mother in Rowan County. His interest in her did not take away his feelings of chagrin over the poor showing of his men in combat. To redeem himself in his own eyes he joined the Continental Army early in 1781 and fought with General Nathanael Greene at Guilford Court House. Although this battle was indecisive, it sent Cornwallis across the Carolinas into Virginia where he was bottled up and forced to surrender. Frederick was at Yorktown at the time of the surrender and was a member of the guard which escorted Lord Cornwallis to his ship as he set sail for England.

The next year Frederick and Catherine were married. Their union was blest with two boys, Frederick, Junior, born in 1784, and Christopher the Second, born in 1786. Frederick, Senior, died the same year that Christopher was born. The bereaved widow took her boys and went home to her mother, who had remarried after the death of Catherine's father. She was now Elizabeth Ernhardt. When the boys were twelve and fourteen their grandmother died, leaving each of them forty dollars. Frederick, Junior, already had his eye on a pretty little girl. When he learned of the bequest from his grandmother he was humbly grateful. He planned to buy a small plot of land, build a house and marry his sweetheart. They talked it over and made their plans. Frederick went to live in the home of a Mr. Shein whose farm he planned to buy the next year. But before they could carry out their plans the young girl sickened and died.

Frederick was too upset to make any further plans, so he stayed on year after year with the Sheins, working and saving his money. He made baskets and did farm work. His one extravagance was to buy a horse. When the war of 1812 threatened he felt the same stirrings his father had felt before him. He saddled his horse one morning and said he was going to war. He rode by the old home place to tell his mother good-bye, then rode slowly away. But when he tame to the crossroad, he stopped his horse and sat for a while, thinking, then he turned south.

X

Dinkins Tavern was, as Billy Thompson had told his mother, the gathering place for the men of Camden. There they might have a friendly glass of madeira or rum and take part in political discussions. Most of the strangers who came to town eventually ended up there, even those who put up at the Holleyman Hotel. George liked to go there because he enjoyed the talk. He was well-read and sometimes ventured an opinion. Wesley liked to go too, to see the stage come in. He always liked to see if any strangers came in on it and, if so, to engage them in conversation. His delight was to tell Susannah and George about them at the breakfast table the next morning.

On the morning after Billy and George had gone calling on the young ladies of Camden, Wesley broke the silence at the breakfast table by saying,

"I met a funny feller at the Tavern yistiddy, George."

"You did? Anybody I know?"

"You wouldn't know this feller. He says he's a German, but he come here from North Carolina. Name of Frederick Klemminger."

"What's he look like?" Susannah asked.

"Nice looking enough. Bout like George, only chunky, not as tall, kind of heavy. Weigh about a hundred eighty, I 'spect. And fair, fair as Cynthy Love, only he's got light hair."

"You say he's from Germany?" This from George.

"No. His pa come from Germany. He's from some place up other side of Charlotte."

"What's he doing down here?" Susannah pursued.

"Says he might want to settle down here somewheres. Seemed kinda restless. Older than you, George. Wonder he haint already settled down."

"What kind of work does he do?" George asked.

"Don't rightly know. He asked a good many questions about what the people round here do. I told him about me and Frank. He seemed to know a good bit about Frank's business, but nothing about saddles. Did say he might like to buy a good saddle ."

"Are you going to sell him one, Mr. Wes?"

"I thought I might bring him down here and show him that 'un we jes finished. I aint got it promised."

Later in the week the two met again at the Tavern and Wesley asked Frederick to walk home with him. Susannah invited him to stay to dinner, and in the afternoon George took him for a walk around Camden. He asked where Frank's place was. He said he and his father and grandfather had made baskets and he'd like to meet someone here who made them. When they returned Frank was talking with Wesley. George introduced the newcomer.

"Howdy," Frank said and shook hands. "Wes, here, has been telling me about you. You from Germany, aint you?"

"My father come from Germany when he was a boy. I was born in this country, so I am American."

"Uh-huh. How do you like Camden?"

"I like it. It's growing fast, aint it? Might be a good place for a store."

"You thinking about putting up a store?" Wesley asked.

"I'm thinking about several things, land, a house, a store--"

"And slaves?" George asked.

"No, not slaves, I don't think I'd like to own people."

"You think darkies is people?" Frank asked.

"Don't you?" Frederick turned his blue, blue eyes on Frank, "Do you own any slaves?"

"No, I don't need none. What I need is somebody to help me with my baskets, so my son can git away from home. He wants to go to work on a farm in another county."

"So you're the basket maker?" Frederick asked quietly.

"Yes. Do you know anything about making baskets?"

"My father worked with them before he died. My grandfather in Germany made baskets on his farm. I learned the trade too."

"Would you like to come over and see my shop?" Frank asked.

At the house next door Frederick met Adeline and Billy and was asked to stay to supper. Everyone was intrigued with the stranger, but made no overtures. However, when he had returned to the hotel Billy had a talk with his parents.

"Mama, Papa, this looks like my chance to get started being an overseer. Mr. Klemminger can go into business with you, Papa, and you won't need me no more. I can go up to Uncle Sam's and work with Mr. Jonas 'til I know enough to take over his job."

"How do you know Jonas wants you to take his job? Maybe he wants to keep it."

"He's told me plenty of times he's going to buy a farm and git some darkies of his own. He's had his eye on Mr. Barstow's place for a long time."

"What makes you think Mr. Barstow will sell his farm to Jonas?"

"Oh, he's been wanting to sell it. He wants to move to Tennessee."

"But will your Uncle Sam let you take Jonas' place?"

"I know he will. I've already talked to him about it."

"Do you think you could be as good overseer as Jonas?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Jonas has already been showing me and letting me practice with the darkies."

Frank was jolted. "You done all this, boy, without saying nothing to me about it?"

"I wasn't gonna leave 'til you said I could go," Billy expostulated. "I'm grown up, Papa. I've got to be thinking about what I'm gonna do. Besides you know I always wanted to be a planter."

Adeline sniffed now and then during this conversation, at the thought of her boy leaving home. It was finally decided they would get to know Frederick better and if their impression of him did not deteriorate Frank would invite him to come in as a partner. In that way Frank could spend more time cultivating the few items that he raised on his twelve acre plot of land. After several weeks of associating with the young man from Cabarras County, the Carpenter and Thompson families held a consultation about all his good and bad points. It was the consensus of opinions that Frank should let him come into his shop if Frederick were willing. When Frederick was approached with the proposition, he quickly accepted. It was agreed that the partnership could be terminated whenever either one wished. There was no contract, only a gentlemen's agreement. The following week-end Frank loaned his spring wagon to Billy and George to go, with Frederick, to The Orchards to make all arrangements necessary for the changes that were imminent.

The arrival of three unexpected young gentlemen for the week-end created some excitement at The Orchards. Decisions were quickly arrived at. Billy would come in two weeks to train under Jonas. Frederick would be allowed to cut splits on the farm under the same conditions as Frank. Since the young men were there for the week-end, a turkey hunt was planned for Saturday morning. This meant an early start, so early to rise meant early to bed. Goodnights were not lengthy. However, Katherine managed to draw George aside.

"Son, don't let these arrangements keep you from coming to see us as many times as you can."

He put his arm across her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. "Nothing is going to keep me from coming to my second home, Mother Love."

The girls went to a quilting at the Barstow place Saturday afternoon, When the men came back from their hunt, Katherine cooked one of the turkeys, made a cake and went with the men, along with several other families of the community, to supper at the Barstows. On Sunday morning they all rode horses and went to worship at Hanging Rock Methodist Church.

"What a funny name for a church," Frederick remarked.

Billy made a suggestion. "Let's ride down and show him where the church got its name."

They rode part way, then tethered their horses and walked down to the rock. First they went out on top of it, then walked down and around underneath. The huge rock looked as if it were poised there waiting for a suitable moment to let go and tumble far down the hill.

"What makes it hang there like that?" Jane asked.

"There must be a heap of it buried under the ground," George answered.

"There was a battle fought here during the Revolutionary War," Billy remarked.

"You don't say!" Frederick exclaimed. "My Father fought in some battles down here. My Mother said he was at Camden and Charleston."

"Papa was in the war, too," Cynthia said, "but I don't know what battles he fought in."

As they started home they paired off, Billy and Anne, Frederick and Cynthia, George and Jane. Cynthia plied Frederick with questions. This continued around the dinner table, with every one else joining in. They were particularly curious as to why he should have come to South Carolina. Frederick good-naturedly explained.

"In our little settlement in North Carolina the old folks say we live very much like our people did in Germany. We go to the Lutheran Church. We farm like they do over there. In the winter we make baskets in the old way to use in the summer or to sell. We talk the German language in church and in school. We marry German girls and boys. We give our children German names. America is a big place. I'd like to see more of it than just one or two counties. I'd like to know how people who come here from other countries live. We're not Germans now, we're Americans, and I don't want for us to have a little Germany over here."

In two weeks Billy was ready to enter upon his new job. His father had taken him down to the October Fair at the Market and bought a horse for him. Samuel had stipulated that Jonas should stay until spring and that Billy should work assiduously with him to learn all he could about running a farm and handling the darkies.

During these months Jonas negotiated the purchase of Albert Barstow's farm, thus releasing him for the move to Tennessee, which he had been planning for so long. And Frederick Klemminger began to make himself at home both in Camden and at The Orchards. He took over the gathering of wood for the splits and made more trips than were really necessary to the Love plantation. On one trip he brought back quantities of willow twigs--he called them osier--and on his next visit he took with him a small rounded handled covered basket, dyed in pretty colors, for each of the girls. He worked industriously, and was unfailingly good-humored and communicative. Frank and Adeline grew fond of him. George, too, found him friendly as a puppy, but could not down a twinge of jealousy because of his popularity with the Love family. He was ashamed of it, yet he made arrangements at The Market to buy a horse for himself, so that he might go with Frederick on some of his trips without having to borrow a mount. When he could not go he spent his spare time reading furiously.

He told himself, of course he's not interested in Cynthia, and Jane is too young for him to be serious about her; so there's really nothing to worry about.

Katherine, too, liked Frederick. She exerted herself to make him feel welcome, not only because he was a stranger, but also because she could not help being pleased with the presence of another eligible male, for what mother does not secretly nourish the desire that her girls may be happily and successfully married. And Katherine, being well-called Mother Love by her mate, felt that being wife and mother was the ultimate in success to which a woman could aspire.

Billy was well-pleased with his prospects. He followed Jonas around religiously, listening as he gave instructions to the darkies, learning at the same time how to keep them under control. His hopes were high now of being able to have a farm and a few "hands" of his own. Later on he would be an important planter with hundreds of acres of land, lots of darkies and an overseer to work for him. These plans he talked over with Anne during his leisure hours and was proud to hear her assure him that he could do anything he set his mind to.

Before spring had arrived, the time when Jonas would be free to go to his own farm, propinquity got the best of Anne and Billy. With outward calm, but inward trepidation, they slipped away on horseback one afternoon while the Circuit Rider was in the neighborhood and were married. Afterward they rode down to Camden to visit Billy's parents.

Each of the Love girls took turns helping with chores around the house. For several weeks Anne had been helping Silvy with the milk. She knew her absence would be noticed as soon as milking time came. So she confided in Silvy and swore her to secrecy on peril of the "ha'nts", until they should be missed. Silvy faithfully kept her promise and did the milking alone. She came into the kitchen with two huge buckets full of milk and went back for more.

"Hyar de mik," she said when she had placed all the buckets on the table.

Rachel and Katherine were busy with supper.

"Don't leave it here," Katherine reprimanded her sharply. "Take it to the milk house and call Miss Anne to help you strain it."

"She not hyar," Silvy answered without moving.

"Well, take it on and call her. It's in the way here."

Silvy continued to stand without obeying. Sam came in for a drink of water in time to hear Katherine's order and note Silvy's failure to respond.

"Mind you mistress, wench," he ordered sternly.

"She not hyar," Silvy muttered stolidly.

"What did you say?" Sam thundered, and clipped her smartly on the side of her head.

She turned on him with blazing eyes and screamed curses. Sam strode to the kitchen door.

"Jonas!" he shouted in a voice that carried through all the out-buildings and grounds, "come and git this crazy woman and bring your whoop."

Jonas came on a run, jerking the whip from a nail above the crib door. On hearing Sam's orders he took Silvy off to her fate, after which he locked her in her cabin. Katherine took the milk to the milk house, strained it into jugs for cooling. Thus it happened that Anne was not missed until supper time. Then it was seen that Billy, too, was absent. No one knew anything at all about them.

"Where on earth can they be?" Katherine questioned the air.

"I'll go out and call," Sam volunteered.

He returned in about ten minutes. He had made the round of the buildings and grounds and could not find them. At that moment Jonas came in and reported that two of the horses were gone.

"Gone!" Katherine's and Sam's voices echoed blankly, as they looked at each other.

"Sam, what was it Silvy said when you slapped her?"

"I thought she said she didn't hear you, and I knowed if I could hear you she could. You told her to strain the milk, didn't you?"

"Yes, and I told her to call Anne. She said, 'She's not here.'"

"That means Silvy knows where she is," Sam said excitedly. "Come on, Jonas, let's go talk to Silvy."

Silvy sat sullenly on her bed; for a time she refused to speak, but when Jonas shook her severely and threatened her with another whipping, she looked balefully at Sam and spat out her words.

"She gone. She marry Mr. Billy."

XI

The marriage of Billy and Anne had at first been a heavy blow to Katherine. Since the loss of Robert she had cherished her three girls jealously, feeling that she could not let even one of them be long away from her side. Now she mourned as if Anne were gone forever. She wept inconsolably, and would have gone on weeping all night if Sam had not suggested that he go find the young lovers and bring them home. She was all for sending him that night, but he persuaded her that they should both get some sleep. When morning came he headed for Camden, rightly judging that he would find the run-aways with Frank and Adeline. He gave them his blessing and took them home to Katherine.

They stayed at The Orchards until spring, when a plot of land containing about one hundred acres was deeded to them. There was no house on it, but Billy had spent a lot of time felling trees, trimming and hauling them to a clearing about three miles from The Orchards. A man was set to work building two chimneys, one for the "house" and one for the kitchen. They were built of mud and stones.

When mild weather came in March, Frank, George, and Frederick came up from Camden and went with Sam and Billy to the home site. There, with the help of the nearest neighbors, they were able to put up in one day a log cabin, consisting of two rooms, and a small kitchen which Billy would later connect with the "House" by a planked covered way. The women, too, had come along, Adeline, Katherine, Cynthia, Jane and the wives of the neighboring men who were helping with the building of the cabin. Over an outside fire they cooked chicken pilau, peas and Johnny cake.

At midday the men stopped for dinner. When the cabin was finished, the women helped arrange the furnishings while the men put up the kitchen. Anne's furniture had been made by Sam and Frank while Billy cut the trees, and her linens and utensils were given to her by Katherine and Susannah. At the close of the day the "house-raising" was done and Billy and Anne felt very lucky to be installed in their new home.

On a moonlight night in the following week the young people of the surrounding families slipped over to the new home. They carried every kind of noise-maker they were able to find--cowbells, plows, buckets, broken hoes and shovels, each with a rock, a prong from a pitch fork, or a piece of iron or tin with which to beat on his instrument. They gathered at a short distance from the house and talked in low voices until their plans were complete. Then each went silently and swiftly to his place until the house was surrounded. The hoot of an owl was the prearranged signal when they burst with one accord into a cacophany that all but deafened their ears.

Anne and Billy could be seen through a chink between the logs, sitting by their fire. At the first sound they jumped to their feet in alarm; but this gave way to embarrassed laughter when they realized they, a bride and groom in their new home, were being given a shivaree. They made a swift decision, threw open the door and invited everyone to come in. Cynthia and Jane had brought a pound cake and the boys had some syllabub, so that there were refreshments for everyone. Afterward they played games, 'thimble," "snap," "Cross Questions and Crooked Answers" until it was time to go home. Each girl left with the idea that it might be fun to be married and play at keeping house. But each boy thought only of the particular girl he had taken to the shivaree.

Katherine missed Anne when she had gone, but not as much as she had expected, for, since her marriage, Anne had become absorbed in her husband and in plans for their home. Katherine could not quite shake a feeling of chagrin that Anne had not confided in her before her marriage. Taking stock mentally on the day after the house-raising, she resolved that neither Cynthia nor Jane would catch her napping as Anne had done. She had always tried to be wide-awake where her children were concerned, but now she redoubled her efforts to be aware of what was going on behind the eyes of her girls.

The ostensible need for white oak splits took Frederick to The Orchards rather often. George read avid interest in Cynthia into these visits and went with him as often as he could. Contrary to George's suspicions, Frederick showed no conspicuous preference for either of the girls, yet made no effort to enjoy other feminine company. He seemed content with the companionship of either Cynthia or Jane. But as the months wore on, if George's watchful eyes had not been so filled with the image of Cynthia, or his jealous heart so convinced of the little-girl-ness of Jane, he might have noted how gradually Frederick was gravitating toward Jane and how, when he thought himself unobserved, he let his eyes rest warmly on her.

Katherine saw all this. Watching unobtrusively, she sometimes soliloquized to herself: I didn't know nothing about Anne and Billy until it was too late, but if I had I guess I'd a objected because of them being first cousins and I'd a made everbody feel bad, so it's just as well. I want to do a different part by Cynthia and Jane. My girls oughta git married, but I want to know about it ahead of time. I want to make their wedding dresses and help them git things ready for their homes. Cynthia should be next. So many fellers come around here I ain't got no notion who she likes, if anybody. George is crazy about her, anybody with one eye and half sense can see that, but she ain't very nice to him. He'd make her a good steady husband and he'd be good to her, too good, maybe, my poor boy. I think I'll have a talk with her and find out how things stand.

A weekend came and went during which time Frederick and George came to The Orchards. Katherine had seen how George had tried to sit by Cynthia and talk with her, how she had answered him cold, almost rudely, and finally left him to go to a seat by Frederick. On Monday, as they were preparing garden seed for planting, Katherine chided her.

"You wasn't very nice to George yesterday, Cynthia."

"Why, Mama, what did I do?" Cynthia asked with such an innocent air that Katherine began to wonder if she could have misunderstood.

"You wouldn't talk with him when he set down by you and you left him for Frederick. That hurt George."

"Oh, a little slight like that will only make him like me more," she answered carefully.

"Yes, and it might make him think you like Frederick and there's no hope for him."

That anyone might think she liked Frederick was a new and disquieting thought to Cynthia; she might like him, but she certainly didn't want anyone but herself to think so. She sat quiet while Katherine finished her talk.

"George ain't got a very happy nature, but that's cause he ain't never had nothing much to make him happy. He's been away from his home and his ma and pa ever since he can remember. And everthing was so strange to him when he first come here it made him bashful and hard for anybody to git to know. But that ain't his fault. Way down deep he's just as good and dependable as he can be. He'd make you a good husband. All he needs is somebody to be good to him. If you'd treat him better I believe he might be a different kind of person. Why don't you try it?"

"I will, Mama," Cynthia answered absently, her mind busy with another thought.

Thereafter, on his visits to The Orchards, George, and soon everyone else, was able to notice a difference in Cynthia's treatment of him. She was polite, conversational, never leaving him for anyone else when they were together, and striving very carefully to divide her attention evenly between him and Frederick. Studying Cynthia's reaction and observing her when she thought herself unnoticed, Katherine began to wonder if she had been wise in speaking to her about George. The simulated warmth in the girl's eyes made the mother's heart ache for the defense- less young man.

Susannah Carpenter was another who worried about George. This childless woman had really been afraid of him when he first came into her home, afraid she might make some mistake in caring for him, afraid Wesley might not like him, afraid he might not be able to learn to make saddles. It had taken her a long time to adjust to him. It was not until Billy was gone that she began to see George as he really was; the contrast between the two boys had been too great. Now she thought of him as her boy, the one who took the place of the child she never had. He was as good as a son to her; also to Wesley, taking more and more of the work of saddle-making off that aging, stooped, absent- minded man. What did it matter if she hadn't given birth to him; he was hers!

Susannah knew of George's moodiness. She knew the attacks usually followed his visits to the Love plantation. In earlier years she had seen how he submitted to Cynthia's imperiousness and basked in Jane's idolatry. She was afraid now for what might some time happen to him. Such thoughts had come to her of late as she worked at her carding, spinning or knitting.

If she turned her head she could see him through the open door where he sat astride the planing bench. Her thoughts drove her to go in to him. He was smoothing the different parts of the tree so that they would fit correctly when mortised. He looked up when she came in, smiled and started to rise.

"Don't git up, George. I can't stay but a minute. I'll set on the stool."

"I'm glad you come in to set with me, Mis' Susie. Mr. Wes went down to the Tavern."

"I like to watch you work. You do it so pretty."

"I had a good teacher."

"I'm a thinking you work too hard."

"Who? Me? Oh, no. I like it."

"I know you do, but you stick too close to it. You oughta go out more."

"I go up to the Orchards a right smart, almost every time Frederick goes."

"But you ought to make friends here in Camden, too. Have you ever kept company with a girl here?"

He answered carefully, "I don't much like going out with the girls down here. I'd rather stay at home and read."

"It ain't natural for you to stay at home so much. A man your age oughta have him a girl picked out and be courting her. Lots of boys your age are already married."

He knew so well what she had in mind that his face turned slowly white. Tying the pieces of the saddle tree together gave him time to think what he should say. At last he replied haltingly.

"The girl a fellow marries is - is decided by other things, not just by - picking her out and courting her. I - I might pick me out one and - and still not get her. Then I'd be worse off than if I hadn't tried."

"I don't know about that, George. I've heerd it said that it's better to love a girl and not git her than never to love a tall."

"Mis' Susie, love's not fair. It's just a trap. It promises you wonderful things if you fall in; then when you are in, it closes around you and fastens you so you can't ever get shut of it. And you don't find the wonderful things you expected either." His voice roughened and his hand shook, so that he laid down his work.

Susannah answered gently, "Not all love is like that, Son. You've just found the wrong kind. What you need to do is git out o' that trap and go off in another direction. Somewhere else you will find one that lives up to all its promises, and more. It won't be like a trap a tall, but like a harbor a ship comes into out of a storm."

A long look passed between them; his so like the lost little boy of long ago that her eyes filled with tears. She patted his shoulder and returned to her work. But her heart had a kind of singing in it because at last she had made contact with the heart of her son.

Another who watched over George with a protective eye was Adeline. She had given him a warm place in her heart the day he had lifted his eyes to her with the incredulous hope that somehow she might find his mama. Billy's leaving home and his marriage had turned her attention to the young people who had been associated with him, and she began to wonder how things would turn out for them. Having Frederick in her home all the time, George nearby, and Cynthia and Jane coming to visit, she had opportunity to observe. Not being as immediately concerned as Katherine and Sussannah, she was able to judge more accurately the state of affairs.

She was as aware as George of his hopeless passion for Cynthia. She sympathized with Frederick in his ambition to be a successful merchant and in his interest in Jane. She saw that Cynthia's heart would go to the man who could hold out the most glittering prospects to her, and that Jane was not yet aware of either Frederick's intentions or her own potentialities.

She stood at the window and watched Frederick and George leave on their horses for The Orchards one Saturday afternoon in the fall. They would not be back until the first of the week, for a turkey hunt was planned for Monday.

"I don't know how it's all gonna turn out," she sighed.

"Wat you muttering 'bout?" Frank asked from his seat near the fire where he was looking at the Camden Gazette.

"I wa'rn't muttering. I was jest wondering what will ever become of them children."

"What's the matter with 'em? Seems to me like they're a gittin' along all right."

"Oh, you never notice nothing even if its right under your nose."

Frank's look was so ludicrous that Adeline laughed. "I was thinking 'bout how George's been crazy 'bout Cynthia for so long and now she's gitting to liking Frederick. I never thought when I let that German come here I might be storing up more misery for George, poor boy. I don't believe he's ever had a happy day in all his life."

Frank was still nonplussed. "What makes you think Cynthia likes Frederick? I can't see that she treats him any different from the way she treats George."

"That's jest it. She never was nice to George 'til Frederick come. She's jes' trying to hide her real feelings."

"That oughta make George happy."

"Now, you know he can see through that. I don't believe he's had a easy minute since Frederick come."

"Well, don't bother yo' head about it. It'll all come out in the wash."

"I don't see how it can. Cynthia won't never have George."

"You wouldn't want her to marry somebody she didn't like, would you?"

"Course not; but she can't have Frederick neither, for he likes Jane."

Frank burst out laughing. "I never heerd the beat o' that."

"Laugh all you want to, but you jes' wait and see."

"I'll wait!" And he subsided behind his paper.

XII

The Circuit Rider came to Laurel Hill church on the first Sunday afternoon in each month and the Love family usually went to worship on that Sunday. Weekend guests were furnished with horses and invited to go along. When George and Frederick were there they rode their own horses and went with the family. On a hot summer Sunday afternoon the young people rode by the Barrette house to get water before going on home. This usually happened each month when services were held and was an occasion for a lot of teasing and flirting. Mr. Barrette cut some watermelons, a type of vegetable brought from Africa with the slaves and growing in popularity among southerners.

As the crowd left for home George rode beside Cynthia, somewhat ahead of Frederick and Jane. While they made desultory conversation George said,

"Cynthia, there's something I want to ask you."

She gave him a startled glance and suddenly dug her heels into her horse's sides. He leaped forward, and was off like a flash. Surprised, George started in pursuit. Cynthia's horse had a head start and was soon out of sight. Shortly George caught up with Katherine and Sam. He reined in his horse to ride beside Katherine.

"Mother Love, was Cynthia all right? Did her horse bolt?"

"She was all right, George. She had her horse under control. She likes to ride fast."

"I was afraid he was running away and might throw her. I'd better ride on and see about her."

"Wait, George," Katherine commanded. "Sam, you ride ahead and see if you can catch her. I'll come on with George."

When they were alone Katherine asked, "What happened, George? What made her ride away from you?"

"I don't know, Mother Love. I told her I wanted to ask her something and her horse bolted."

"What was it you was going to ask her?"

"Mis' Adeline told me to ask her if she--and Jane--wanted to come down for a round of parties in August. Some have already been planned, two boat outings, one dinner and a very good lecture. She thought the girls might like the change. And Frederick and me'd certainly be glad if they'd come."

"I don't believe that's what Cynthia thought you was going to ask her," Katherine suggested.

George turned to look at her. As he caught her meaning, that Cynthia thought he was going to ask for her hand in marriage and ran away to prevent it, he turned white and dropped his head.

"Don't be bothered by it, George. Cynthia don't know her own mind."

"She never has liked me very much, Mother Love," he said miserably. "I ought to go away and never come back, but I can't seem to help myself."

"You like her too much, Son. I know my child; if you let her she'll walk all over you and never look back to see if you're hurt."

"What am I going to do?"

"It's hard for me to advise you against my own child, but you are very dear to me, George, and I honestly think you are too good for her. She's a good girl, but she has a selfish streak in her. For your own sake you oughta find yourself another girl."

He sat very still in the saddle and his knuckles showed white where he gripped the bridle. "Thank you for being frank, Mother Love. I--"

"Don't worry about it, George," she said gently. "I told you in the beginning she don't know her own mind. Give her a little more time."

In spite of so much concern over affairs of the heart, work was not neglected. George felt too much responsibility for his foster father's business to fail to do his best. And Frederick was naturally industrious; being associated with Frank made the character of his work practically guaranteed. As soon as he accumulated a little money he began to think of his store and the land he coveted. He rode out often to look over the countryside and see what crops were growing. He noticed how far apart the stores were and how much time was lost by riding so far to get supplies. He made a point of talking to the planters that came to the Market; he found out how far they had come and if they would patronize a store nearer their homes.

Two years passed in agreeable association between Frederick and Frank and pleasant companionship among the young people. One day Frederick announced that he would like to go to Lancaster County for a few days to look over the land and talk to the planters.

"I'm thinking of starting a store," he told Frank. "I want to talk to the farm folks and see if I can git them to trade with me. And I need to see where is the best place to put up my building."

He traveled the old stage coach road to Lancaster and followed well-traveled trails that led back into the countryside. He found scattered farm houses, large and small, and talked with the people. They were invariably hospitable, and agreed, one and all, that they would be glad to patronize a store nearer than Lancaster, or Camden, or Monroe; for very often they could not spare a mule from the crop to go to town, yet had to do it when a broken part could not be repaired or replaced at home. He spent several days visiting in the homes and making friends through his own innate friendliness. He was told the man to see was Will Plemmons because he owned a lot of land around the county. So he proceeded to Lancaster and looked him up.

"Yeah," Plemmons drawled, when Frederick approached him and began to talk about land, "I own a good 'eal o' land south-east of here, a thousand or so acres. Make a find plantation for the right feller."

"I don't expect to do much farmin'," Frederick told him. "I'd like to have some land and build me a nice house, but .I believe I'd ruther run a store than grow crops. There seems to be a need for a store between here and Camden, and a body could make money in it. The farmers have to go too fer to git supplies."

"Where did you figger on putting yo store?"

"I talked to some of the planters down in there around your land and I believe if I could git a few acres from you it'd be in about the right place, 'bout ten or twelve miles from here. It seems to me that'd be a handy place for the planters."

"How much land did you figger on needing?"

"Only a little piece to start with, enough for a house and a little crop and my store until I see hew I git along."

"I spose you want a place with a house on it?"

"Well, yes. I have to have a place to stay, but I'm not married, at least not yet." And he paused and colored.

Plemmons winked. "I see. I see. Well, good luck to you. I'll let you have whatever land you want now and more later when you want it. And if I can do anything to help you git your store started I'll do it. I can make you acquainted with the men here who can git your stock of goods for you."

"I'll be much obliged to you."

"You want to close the deal while you are here?"

"Well - no, not until I've talked with - a certain young lady. If I have good luck I'll see you about Christmas time."

Turkey hunting was a favorite sport of the fall and winter seasons in the Carolinas. Frederick and George were invited to The Orchards for the Thanksgiving hunt. The men had hunted enough to know the habits of the wild turkey and made their plans wisely. Samuel, George, Frederick and Billy went along, taking black Jim to carry the birds they would kill if they had any luck. They took a lunch and went out early on the day before Thanksgiving Day. They walked along carelessly, tramping through the fields, fording streams on stepping stones, climbing over logs and inching their way through the bushes.

Samuel could bring down any turkey he got close enough to shoot at. George and Billy had a good many to their credit, but Frederick had not killed one since he had been coming to the plantation. He was rather tired when, after tramping several miles, they flushed a flock and stopped to build a blind. He and George cut the limbs and Billy stuck them in the ground while Samuel made a caller. They sat down on the ground behind the blind and waited almost an hour. Samuel was talking to Frederick in a low voice.

"The turkey is a lonesome bird. By now he will be gittin' over his scare and be wantin' to find the rest of the flock."

So putting his caller to his lips he blew a note that sounded much like the call of a wild turkey. After a long wait he blew again. This time a faint answer was heard. By blowing intermittently into his caller, Samuel enticed the turkey to approach, cautioning the others to be very quiet.

"This is your bird, Frederick. He's comin' from the southeast and he's comin' fast. Git ya gun ready and don't bat an eye-lash. If you do he'll see you and be gone while yo' eyes is shet. I'll punch you when its time to shoot."

Frederick trembled so, he couldn't hold his gun still. His face was flushed and his breath uneven when the turkey trotted into view, a big beautiful gobbler. He stopped and called and Samuel answered, then he came on at a run toward the blind. When he was about fifty feet away Samuel gently nudged Frederick.

"Now!"

It was a clean miss, and the turkey scurried away through the brush. Frederick was embarrassed and apologized abjectly, but Samuel answered in a matter-of-fact way.

"Most fellers try a right smart while before they ever git one. We'll eat our dinner now and give the birds time to git over their scare. Then I'll call agin. They'll all be headin' back toward where they was flushed from."

Several other tries were made during the afternoon and everyone got a turkey except Frederick.

"There's a plenty for termor's dinner," Samuel remarked as they started home. "No use to kill more'n we can eat. We can go agin termor and git some for Wes and Frank."

There was a lot of good-natured chaffing at Frederick when he declined to take part in plans for another hunt on Thanksgiving Day.

"Never you mind, Frederick," Jane consoled. "Not everybody can make as good a basket as you can and I bet they wish they could. You can help me hull the chestnuts for the stuffing."

Cynthia, Katherine, and Anne helped with the dinner while Jane and Frederick chatted companionably over the nuts.

"You never did tell us about your trip to Lancaster," Jane said. "Did it turn out all right?"

"It was a fine trip. The country-side was pretty to look at, and so many colors in the trees. And the weather was pretty too."

"Yes. I love fall. But still it is a little sad, so many things dying."

"I stopped one evening to watch some darkies picking cotton. They were all sizes there in the field, men, women and children and little babies lying on pallets at the edge of the field. A man on a horse was there watching them. And jes before quitting time they started singing. It sounded good!"

"Our darkies do that way too. I like to hear 'em, but it makes me have funny thoughts; they sound so--so sort of mournful." Jane gave a remote sigh.

"I don't think I'd much like being a farmer."

"Why not?"

"I wouldn't like to have slaves. I'd ruther have a store and do my own work."

"Oh, yes. That's what you been wanting all along, aint it? Are you gitting ready to start?"

"Yes Ma'am. That's what I went to Lancaster fer, to see about land. I talked to a lot of the folks on the way up there. They all said they'd patronize me if my store is close enough. Mr. Plemmons in Lancaster says he will sell me land and stand fer me to git a stock o' goods. I believe I can make a good living that way.

He looked earnestly at Jane as she answered sincerely, "I believe you can, too, and I wish you good luck."

"I picked out a place about ten miles this side of Lancaster. It's sort of centrally located and close to a good spring. It's fer anough away from other towns that a store ought to do good there and it might be that my store would be the starting of it. It might even be named for me."

"Klemmingerville?" Jane teased.

"No. Fredericksburg."

"Why, Frederick," Jane exclaimed, in delight, "That sounds good, and I bet you'll do it, too. I hear tell Camden was first named Fredericksburg, but it didn't stick."

"I didn't know that. Maybe I can do it, but I don't want to do it alone."

"I'll bet you could find a partner. Had you thought of anybody?"

"I'm asking somebody right now."

"Who?"

"You."

"Me? But I----," she glanced at him and subsided into silence as the significance of what he was saying began to dawn on her.

"I'd like to have you with me," he went on steadily. "I'd buy only a few acres of land at a time, and I might not be able to git a piece with a house on it, but with help we could put up one soon, like we did for Billy and Anne. There's a thousand acres of land for sale up there and I hope to own it all some day. I have no hope to be a planter, but I like land and I want to have a plantation and be somebody among the people of South Carolina. I will buy the land a little at a time. And I'll add to my house as I can 'til I have a big one like you got here. You can have company and give sociables like you do now. And I might git in the legislature, might even run for governor, Would you like that?"

Jane raised astonished eyes to his. "Thank you, Frederick, for paying me such a nice compliment, but I wouldn't be suited to that kind of life. Cynthia would suit you a lot better than I would and she'd be good at it, too."

"But I want you," Frederick insisted, unable to understand the reason for her refusal. "I have the greatest respect and regard for Miss Cynthia, but I-- I care for you deeply. If you don't like the kind of life I plan for us, I'll change. I'll plan any kind of life that will make you satisfied."

"No, Frederick, no." He winced. "Oh, I've hurt you and I'm sorry. But you must not think of changing your plans because of me. Just don't make me a part of them at all."

"But, why?" His shock and disappointment brought scalding tears to Jane's eyes. He came quickly to kneel beside her chair and held her hands tightly.

"Jane, liebling, don't cry, please! Have I hurt you? I wouldn't harm a hair on your sweet head. I only want to take care of you, always, if you will only let me."

"I'm sorry, Frederick. I just don't feel that way," Jane whispered, "Your plans are wonderful, but I can't be a part of them."

He got to his feet. "I guess I don't have any plans anyhow. Don't you feel bad, little Janie. It'll be all right." He walked out, and Jane slipped upstairs to her room to weep gently over the hurt she had given him.

XIII

The year 1815 was a difficult one in the life of George Catt. That year saw Frederick, trying to stifle his love for Jane, turn more and more to Cynthia. At first no one was conscious of any change except Frederick and Jane. He wanted only to avoid being alone with her. He and George continued to accept invitations to The Orchards, as did Cynthia and Jane to Camden, but Frederick soon began to devote himself almost exclusively to Cynthia. He was conscious of no cause for Jane to feel slighted, or to think that he was getting over his rejection too quickly for his feelings to have been genuine; or even to suspect that he might be courting Cynthia out of pique. He only knew that he must have some outlet for his ebullience, someone who would listen to his plans and encourage him. He could not sit at home and read, like George.

Cynthia was enormously proud over the turn events had taken. She never guessed what had given Frederick a push in her direction, but as soon as he began to evince pleasure in her company she made no secret of the fact that she preferred his. Jane knew relief alone when at last he apparently felt only a friendly interest in her.

George was the one who suffered. From the time of his boyish adoration of Cynthia hope had been there, though he had never put it into words, even to himself- - hope that awaited only a favorable opportunity to declare itself. Now that hope was dying, though, unquestionably, dying hard. He was moodier than ever, and spent his waking hours, which were most of the twenty-four, in reading, or in working with a book on a stool beside him to keep his thoughts occupied. He now went but seldom with Frederick to The Orchards. Those at home who loved him could only surmise what was happening and were very kind to him.

Katherine and Samuel knew what to expect. Since Frederick's preference for Jane had never been marked, they had not noticed when it ceased; at least Samuel had not noticed. But they could not fail to be aware when he began to devote himself exclusively to Cynthia. He came often and they took walks, shared the chores she had, sat on the settee in the evenings and whispered. Only Katherine noticed that when the conversation was general, Jane never took part, and when Frederick talked largely of his plans for his store and town he never looked at Jane, as he had once been wont to do.

And then there came the first Sunday in July when as usual they had all ridden to the preaching service on horseback and Cynthia and Frederick had dropped behind on the way home. They did not come in for more than an hour after the others. As they rode into the yard Katherine gave Samuel a look that caused him to follow her into their bedroom.

"He's asked her," Katherine said, carefully closing the door.

"You think so?" Samuel asked. "I didn't notice nothing."

"That's what they stayed behind fer. If I'm not mistaken he'll ask you for her before he leaves this time."

"What'll I tell him, Kitty?"

"There's not but one thing you can tell him, Sam."

"I guess you're right," he agreed unhappily. "I wanted her to have George. He's so steady and he'd make her a good living and he'd be good to her."

"What did you 'low to happen to Jane?" Katherine asked curiously. "You know she likes George."

"Shucks, that don't amount to nothing. It all goes back to when they was children. Jane's not very strong and I sort of thought she might stay with us. She's the baby since Robert got drownded."

"I think Frederick used to like Jane," Katherine soliloquized, "but she wouldn't have him."

"What makes you think that? Did Jane tell you something?"

"No, she didn't tell me. I just figgered it out. You remember last Thanksgiving when Frederick tried so hard to git a turkey and couldn't?"

Samuel nodded.

"Well, he didn't go hunting the next day, but stayed here and helped Jane pick out chestnuts for the stuffing. After a while I seen Frederick going down the carriage lane toward the big road. I went to git the nuts and there they were, half-shelled, on the hearth and nobody was there. We went on with the dinner and Jane didn't come back at all. When everybody come in to eat, Jane and Frederick was both awful quiet. You know it's not natural. for Frederick to be quiet. He always talks every time anybody starts up with something, but he used to always lock at Jane no matter who he was talking to. Well, that night he cornered Cynthia on the settee and talked like the wind and never once looked at Jane. And he's been doing that ever since. So I figured he asked Jane that day and she turned him down."

"La, Kitty, Cynthia wouldn't like that if she knowed it."

"And you see that she don't know it," Katherine cautioned.

"Well, I'll be jiggered! Think of our little Janie having a proposal before her sister." Samuel chuckled.

"You don't know how many Cynthia's had."

"I bound she'd wait for the best one. I don't know a thing agin Frederick."

"No. I don't see as we got any reason to refuse him."

"He's a steady worker and he'll make her a good living."

"Yes, he seems to be making money a'ready and he has fine notions 'bout what he's gonna do in time to come. If he lives up to that Cynthia'll have all she can do to keep up with him."

There was a knock at the door. "Papa," Cynthia called, "you in there? Frederick wants to talk to you."

Three times Frederick broke the news of his engagement to Cynthia, once to the Thompsons at-supper on Monday night, again to the Carpenters immediately after supper, and to George, alone, in his room to which he had gone as soon as he had finished eating. George leaned over to lay down the book he was reading when Frederick came in.

Frederick spoke without preamble. "Congratulate me, George. Cynthia has promised to be my wife."

The book clattered to the floor and George turned slowly to pick it up; with his face averted, he asked, "What did you say?"

Frederick repeated himself. George carefully picked up the book, but instead of placing it on the table he began turning through it nervously.

"I do congratulate you. I hope you will both be very happy."

"Thank you." Frederick was a little puzzled by the coldness in his companion's voice. But being friendly himself he could not conceive of unfriendliness in others and certainly not in George who had been the recipient of his confidences for the past three years. Strangely enough, though, they had never discussed the Love girls. George's reticence there had been complete.

Now, however, Frederick's tongue was loosened, and he gave a complete resume of his plans. He would go at once and get his land from Will Plemmons. During laying-by time he would have no trouble getting his house and store put up. They would be married in October, in time to get trade from the planters after they sold their cotton crop. George answered politely when a word seemed necessary to avoid rudeness. At last, finding that he could no longer sit there and listen to another man make plans to marry Cynthia, he came abruptly to his feet.

"I must ask you to excuse me. I have a terrible headache and I must get out in the fresh air." He led the way to the front door. "Your plans are fine and I wish you success in carrying them out. And now goodnight."

"You will stand up with me, won't you, George? Cynthia wanted me to ask you," Frederick was saying as he followed him out.

"Yes, of course. Goodnight."

George strode away. He walked out Broad Street to the Swamp, and then over to the river, seeing nothing, conscious only of a searing inner pain that urged his feet faster all the time in an effort to get away from it. He had almost walked into the river before he realized how far he had come. He stumbled and sat down on a stone.

"You fool!" he apostrophized himself. "You stupid, mindless witling!" You insult the only friend you have for the sake of a girl who thinks so little of you that she wants you to stand up at her wedding just so she can watch you twist and turn while she gets married to another man. You've loved her ever since you've known her, but she has never cared anything for you. You've known it, too, yet you kept hanging around like a dog waiting for a bone to be thrown to him. Now she's thrown all the bones to somebody else and she wants to see how you're taking it. You're never going to belong to anybody nor have anybody belong to you. You might as well face it right now that you've got to get whatever satisfaction you can out of life from somewhere else."

He ground his hands into the dirt beside him, then stood up with a rock in his hand. He threw it up the river and watched it skitter across the water.

"It hurts!" he muttered, "but so help me God, she's never gonna know it."

For he remembered the epithet Billy Thompson had thrown at him on his first day in Camden.

He started back, walking swiftly to the rhythm of the savageness within him. He passed his own home, went on through town and to the other edge where the houses sat farther and farther apart. Then he turned and went home. He sat in his room and read until dawn came in at the window. Every day from then on he worked doggedly; he ate grimly; at night he walked miles; afterward he read until exhaustion closed his eyes and forced the book to drop from his hand. He grew gaunt and pale and hollow-eyed, but he turned out dozens of beautiful saddles and sets of harness. And no one spoke to him about either himself or Cynthia except, of course, Frederick who poured out all his plans freely.

Cynthia came to Camden a few weeks before her marriage to get some things from the stores; also to see about some linens Susannah was making for her. She and Frederick spent a great deal of time together, having naturally much to talk about. George had been keeping away from the Thompsons, so it was not expected that he would come over while Cynthia was there. Susannah, however, felt it was her duty to invite Frederick and Cynthia over to supper. George was there, gaunt and pale, but trim and courteous, taking part graciously in the conversation. He talked as if from an outline, repeating interesting anecdotes from his reading. The minute supper was over he excused himself and went to the shop. He was followed immediately by Cynthia and Frederick. Presently Adeline came to tell Frederick he was wanted by a customer.

"Go ahead, Frederick," Cynthia said calmly. "I'll come in a little while. I have to see Mis' Susie about something."

So Cynthia and George were left alone. She made desultory conversation which he answered only when necessary.

Eventually she burst out, "George, don't be so plaguey! Why won't you talk to me?"

He looked at her stolidly. Abruptly her eyes filled with tears, the first he had ever seen there.

"George, you're pale and thin. You don't look like you sleep very much. Please don't worry about me. Honestly, I'm not worth it. I've had my own way so much I'm selfish and shallow. I can't love anybody very much except myself. I'm ambitious and I'm proud, and I care more about gittin' to be somebody in the world than you do. Besides, a girl can't wait always; she can only marry a fellow if he asks her. And I'd make you miserable. Anybody who spends as much time readin' an' studyin' as you do wouldn't be happy with a girl like me. Just be glad you didn't git me, instead of feeling sorry and worryin' and losin' sleep. I know I've treated you terrible. I never even tried to be friends with you, but I'd like to try now. Can't we?"

"Of course we can Cynthia," he said, choosing to answer only the last part of her remarks. "Don't cry about me. I'm all right."

Cynthia smiled sunnily just as Susannah came into the room, saying, "Come on now, Cynthy, and I'll show you what I've made for you."

Frederick purchased for fifty cents an acre half a hundred acres of land ten miles south-east of Lancaster, near the place of which he had told Jane. A "House-raising" was held and a house, kitchen, and stables were begun with the help of neighbors and relatives. As customary, the men helped with the building, the women cooked food to feed the hungry laborers, and the young men and girls made good use of the opportunity to do some extra "courting." There was considerable airing of political views, farm problems and gossip. All in all it was very successful, for with a few more days of work the buildings would be ready for the bride and groom and their possessions.

The little house, made of planks instead of logs, had only two rooms in it. One was the bedroom and the other Frederick's store and work-shop. A front door opened into the store while a back door opened from the bedroom. A chimney stood between with a fireplace in each room. The kitchen was a separate building connected with the house by a covered way. Katherine "spared" some of her furniture. Frederick utilized the help of Billy, Frank and Samuel in making other things that were needed. There were several ladderback chairs, three tables, a bed, a chest, a rocker, a wash stand and a high boy. Brought down from Katherine's attic were cards, a spinning wheel, a reel and a loom.

Frederick bargained for a cow, another horse and a pig from one of the farmers, to be delivered as soon as he was married. He found, on his own small farm, white oak for splits and soon had a supply of baskets for his store. His other goods he arranged for through Jack Adams in Lancaster through the influence and backing of Will Plemmons. He bought them partly on credit with the understanding that he would pay for them as they were sold and, if necessary, could wait a year to pay. He gave a note to that effect.

In the middle of October George went with Frederick to The Orchards in the spring wagon which had been bought to facilitate moving into the new home, and for Frederick's use later. Monday and Tuesday were spent moving the household furnishings and getting them set in place. On Wednesday morning Cynthia and Frederick were married. The Thompsons and Carpenters came up from Camden in Mr. Mathis' surrey. Billy and Anne were there, and two dozen young men and women who had gone to so many sociables with the Love girls. The sitting room was decorated with octobers and golden candlesticks (chrysanthemums and marigolds.) The young couple stood before the fireplace to which the Reverend Carey had his back turned. Jane stood beside Cynthia and George beside Frederick.

Cynthia was lovely in a blue alpaca, spun, woven and sewed by Katherine's own hands and dyed with indigo. It had a high waistline with a low, square neck filled in with a tucked white vestee topped by a high white collar. The sleeves were full at the shoulders but narrow from the elbow to the wrist. The skirt was long and narrow with five bands of self material at the bottom.

Katherine and Adeline sobbed softly into their handkerchiefs. Samuel surreptitiously wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. Looking at them, George had some somber thoughts: I'm never going to get married, it makes others suffer too much. Beyond Cynthia and Frederick he met Jane's eyes, luminous with something he could not fathom. It came to him with a shock: she's going to be left at home alone except for Mr. Sam and Mother Love. She'll miss Cynthia more than anybody. I'll have to try and keep her from being lonesome.

After the ceremony came the "infair." Cooking had been going on for days in getting ready for it. Two tables were placed end to end in the kitchen and the food loaded on them until there was room for no more. There was roast turkey, fried ham, chicken dumplings, okra soup, fish stew, apple pie, pumpkin pudding and molasses-nut cake; also plenty of cider for those who wanted it. When everybody had feasted to repletion Cynthia and Frederick got into the spring wagon to begin the journey of several hours to their new home. The wagon was pulled by Frederick's mount and Cynthia's new horse, a gift from her father. They were only beginning to move out of the yard when the sound of cow bells was heard. Frederick stopped the horses, fearing a cow must be in the carriage lane. He got down to investigate. With a crimson face Cynthia directed him to look under the wagon. He found cowbells, old shoes, broken plows and bent, handleless hoes fastened to the axles. He looked at her helplessly while the crowd roared with laughter. Cynthia laughed, too, and advised, "Leave them alone and let's go." When he got back into the wagon she whispered, "We'll stop up the road out of sight and take them off. Right now, let's just look back and laugh and wave good-bye."

XIV

Cynthia had not been pampered at home. She learned to do all the things her mother did at home; cook, spin, weave, sew and a little gardening. But she had never known a life without a darkey to do what she did not want to do. And now began for her a new kind of life. Here in her own home she had to do everything.

Frederick had known nothing but hard work all his life. His childhood in his father's home had conditioned him to expect the women in the hone to do all the housework. He began his married life by leaving everything in the house to Cynthia, Ile made his baskets and tended his store, Sometimes he went out among the small farmers and the plantation owners to make new friends to be sure they knew about his store. Occasionally he made trips to Lancaster to replenish his stock. And he prospered. His genial nature made friends for him, and his fair dealing brought customers to his store.

At first Cynthia was happy. She had a chance to play house. Almost everything was new and not much trouble to keep clean. She had a husband who was sweet and considerate in every way except that it newer occurred to him to lend het a hand with any work she had to do. She did not notice this at first since there was so little to do. She had visions of a rapid ascent to unlimited heights of grandeur, first a darkey to help her with her work, then a larger house, more darkies, a plantation, social life with herself an important participant, Frederick being elected to public office, both of them standing on their portico             surrounded by their happy servants.

Winter came on and gradually Cynthia's work increased. She had to see that the fires were kept going. Her hands became red and rough from taking out ashes, making soap and washing dirty clothes. She began to gather grievances. She had not bargained for such a life as this. Frederick should help her with the work. Winter gave way to spring and farmers came and went, buying supplies, mostly on credit. She collected another grievance; the store should be separate from the house. The hot weather finished their romance in Cynthia's mind. He worked all the time; she worked all the time; at night they were too tired to even talk. This certainly was not the kind of life he had promised her. When he came in to dinner one day he found her dressed in the trim grey cotton she had worn to entertain him on the evening before they were married.

"Heigho!" he exclaimed, "You look mighty pretty. Goin' somewhere?"

Cynthia's cheeks flamed. "I want you to take me home this evening."

"Take you home? Why?"

"Because I want to go visit for a spell."

"I can't spare the time right now. Farmers come in every day for one thing and another; plows, ropes, well buckets. Now is the time for me to git settled in my trade if I'm ever going to. Folks got to learn they can depend on me to be here when they need something and that I'll have what they want."

"And I suppose you expect me to be here all the time, too!"

"Certainly. You're my wife."

"That don't mean I got to stay here the rest of my natural. life. I aint set foot off this place but mighty few times since I come here. I've not been used to that kind of life. I always had lots a company and done lots a visitin'. I'm lonesome and I want to go home for a while."

Frederick had not heard Cynthia talk like this before. He had thought that she was as elementally satisfied as he was. He spoke in a. bewildered way.

"But, Cynthia, this is your home; besides I need you."

"What for?"

"Why to cook and keep house for me."

"I thought so! You want to make a slave outa me stead of buyin' one. Well, I won't let you. I'm sick and tired of working hard all day long then have you come in here and eat what I cooked and then set down and watch me wash the dishes. All winter I got up every morning and got the fire going while you lay in bed warm and comfortable."

"I was sick then. I had a hurtin' in my chest."

"Many's the time you set by the fire while I went out and got wood to keep it going."

"I cut the wood for you."

"You better had. I never cut a stick of wood in my life. And now all day long you stand around in your store while I cook and sew and scrub and wash and iron and hoe the garden."

"That's women's work. Men aint supposed to do women's work."

"Then git some darkies to help me."

"You know I don't believe in slavery."

"This aint the kind of life you promised me when you asked me to marry you. You said we'd be rich, and have a fine home, and be a power in the county. And just look at us now. 'Stead of having servants you believe in working your wife to death."

In spite of his shock he approached her solicitously, "Don't you feel good?"

"Of course I feel good," she snapped. "But I'm tired of working all the time and doing the same things over and over. I want to go home and see Mama and Papa and Jane and have somebody do something for me sometime."

He folded his arms and looked at her stolidly. "I can't spare the time right now. If you wait 'til laying-by time we can both go and spend a few days. You could have a. better time because people wouldn't be so busy and could visit more."

"I don't want to wait. Set down and eat your dinner; then I want you to hitch up the wagon and take me home. If you don't I'll ride my horse and go by myself."

Bewildered as he was, a threat was intolerable to Frederick. He sat down and ate in silence, then returned to his store. A customer came in and took up his time for a while. Afterward, when he was alone, he began to think of the scene with Cynthia. He was more than puzzled as he recalled what she had said.

He had not lived up to his promises . . . but a woman should not expect a man to get rich in a day or a year. He had made her work too hard . . . a wife was expected to work by the side of her husband while they made a living and built up their fortunes. He did not help her with her work . . . a husband should not have to help the wife with her work; he did his, she did hers.

Then he remembered what she had said about buying a slave. Will Plemmons bad said he ought to do that, but Frederick had been firm in his refusal to own slaves. He would not admit even to himself that he did not know how to handle them. Nothing in. his previous life had prepared him for the mixture of cruelty and kindness that seemed to be necessary in dealing with the Negro slave.

All at once he realized that he was thinking wholly of how he thought things should be. In his mother's home he had not been required to help in the house. His work had been in the shop and on the farm. But his mother had been older than Cynthia and more practiced in housekeeping. Cynthia was a different person, hers was a different house; he ought not to expect her to be like his mother. Indeed he should not expect her to work harder here than she had done in her father's house. A man should be ashamed to bring his wife to a harder life than she had at home. He must help her.

He came to his feet, scattering splits and unfinished baskets as he resolved to make his peace with Cynthia right than. He would ask her co bear with him as he tried to break loose from his old way of living and to help him work with her in starting a new way of life together. He went into the bedroom and called her. She did not answer. He went out and into the kitchen. She wasn't there. He went down to the spring, calling as he went, then back to the garden and up by the stables. He saw that Cynthia's horse was gone.

She had carried out her threat and was on her way to The Orchards, alone! A chill of fear came over him, fear that she might not be safe, that she had left him altogether. An impulse came to saddle the other horse and follow her. Then his native stubbornness returned . . . She is a capable, fearless woman . . . She will be safe . . . She went of her own accord, let her come back when she is ready . . . If she can get along without me I can get along without her. He returned to his baskets, but his anxiety would not let him work. At length he saddled his horse and rode hard until he came in sight of Cynthia. He followed just beyond her view until he saw her received at home, then turned and rode quickly back to find a customer waiting on his doorstep.

Cynthia was welcomed at home by a busy household. Jane was in Camden with Adeline who was ailing. Katherine was working with the wool which had only recently been sheared; she was carding, spinning and dyeing it in preparation for making winter clothes. All the darkies were in the cotton fields from sun-up to sun-down, except for the plowhands who were cultivating the corn. Samuel was everywhere at once, over-seeing, lending a hand with the work. He took time to pinch her cheek and tease a bit.

"How does it feel to be an old married woman?"

Having time alone gave Cynthia a chance to think and re-evaluate the grievances she had been accumulating during the months. She found that the household had moved on without her; that while her place had not been taken by any other, still she did not seem to have been greatly missed. No one came to call because everyone was busy. Frederick was right; this was the worst possible time for a visit. She stayed for the weekend, telling herself Frederick would come for her on Sunday. And when he did not come she was surprised.

On Monday morning, as Cynthia was helping with the wash, Katherine began to ask questions. "I thought Frederick might come yesterday. What's he doing that's keeping him so busy?"

"It's the store. He can't leave it while the crops are growing. Somebody might need a plow or a. hoe."

"I guess he misses you a good 'eal."

"I hope so!" Cynthia countered sharply.

"Why did you leave him by hisself, then?"

Cynthia colored, but said nothing.

"You and Frederick gittin' along all right, aint you?"

"Oh, Mama!" Cynthia burst out as if ready to speak her mind about her husband, then thought better of it and answered more calmly, "Of course we're gittin' along all right. I just wanted to come home for a visit. Is there anything wrong about that? Aint you glad to have me?"

"You know you'll always be welcome home, child. But I want you to be happy in your own home, too. I couldn't wish nothing better for you than to have you git along as good as me and your Pa."

"I know, Mama. We're happy, me and Frederick. He'll come for me soon as he has time. If he don't I'll go back the way I come."

When he didn't come she was piqued, then angry and finally alarmed. She began to understand that Frederick was not coming for her and if she went back she must go as she had come, alone and of her own volition. She began also to realize that a married woman out of her own home has no place at all, and that a home of any kind, however humble, with one's own man, is better than to live in another person's home. So, after another weekend had gone by, she asked her father to go a part of the way with her, and she went home.

Frederick came from the store to meet her with a glad smile lighting his face. "Howdy, Cynthia, howdy." He helped her from the horse and kissed her enthusiastically. Snapping the bridle rein over the hitching post, he took her bag in one hand and slipped the other under her arm. "Leave the mount 'til this customer goes and I'll stable him. Did you have a good visit? Be all the folks well? You look rested and pretty enough to bite."

Cynthia's face burned and her heart warmed as he walked her through the store and into the bedroom through a connecting door that he had cut while she was away. He put her bag on the table, carefully removed her bonnet and took her in his arms. The warmth of his caress made her glad she had come back and caused her to return the embrace with ardor.

"Cynthia, dear one," he murmured, holding her briefly, then putting her away. "It's not fair that I have a customer right now. But I will finish with him and speed him on his way. Then I will come back to you." At the door he paused to look at her again. "I'm glad you're back."

When Frederick had finished with his customer he took a moment to think; She's back, but only after she stayed nearly two weeks . . . I guess she thinks I been whooped enough and now I'll be good . . . I couldn't help showin' how glad I was to see her, but I aint gonna let her think she's got the upper hand or me . . . If I do she'll either keep my nose to the grindin'-stone from now on or make me wish I's dead . . . Managin' her is gonna take more doin' than anything else I ever had to do, but if I don't do it right now nothin' else is gonna be wuth a tinker's dam . . . I mean to make things easier for her, but I got to take it. slow and easy so she won't think I'm givin' in.

So he stayed in the store and worked for the rest of the afternoon, and sat on the kitchen steps and smoked his pipe while she washed the supper dishes. With iron control he talked of his plans for the fall as she lay beside him afterwards.

"I done pretty good with my store up to now. I paid most of what I owe in Lancaster. Folks around here owe me some and will owe a good ' al more by the time the cotton crop is sold. I'm thinking of helping them sell it. I might buy some of the bales and hire a wagon team to haul 'em to Camden. I could sell the cotton there or ship it down the Wateree to Charleston to go by boat to England. Course I'd hafta clare the way here first, but I could do that durin' layin'-by time, if had somebody to keep the store for me."

Cynthia stiffened.

"No you, honey. It's not fitten work for a woman. There is another way. I might jes' haul it straight to the factory."

"What factory?" Cynthia asked.

"That's right, you wasn't here when all the wagons went by."

"I don't care nothing about no old wagons."

"You will when I tell you. They was haulin' machinery from Charleston to Spartanburg County. They gonna start a factory up there."

"What they gonna make?"

"Cloth! Outa cotton!" he exclaimed.

"We can do that at home."

"Yes, but they can do it a lot faster in a factory. They been doin' it over in England for a long time. If they can do it over here I can buy it a lot cheaper and sell it in my store."

"Your store!" she exclaimed pettishly. "It's always your store! Everything is yours. Don't nothing belong to me?"

"Course it does," he answered soberly. "Everything I got is yours. I'm doin' all this so I can give you what I want you to have and I want you to have everything you want."

"When did you decide that?" she asked wickedly.

Knowing well what she meant, he answered with perfect truth, "When I asked you to marry me. I had to have somebody to make plans with and to work for before I could even start."

Remembrance of Jane rose in his mind unbidden, and fear of infidelity even in thought caused him to reach out for her. She snuggled in his arms.

"You're sweet, Frederick, and I'm glad to be back with you. I'm ashamed I run away and left you."

"That was dangerous, Cynthia. Something bad could a happened to you."

"You didn't seem much worried about me."

"You don't know, do you, that I followed you 'til I seen you go in your father's house."

"Did you, Frederick?"

"You must promise you won't never do that again."

"All right, dearie, I won't."

"I hate I made things hard for you, Cynthia. I didn't know. And I didn't think being married now might be different from what it was in my Mother's house. I do think if a man and a woman are gonna have a life together it oughta be share and share alike. I was doing my part as I seen it. I never knowed you was finding your part hard. If you will help me with mine I'll help you with your'n."

Cynthia yawned contentedly. "Course, Frederick, we'll help one another. We'll make a heap o' money and have a fine life together."

By the time they reached their first anniversary the store was an establishment among the planters. All the bills were met and profit was on hand to star another year. A jubilant Frederick began a second building for his store and had his house ceiled. He went to Camden and through a firm there fifty dollars worth of goods from Charleston. They came by boat up the Wateree and were hauled to the store by Frederick in his wagon. Cash had to be sent for the goods. Frederick had the money, but he was afraid to risk it all in the mail at one time for fear it might be lost. So he tore his fifty dollar bill in half and sent one part to the company in Charleston. When the goods arrived and he received word that the half-bill had reached the consignee, he sent the other half.

Word came about the Hill Factory in Spartanburg County with six hundred spindles for manufacturing cotton into cloth.

"That means a market for cotton, and cloth for my store, and. more money for the people to spend with me," Frederick exulted.

"You're prouder of that store than you'd be if you had a son," Cynthia remarked. She was working with wool by the bedroom window.

"Maybe so and maybe not," Frederick answered. "I'm just proud of what I got."

"Just cause you aint got no son now is no sign you never will have one."

"I didn't say that," he began, but something in her tone made him turn and look at her, and the expression on her face brought him to her side.

"Cynthia!"

"Go away!" She pushed him aside. "Don't mess up my batts. I'm fixing to make you a pair of everyday pants."

"But, Cynthia, you said -"

"I never said nothing."

"But, Cynthia -"

"All right! All right! I think I'm in a family way."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you. I jes' found out myself."

"How do you know? Can you be sure?"

"I'm sure as a woman can be. Mama told me what to expect and I reckon I got all the signs,"

He pulled up a chair beside her, sat down and took the cards from her hands. "Cynthia, stop working for a minute and talk to me. Are you - how do you feel?"

She sighed, looking out the window which was open to let in the sunshine of an unusually mild late autumn day. "All right, I reckon. I been being pretty sick ever morning after breakfast, but it passes off. And I just feel, well, different, somehow, from any way I ever felt before. I can't help being a little scared,"

His hand caressed her shoulder. "Course you do, honey girl. That's natural. After all, you're only nineteen, I'll take you to see your mother if you want me to. Would you like that?"

She nodded and smiled at him with eyes suddenly misty.

"Here, now! None o' that," he expostulated. "Aint you glad you gonna have a son?"

"I'm glad if you're glad."

"Course I'm glad. Other folks have babies and I'd think they was something wrong with us if we didn't have none. I shan't know what to do with him, but shucks I can learn. What will we call him?"

"You pretty shore it's gonna be a boy, aint you?"

"Course he'll be a boy, the finest boy that ever was born in the world."

"We'd better call him Adam then," Cynthia laughed.

And from then on the coming child was spoken of as Adam.

From the visit to The Orchards Frederick brought back Jim and Teen. Jim split several cords of wood and slept over the stables. Teen helped Cynthia with everything she had to do, but particularly the sewing, and she slept in the kitchen. After a few weeks Samuel came for Jim, reporting that Silvy had run away. He had found her hiding in Billy's barn, unknown to him, had whipped her, tied her up in the wagon and was now on his way home.

Katherine came up in June for the birth of Cynthia's baby. The child which had been called Adam almost from the time of its conception, was a tiny, exquisite blond girl with Frederick's hair, and eyes blue like both parents. Frederick was so overcome by the miracle of fatherhood that he forget to be disappointed that she wasn't a boy and was as struttingly proud as if she had been Eve. She was named Martha Elizabeth for no reason except that, as Cynthia said, there was no one in the family by that name.101

XV

Samuel was beginning to have trouble with his darkies. Silvy had never been the same since Anne got married. She kept Old Mose constantly in hot water by alternately smiling and frowning at him. She flirted with Jim who was younger than she was, and that good-hearted fellow was often in despair. She had run away three times. She had had one husband who died; Samuel had tried several times to marry her to someone else, but she had defied him.

The last time he had threatened her. "If you don't marry the next husband I find for you I'll sell you down the river."

Jim saw the baleful look she gave Samuel and shuddered. He was more afraid of Silvy than he was in love with her.

The departure of Jonas had a great deal to do with the trouble Samuel was having. He had known how to handle the darkies, to cajole and coax them into work, to what degree to frighten or punish them. But he had at last achieved his greatest ambition, to own some acreage and a few darkies and settle himself on his own small farm. Mr. Barstow had finally been able to finance his move to Tennessee. Jonas had bought his land and had promised to lend a hand to Watts, whom he recommended to Samuel as overseer in his place; in return he expected help with his crops when the season should be pushing him. Watts, inexperienced and fearful for his authority, blustered and shouted and made a great show of force, and soon earned the enmity of most of the darkies. Samuel was rewarded with constant runaways which worried him so that he was sometimes unnecessarily harsh.

When the cotton crop had been marketed that fall of 1817, Cynthia and her little daughter came on a visit to The Orchards. Martha had not been in the house long before she had captivated everyone with her wide, toothless smiles. Cynthia wanted all the family to be together again, so she began trying to persuade them that they should all go to see Anne and Billy.

"We shouldn't all leave home at one time," Samuel protested. "Something might happen."

"Watts will be here," Cynthia reasoned, "And you can trust Jim, and Lije, and Rachel. They can help keep the others in line."

"Let's go, Papa," Jane urged. "We aint all been together in a long time. We better do it while we got a chance."

"What do you think, Kitty?" Samuel queried his wife.

"I think we might go on Sunday. You been here at home all fall and you need to git away. It won't be hard for Watts to keep up with the darkies on Sunday en they won't be scattered all over the place working."

Thus was it settled that they would all spend the day Sunday with Anne and Billy. They went early because the ride in the wagon took an hour or more.

Billy and Anne had prospered during the three years of their marriage. Billy had always been ambitious and was constantly doing something to improve his farm. Having no children as yet, he had added another room to his house, built a cabin and installed a colored family to help him with the cotton. While the women worked in the kitchen, Billy and Samuel walked over the fields.

"You done pretty good with your cotton this year, didn't you?" Samuel asked.

"I done better than last year. I changed my fields and didn't plant it in the same place as last year and I got a better crop," Billy answered.

"What did you plant in your old cotton patches?"

"Nothing. I let them lie out. I thought it'd be better for them to rest a year."

"Yes. Pretty good idee to let a field lie out now and agin. They git so they won't make nothing hardly when you work 'em year after year. But they mostly don't wear out in two years time."

"Uncle Sam, I believe this Hill factory they startin' over in Spartanburg County is gonna be a big help to us cotton farmers. I bet we could haul a load a cotton over there in two, three days. And we ought to git more money over there because they wouldn't have to pay shipping charges."

"Maybe so. Maybe so."

"It aint never been fair, the way we're treated about the tariff no how. We make the cotton and sell it to England. Then they make it into cloth and sell it back to us and we have to pay a tax on it when it is sent back over here. That raises the price for the factories up north, but it don't help us none down here and we're the ones who grow the cotton in the first place. It's not fair for the government to let one part of the country git rich while another part jis' barely gits by. It'll be different when we git to manufacturing cloth ourselves."

"Course you right, Billy, but it aint no use to git yo'self all worked up over it. That's been the case ever since Washington's time and it looks like it'll go on that a way."

"Yes, it'll go on 'til we git powerful enough to make 'em listen to us in Washington. When we can grow enough cotton to supply all the factories in England and up north and start some ouselves, then we can be independent and make Congress pay some attention to us. And then we can git some of the laws we want passed. I tell you, Uncle Sam, the South's gonna git more and more important. I expect to live to see the land divided into a few big plantations owned by planters with a lot o' slaves. The slaves will do all the work and the families of the planters will have time to do anything they want to do, have hunts, give big dinners, go into politics and help run the country."

"You sound like Cynthia."

"Well, we have the same idee, only hers is the woman's way of looking at it and mine's the man's."

"I'm afeard I don't see it like you do, Billy," Samuel said soberly. "I don't think slavery will last much longer in this country. There's too many people don't know how to treat human beings, when they git 'em in their power. It's a sinful thing and I believe some day there'll be a law passed that'll put a end to it. England's doing away with it now. She tried to git rid of it over here before we ever won our independence from her. And it's not 'lowed up north now. I expect to live to see it done away with down here, too."

"No, Uncle Sam, you're wrong and I'll tell you why. The way life is lived down here, we got to have slave labor. The white people don't work, not many of them, in the fields. The darkies work for us and we take care of them. It's a sort of you help me and I help you kind of life. The darkies couldn't live if they didn't have us to take care of them and we couldn't live if we didn't have them to work for us. The government'd be crazy to put a end to sich a arrangement as that. I 'spact to own a big plantation some day and have plenty of darkies to work it."

"I notice that the land on the plantation you got now is washing mighty bad," Samuel remarked dryly.

Billy came down out of the clouds with a figurative bump. "I meant to ask you about that. What can I do about it? Throw it out?"

"Don't believe I'd do that. Why don't you try terracing it? It's on a slope and a terrace about ever thirty, thirty-five yeard would catch the rain water and stop it from flowing across your field."

"George said he read somewheres it wouldn't wash as bad if I run my rows crooked. Then I could have bigger cotton patches."

Samuel shook his head. "No feller that takes time to write a book has got time to find out anything about farming."

Billy interrupted. "Look at all that smoke going up over there. Somebody's house must be on fire."

Samuel shaded his eyes and looked toward the south-east where a cloud of black smoke billowed into the sky. "That's about where my place is. I 'spect I better go home. You tell the women folks to git their things while I hitch the horses."

"I'll go with you."

"No, you stay with Anne. 'Taint safe to leave women folks by theirselves when there's darkies around."

The first hill they topped on the way home convinced them that it was some building at The Orchards which was burning. Samuel whipped up the horses and made what haste he could arriving to find, where his house had been, a heap of smoldering ashes and two ghostly chimneys standing stark and alone across the horizon. Watts came to meet the wagon and reached for the reins. His clothes were scorched and his face was red, streaked with black, showing signs of strain.

"What in the world happened, Watts?" Samuel uttered as they all sat and stared in disbelief at the ruins.

"I don't rightly know, sir ," the overseer answered in a frightened manner. "I rode over to Mr. Jonas' to see - to see him. I never meant to stay more'n a few minutes, I told Jim to keep his weather eye open and to come and git me if I was needed. I hadn't been there a half hour before he come. He had run ever step o' the way and was so near out o' breath all he could say was 'Mass Watt, come quick.' I took him up on the mule behind me and galloped home as fast as I could, but it was already burning bad before I got here."

"Didn't you try to put it out?"

"It wa'n't much use to try nothing, Mr. Love. I tried to git the niggers to go to the branch for water, but they's all so scared they didn't have half sense. Jim get some water, and I used up what was in the rain barrels, but it didn't do no good."

"Did you save anything?" Katherine asked.

"No, Ma'am. The south side was so hot I couldn't git close to it, and it was burning clear up to the hall I tried to go in one of the north winders, but the room was so full of smoke it near-bout put my eyes out."

"All my things burnt up!" Katherine's voice broke. "My pretty quilts, all the furniture Sam made for us to start housekeeping with, my ma's spinning wheel and loom! Aagh!"

Samuel had no heart to console her, Fie only patted her knee helplessly. Jane wept silently in sympathy, but Cynthia sat stiffly upright in anger.

"You got any notion how it started, Watts?" she questioned the overseer.

"No'm, I aint. Jim didn't have breath enough to tell me nothing at first and since I got here I aint had time to ask him no questions. And besides all the niggers is scared outa their senses now. 'Tain no use to ask 'em nothing."

"Where was it burning worst when you got here?"

"Well, Ma'am, the whole top was on fire when I first seen it, but the part about where ye' pa and ma's bedroom is fell in first."

"That's strange. Our fire went out last night and we didn't build it back this morning," Samuel remembered.

"We let ours go out before we left, too," Cynthia recollected. "The only fire we had was in the kitchen and that's still standing. I believe the fire was set by somebody, Papa."

Everyone looked at everyone else apprehensively. Out of the silence came Samuel's heavy voice.

"Watts, tell Jim to come and drive my women folks to Camden. Then send all the darkies to their cabins. Watch 'em all night long. Lock 'em in if you have to. If one of 'em set the house on fire he's liable to try to run away in the night. Tomor' when they've had time to git over their scare we'll talk to 'em." He got out of the wagon.

"Sam, I don't want to go without you," Katherine protested.

"Go ahead, Kitty. I'll be all right. We've still got the kitchen. I'll keep a fire going, and there's some old coats around somewheres I can use for covet. You can borry a bed and some cover from Adeline, and Frank can bring you home in a day or two. But Jane and Cynthia and the baby had better stay down there 'til. I can git a new house built."

"Maybe I'd better go home," Cynthia began doubtfully.

"No, Cynthia," Jane said quietly. "Let's just do what Papa says. You don't have room for all of us at your house and Papa can't spare somebody to take you home and somebody else to take us to Camden. When he can, maybe he'll send somebody to tell Frederick where you'll be."

" - and Anne, too," Katherine said.

Samuel and Watts were not able to get any information from the darkies. Either they knew nothing, or were too scared to tell what they knew. They rolled their eyes and whimpered and begged for mercy, insisting that they hadn't done anything. With help from his nieghbors, Samuel put up a building and furnished it with crude home-made furniture in a few weeks. It was a huge single room with two stories. Since the oaks in the yard were killed and the chimneys damaged by the heat, be put up one new chimney at one end of the building and located the whole between the kitchen and the orchard. Friends contributed furniture and cloth for clothing and bed covers. When Cynthia and Jane came back from Camden, Cynthia stayed two weeks longer to help weave cloth for hangings to separate the huge downstairs and upstairs sections into separate rooms.

About the time Cynthia left to go back home, Silvy and Mose came to Samuel for permission to marry. He thought it a queer match, but was relieved to have Silvy at last deciding on someone, even if it were only silly, palsied, old Mose. It was not long before the circuit rider came around and performed the rites.

Immediately Jim began acting queer. He lost his appetite, and with it soon went his strength. He silently hung around Watts or Samuel, only rolling his eyes when questioned. When he had to go somewhere alone he went quickly and furtively, dodging behind bushes and trees. At length he refused to go anywhere alone.

Samuel told him, "Jim, we're about out o' meal. Better take some corn to the mill this evening."

Jim whimpered, "I not feel lak goin', Massa. I got a misery in ma laig. Do, Massa, sen' Lije."

"Jim," Samuel said sternly, "there's nothing wrong with your leg. You been splitting and piling cord wood all morning and not said a word about feeling bad. Now when I want you to go somewheres you start complaining. In the name of common sense what's the matter with you?"

The Negro looked around fearfully. "Massa not sen' Jim off by heself. Jim wanna stay en he'll Massa. Massa sen' Lije."

It was hard to resist the big fellow's pleadings. He had always been faithful and now his fright was very evident.

"All right, Jim," Samuel agreed siddenly, then raising his voice, "Watts, see that Lije takes some corn to mill this evening; we need some meal." Then to the frightened Negro, "Now, Jim, you come in the house with me."

If Jim had been a dog his tail would have been dragging on the ground, but he followed Samuel, entreating, "You not whoop Jim, Massa, Jim not do nothing."

Samuel took him to the second floor. "Now, Jim, we up here where nobody can see us or hear us. I want you to tell me what's the matter with you. You been acting funny ever since Silvy got married, more'n three months ago. Do you he worrying cause Silvy didn't marry you?"

Jim stood with down cast eyes, hands working uneasily and feet shuffling.

Samuel went on, "You done lost your appetite and you losing your strength. Pretty soon you won't be no use to me and I'll have to sell you, if you don't tell me what's wrong. Speak up, boy, there's naught to be afeard of."

Jim looked up; he tried to speak, but his lips made no sound. At length he threw himself on the floor at Samuel's feet.

"Massa, don't let Mose put no spell on me! Don't let the ha'nts git me, Massa, please." And his voice died away in incoherent wailings.

Samuel stooped and put his hand on the black shoulder that was heaving. "Jim, git up and listen to me." Jim sat up on the floor. "Nothing is gonna happen to you. You can stay right with me and I will see that nobody puts any spell on you.             You can stay with me 'til you git over being scared o' the ha'nts. You understand me?"

A great shuddering sigh came from the depths of the huge black frame. "Yas, Massa," he said peacefully. "You not let Mose put no spell on me."

"Now, Jim, there ain't nothing more for you to be afeard of, so you can go ahead and tell me why Mose was going to put a spell on you."

"Yes, Massa. Silvy say she gonna ma'y up wid me do I sat de big house a fiah. I say Massa not lak me bu'n he house. Den big house bu'n. Den Silvy she ma'y up wid Mose. I ax Silvy, I say, shuffo you ma'y up wid Mose? Do he set de big house a fiah? Den Silvy, she low do I tell Massa dat, she make Mose put spell on me an' the ha'nts go' git me." He grinned confidently in Samuel's grim face. "Misery gone now, Massa. I not sick no mo'. I wuk now, Massa."

Samuel stood up with a look of terrible intent. "Jim, I'm gonna send you to Billy Thompson's with my women folks. Tell Billy to come down here and you stay there 'til he gits back. You understand?"

"Yas, Massa."

"Come on. I'll have Watts help you hitch up while I tell the women folks to git ready."

Soon an ominous quiet reigned over The Orchards. Lije had gone to the mill. Katherine and Jane were on their way to Billy's. Watts had gone for Jonas and his oldest son. The darkies were locked in their quarters. When Lije returned with the meal he found Samuel sitting on the kitchen steps with a plow line at his feet. Presently Watts came back with Jonas and young Albert Watts. He locked Lije in his cabin and they all sat down to wait until Billy came, which he did about dusk. They found something to eat after which Samuel told them what he had found out and what he meant to do.

"You can't hang Mose, Uncle Sam," Billy told him. "It's against the law. You'll have to take him to Lancaster and let them try him. The court will git him a lawyer and try him jes' like a white man."

Samuel replied firmly, "Nobody's gonna tell me what to do with my own niggers."

"Mr. Love, you better mind what Billy says," Jonas advised. "If you was to hang one of your darkies and they was to catch up with you, they'd do something to you. I heerd tell of a man who killed one of his'n by whooping him too hard and they put him in jail for seven year."

Samuel was impressed, but said, "Let's go talk to him anyhow."

They went to the cabin of Mose and Silvy. Samuel spoke sternly: "Mose, did you set fire to my house?"

Mose shrank into the farthest corner of the cabin and began to shriek, pointing a shaking, bony finger at Silvy. "She mek me do it! She mek me do it!"

Silvy sat in sullen silence, fear widening her eyes, but hate flaring there, also. Samuel turned on her.

"You wretch, you trifling hussy!"

She answered silkily, "You not bother Silvy, Marster. Silvy not do nothin'. Ole Mose, he foolish in de haid. He not know what he talkin' 'bout. Silvy tell Mose ha'nt git 'im do he set de big house a fiah."

Mose screamed, "She lie, Massa. She say she ma'y up wid me do I set de big house a fiah. She tell me what to do. I do jes lak she say. I crawl un de room whar Massa and Missus sleep, jes lak she say."

"You low-life things," Samuel shouted, "I'll kill you for this."

Billy touched his arm. "Uncle Sam, let me ask them some questions. Mose, why did Silvy want you to set the house afire?"

"Sh-sh-she-" the old man gasped, then held up trembling hands, finally getting his words out. "She be mad wid Massa all de time you be ma'ied, Marse Billy. Massa slap Silvy, she say - "

Silvy sprang at him and knocked him out of his chair. Samuel grabbed her and began to shake her.

"Is that so, gal? Speak! Is he telling the truth? Did you tell him to burn down my house because of what happened when Anne and Billy run away?"

Silvy was scared now. "Yas, Marster," she chattered. "You not hurt Silvy, please, Marster. Silvy got little slave for Marster." And she laid her hand on her abdomen and began to cry. 

"Better let her go, Mr. Love," Jonas said. "She looks like she's in a family way. Let's leave 'em be 'til morning, then somebody can take 'em to Lancaster."

"Better not leave 'em together," Billy said wisely. "She might choke him to death for telling on her."

Mose lay stunned on the floor where Silvy had knocked him, while Silvy herself was huddled on the bed, still crying. On the next day both of them were taken to Lancaster by Samuel and Jonas, and turned over to the authorities. They were tried and found guilty. Mose was hanged and Silvy was sentenced to be whipped as soon as her baby was weaned.

XVI

Cynthia's and Jane's visit to Camden during Samuel's trial by fire was provocative of interesting results. Cynthia lost no time in renewing old acquaintances. Her first visit was, of course, next door to the Carpenters. Susannah's lips were pursed as she let her in.

"Howdy, Cynthia," she spoke cordially, but inwardly She was scolding-- What are you comin' over here for? You know George has got over you. Now you come a trottin' tryin' to git him upset all over again. Why didn't you stay at home?

George, however, paid her scant attention. He rose as she entered and spoke courteously, but remained standing, without offering her a seat, until she went on into another room with Susannah. He did not even glance at Martha.

Cynthia next planned to leave Martha with Adeline and go with Jane to a quilting. Adeline complained.

"I can't git my work done if I have to give that baby as much attention as she's been gittin'."

"She don't need so much attention," Cynthia countered.

"She might cry."

"Let her cry. 'Twon't hurt her."

"I warrant you don't let her cry at home. I never could work with a squallin' young'un around."

"Aunt Lina, you don't mean to say you think Martha's spoiled?" Jane teased.

"If she is," Cynthia retorted, "she got that way after I brought her away from home. She certainly wasn't spoiled before, for I didn't have time to spoil her."

"Frederick spoils her," Jane reflected. "He thinks the sun rises and sets in her."

"George, don't pay no attention to her," Cynthia remarked. "I don't believe he likes children."

Adeline defended him. "You can't expect him to when he don't know nothing about them. He's a old bachelor."

Jane made a mischievous suggestion. "Let's leave Martha with him while we're out this evening."

Cynthia jumped at the chance. "Do you think she'd bother him?"

"I expect not," Adeline vouchsafed. "They're not very busy right now. Wes goes to The Tavern mighty nigh ever' day."

"I'll take her over," Jane offered.

"No, I'll take her," Cynthia offered. A woman never misses a chance to show herself off to a man whom she might have married but didn't. So, she bundled up Martha and was soon knocking on Wesley's shop door.

"I want to ask a favor of you," she said when the surprised George had let her in. "Me and Jane want to go to a quilting and Aunt Lina is too busy to 'tend to Martha. I want you to let her stay in here with you."

"Mis' Carpenter," he began doubtfully.

"She won't be no trouble. It's her nap time. Pull this chair over by the fire and I'll fix her in it so she won't roll out. If she cries just give her this sugar tit and she'll be all right. I won't be gone long. We not gonna stay for supper. We just want to see ever' body and visit for a spell. Bye-bye, Mama's itty bitty fweet baby." And with a wave of her hand she was gone.

Blankly George turned to look at the baby and found her wide blue eyes staring unblinkingly at him. He leaned over her. He thought: You look like him, and you look like her, too. I guess you're lucky to be born to them. Everybody says they're a good match. But, they're lucky, too, to have you. He reached out a tentative finger and touched her velvety cheek. She moved her head in an effort to get his finger in her mouth. Ah, you want to bite me, do you. And he began to tease her by putting his finger first on one side and the other side of her mouth, moving it quickly out of reach of the questing lips, until she began to kick and knock in exasperation. Then he placed his finger in one of the little waving fists. Instantly the tiny fingers gripped it firmly. He chucked her under the chin, tickled her and talked to her until she crowed with delight.

Suddenly she grew quite still, looking solemnly off into space, as if thinking some serious thought of the nebulous world she left when she came to this one. Then she brought her attention back to George, gave him a glorious smile, then began to kick and, presently, to whimper. He looked for the sugar tit and offered it to her. She spurned it and her whimper became a roar that brought Susannah to the shop door. George ruefully explained how he came to have the baby in his care and that for no reason at all she suddenly began crying.

"Cynthia might have brought her to me," Susannah complained truculently, turning up the child's skirts. "Just as I thought; she's wet. Did Cynthia bring any diapers? I'll warrant she didn't."

None were found. Susannah brought a piece of an old sheet and made the child comfortable, while George stood at the fireplace with his back turned. She started to take the baby with her, but George turned and spoke impulsively.

"Don't take her away, Mis' Carpenter. Let - let me hold her. Do you suppose I could?"

With an air of saying, just what that hussy wanted, Susannah put the little girl in his arms. And when Cynthia returned about dusk, she found Martha asleep in George's lap, holding lightly to one of his fingers while he watched her with a beatific expression.

"She smiles in her sleep," he whispered.

"That means she has a little bit of a sour stomach," and Cynthia reached to take her.

"Let me carry her for you."

So George walked home with Cynthia and was asked to stay to supper. Cynthia was going to hold the baby and talk to him by the fire in Frank's shop, but Adeline had other ideas. She sent Jane in to tell Cynthia to come help her. Frank had gone to deliver some baskets and had not yet returned. Martha roused, and George allowed Jane to take her when she began to cry. He sat and watched as she cuddled the baby, rocking gently and humming. She looked up at him and smiled.

"You know you make a mighty pretty picture, Jane."

"Why, George, what a nice compliment. I don't know when you've ever said anything so rice to me!"

"I mean it. You look so sweet. You'd make a charming mother."

She blushed, looked down and did not answer.

He continued. "I don't believe Fred and Cynthia realize how blest they are. A little child to love and to return your love, someone that belongs just to you, that could make up for the loss of anything else."

She glanced up into his earnest eyes, surprising there a questing, hopeful expression. He leaned forward, placing his hand on her arm.

He exclaimed, "Jane!"

At that moment Cynthia came to the door to announce supper, and what George meant to say was never said. After that George went over to the Thompsons every night until Samuel sent for Cynthia and Jane to come home. He took some part in the general conversation, but often sat quietly watching Martha. Occasionally he asked to held her. He was the child's most adoring slave. Cynthia was smugly triumphant, ignorant of the fact that George was just as satisfied with Jane as with her so long as Martha was there. Once when Cynthia spanked the child's hand because she held too tightly to her mother's hair, George abruptly excused himself and went home, saying he had some work to do.

When they left, his hardly won peace of mind went with them. He could no longer lose himself in reading. A remembered picture came between his eyes and his book, a picture of Jane holding Martha with the firelight making a halo of her hair and playing flatteringly over her slight form.

After two weeks of watching his loneliness, of seeing him sit around moodily staring into spare and dreaming over his work, Susannah suggested, "Why don't you go up to The Orchards Saturday, George? You aint been up there much since Cynthia got married."

"Do you think I ought to?" he asked, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "Mr. Ingram's saddle aint finished yet."

Wesley was listening and he, too, had noticed George's unwonted behavior.

"I can finish it. There aint much more to be done. Besides, it's not pushing."

George was greeted warmly by everyone at The Orchards. He seemed not to notice Cynthia's absence, inquiring at once about Martha.

"She's gone," Jane told him. "Fred come for them yesterday. He said six weeks away from home was long enough. He was afraid Martha would forgit him."

"Did she?"

"Well, yes, in a way. She didn't know him at first. She cried when he took her, but he showed her his new watch and she made friends with him right away."

"He ought to be mighty proud. She's sweet."

"She certainly took to you, George."

He laughed self-consciously. "They say there must be something good in a feller when children and dogs like him. All the dogs in Camden follow me when I go out, and Martha seemed to like me, so there must be at least a little bit of good in me."

Jane laughed, too. "You're just teasing, George. You know everybody likes you. Mama says, next to Papa, you're the finest man she knows."

"Mother Love!" he said musingly. "You don't know how many times I've wished she was my mother."

"We were all sorry when you quit coming up here."

"You're sweet to say so, Jane. I guess I was selfish to act like I did. You must have been as lonesome as I was. We could a helped each other."

To hide her amazement at these remarks from the usually silent George, Jane moved to a low stool by the fire. "I guess everybody needs somebody to talk to."

Yes," George assented eagerly, and dropped down to the floor beside her stool. "I reckon I never have talked to anybody. I just shut things up inside me and let them fester 'til I feel like the top of my head will bust."

"You don't need to do that, George. You got plenty of friends."

"Acquaintances, yes; friends, no. I don't know of anybody who really cares what I think or how I feel."

"You oughta be ashamed of yourself, George," Jane scolded. "There's Mis' Susie and Mr. Wes, You know they think a heap of you."

"Yes, I know they like me and they been awfully good to me, but I don't really belong to them. They just took me out of pity. Don't think I'm not proud they did. I'll never stop being thankful as long as I live, and I'll always do anything I can for them. But, I don't belong to them. They got each other. Mr. Frank and Mis' Lina got Billy. Fred and Cynthia. have Martha. I don't have anybody that belongs to me, and I never have had as far back as I can remember."

Jane's eyes filled with tears. Here was this man, who had been her idol since childhood, expressing a heart hunger which she had only faintly guessed and of which he had heretofore been inarticulate. She took his hand.

"George, all of us think the world of you. All you have to do is to open up the door to your heart and let us in. We'd take the place of the family you lost if only you'd let us. You shut us out."

"I guess I do, Jane." He squeezed her hand as if he'd never let it go. "I can't seem to help it. Too many things happened to me when I was so little I couldn't help myself. I guess I had it forced on me that I couldn't trust anybody. Now, I'd like to change all that, but I don't know how. That's why I stay by myself so much. I don't make friends. I can't help having a feeling I'm not wanted." He roused himself with an effort. "But, I'm not gonna talk about myself any more now. It's not good manners. Tell me about yourself. What you been doing since you got back home?"

Jane did not urge him. She seated herself on the settle and patted the place beside her, where George came to sit.

"You read so many books and know so much, I feel small and ignorant beside you. We don't have very many books, just the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress and Robinson Crusoe and a few like that. Where do you git the books you read?"

"I've read just about everything at the Academy. And Mr. Kershaw is awful good to let me borry his books. He gets them from the Library Society. He even took me down to talk to Mr. Blanding."

"What did you talk about?"

"Oh, politics, and religion, and slavery, things like that."

"What did you say about them?"

"About what?"

"About - well, about slavery?"

"I don't believe in it."

"You don't! Why?"

"There are lots of reasons. In the first place, the Bible says God created man in His own image and gave him dominion over the fish and the birds and the animals and over all the earth. Now, darkies are people, too, even though they are dark, so they must have been made in the image of God, same as white people. And nowhere does the Bible say man is to have dominion over man. Then, take the Declaration of Independence; it says all men are created equal and are entitled to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. It don't say white men, it just says men. That shows that in the thinking of the men that started off our country all men are alike in their rights. Does that mean that one man should have absolute power of life and death over another man? I don't think so."

"Do you think the government will do away with slavery?"

"No, I don't. It won't have to. I believe slavery is something that happened to us way back in the past, not only for convenience's sake, but also to satisfy the greed of some slave-traders for money. I believe the slave-owners right now would rather have the darkie free, let him live his own life, and hire him to work the cotton. Ever now and then you hear of some man freeing a slave, one with enough sense to take care of himself. I believe, if things go on as they are now, some day all slaves will be freed by their owners, quietly, a few at a time, until it will be a disgrace to own a slave."

"Then how will we manage abort the work?"

"It will be cheaper. Right now the cotton growers would make more money if if they would pay the darkie to do the work and let him take care of himself; he can be responsible for his own needs. Look at your Pa. He works harder taking care of his darkies than they work in his crops. It costs him more to keep slaves than it would cost to hire somebody to do the work. And look how much worry and trouble and extra work he has been put to lately. I bet he'd much rather not have slaves."

"Mama says if she had her way she'd sell ever one of them."

"That's just it. Life would be more satisfying if every man was just responsible for his own family. Even the darkies would be better satisfied. Look at Silvy and poor old Mose. They sure got fixed up messing in white folks' business.

Thus Jane adroitly led George into talking about himself, into expressing the thoughts that filled his mind when alone, or that came to him from his reading. Gradually she broke through the reserve that had shrouded his spirit for so long, and enabled him to speak with calmness, without that half-audible break in his voice, of the loneliness that had haunted him all the remembered days of his life. The more he talked the more he was able to forget himself and express a personality that was both forceful and charming.

This continued through the winter and the spring months that followed. George found himself spending every weekend at The Orchards, except those when Jane was at the Thompsons, where she began to visit more than she had done formerly. Only George was ignorant of what was happening. Katherine and Sam would smile delightedly at each other when they caught glances of mutual understanding passing between George and Jane. Jane herself almost held her breath for fear that this fragile hope, new-born in her heart, might die before it really came into existence.

An idea, foreign to any he had ever known, pleaded at the door of George's consciousness for admission. Susannah and Wesley saw the change Jane was bringing about in him and silently hoped it would find its proper fruition. He was a different person now from the one they had always known. He had become an entertaining conversationalist with a sparkling that amused without being barbed.

"Wonder why George don't ask Jane to marry him," Wesley mused aloud as spring waned into summer and fall approached and the young man still spent all his Sabbaths at The Orchards.

"I'll warrant be aint thought about it yet," Susannah hazarded.

"He must've. A feller wouldn't be spendin' that much time with a girl and her the only one without havin' some sort a notions in his head."

"Aw, George is so carried away with havin' somebody listen to him for the first time in his life he aint thought of nothin' else."

"He must be took up with the sound of his own voice," Wesley remarked with a chuckle.

"He'll think of it quick enough if it begins to look like somebody else is gonna git her," was Susannah's laughing rejoinder.

"Reckon he needs a little push to git him started."

Neither of them dreamed of how the push might come.

Fall left and winter came on, a severe one. It took work to keep wood enough for a warm fire. Snow was not unheard of in Camden, but came only in light flurries. This winter there came several inches of snow before Christmas. This was followed immediately by a cold rain which froze over the snow, leaving the ground dangerously slippery.

Susannah was subject to a migraine which sometimes caused her to be incapacitated for as much as thirty-six hours. When one of them came on Wesley worked with her tirelessly, covering her forehead with cold cloths, immersing her feet in hot water. George always stood by, concerned but helpless, ready to do anything he might be needed to do. He came in from The Orchards on Monday after the freeze on Sunday because traveling was dangerous and found Wesley trying to relieve Susannah of one of her headaches.

As soon as George came in Wesley left him with her and hurried out to get some laudanum. When he did net return they became alarmed and George went out to lock for him. He found him lying on the ice a few steps from the door. He was conscious, but very cold, and unable to get up. George got him to his feet and into the house.

When Susannah saw them coming in she forgot about her headache and got out of the bed to help George get Wesley into it. Hot bricks were wrapped in cloths and put to his sides and feet and he was given hot sage tea to drink. They could find no injuries and accepted Wesley's explanation that be had slipped on the ice and had nothing to hold on to help him get up. Susannah's headache had gone and she started dinner, leaving George with Wesley.

"Does your back hurt, Mr. Wes?" George inquired.

"My back's all right, he replied somewhat breathlessly. "It's not hurt no more then no other part of my body. George, I didn't tell Susie and I don't want you to tell her for she will worry. I didn't slip on the ice. I fell."

"What do you mean?" George was beginning to feel alarm.

"Something got wrong with my heart. It started beatin' fast and heavy. Then I got light-headed. Ever'thin' started goin' round and round and turned black. I tried to come back up the steps, but my knees give way and I fell. I didn't have breath enough to call you. I jes' had to lie there 'til you come out."

"Mr. Wes, that sounds like -   I'd better go get Dr. Milling."

"No, 'twon't do no good, I been ha'. in' these spells a right smart while. My heart is jes' givin' out, that's all. That's what you was goin' to say, wasn't it?"

"It's crazy for you to say that. You ought to have a doctor to tell you what's the matter with you and how to take care of yourself. You ought to let me go get him."

"Not now, George. It'd only scare Susie. Jes' let me be easy 'til the weather milds and then I'll go see him."

It was the first time George could remember Wesley being sick. He began to notice how thin and pale he was, how his hairline had receded far beyond his forehead and the deep lines from his nose to the corner of his mouth. He could tell that Susannah noticed these things, too. When she brought him his meals she sat with him while he ate, then patted and smoothed his hair and held on to his hand before leaving. There would be traces of tears on her cheeks.

Wesley was right. After a few days rest he was able to go to see Dr. Milling who confirmed that he had a heart condition, but by taking care of himself might live twenty more years. This reassured George as to the safety of his foster father, but set up a train of thought along a very different channel in his mind.

He had noticed the patience and willingness with which Susannah and Wesley took care of each other in sickness. He thought they must be bound together by a strong bond of affection. A life-long pattern of thought prompted him to place himself in such a situation. Who would care for him if he should get sick. He could not expect that Mis' Susie and Mr. Wes would always be around to take care of him. He really had no claim on them anyway. He had never pictured Cynthia in the role of ministering angel; she wasn't that kin. She belonged to Frederick now, anyway.

Unobtrusively Jane came into his thoughts. She seemed to fit perfectly into a mental picture of himself wracked on a bed of pain. She put wet clothes on his forehead, fed him soup she had made with her own hands, smoothed his hair, tucked the cover into place under his chin, and sat by his bedside holding his hand.

Thinking thus, he became quite excited as the possibility occurred to him that it might come true. All he had to do was ask Jane and she'd have to say either yes or no. The chance that she might say no made him suddenly go cold. He realized that he wanted the reality of this picture more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, not to be sick, but just to have Jane by his side forevermore. He was in a fever of impatience to put his fate to the test.

The longer he thought of her the more of her admirable qualities he recalled. He understood now how she had encouraged him to talk and thus to find his way in what had been a bewildering maze of ideas, and that her intelligent questions and perceptive comments had stimulated him. He knew he was happier in her company than at my other time. When they were apart he found himself storing up little incidents and tricks of expression to share with her later.

What a dunce I've been, he told himself, I've been in love with Jane for a whole year and I'm just finding it out!

Wesley's weakness kept George at home for two weekends, but he was able to go up to The Orchards shortly before Christmas. When he came away he had Jane's promise that she would marry him on the last day of the year, also Sam's and Katherine's blessings. Indeed Katherine had been so moved that, after she had kissed Jane, she folded George in her arms and whispered tearfully, "My son, my son! At last you are really going to he my son!"

"God bless you, Mother Love," he responded. "You are the realest Mother I know anything about."

  XVII

George and Jane were married, as planned, on the last day of the year 1818. Cynthia and Frederick, Anne and Billy, and two elderly couples from Camden came to The Orchards for the ceremony. Four of George's and Jane's young friends were asked to stand with them as waiters. Cynthia's wedding dress was taken up to fit Jane and helped to make her a very lovely bride.

Cynthia knew a moment of pique that George could give to another the devotion that been hers since childhood, but when she saw how Jane had changed him she was ashamed of herself. When he took Jane's hand and met her smile with a tender look, Cynthia sighed, remembering her own wedding. Frederick, too, felt a momentary pang that Jane could not have looked like that for him, then took his wife's hand and beamed at her.

Katherine shed a few tears at the marriage of her last child. Samuel tried to pat her consolingly on the shoulder, but, unable to see clearly through his own tears, brushed her nose instead. Susannah and Wesley were glowing with pride and happiness. Their boy, as they had of late begun to think of George, was not only going to be happy at last, but was bringing them a daughter, too. And perhaps later on there would be little ones, their nearest approach to grandchildren.

At home in the saddle shop on South Broad Street, Wesley said, "I'd better change the sign and make it read 'Carpenter and Catt' eh, George?"

"Then you'll be a partner, George," Jane exulted.

Wesley continued, "And maybe some day it will be 'Catt and Son'!"

Jane blushed and George put his arm around her saying, "It can't be too soon to suit me."

Their love was a singing thing. They were so manifestly happy it made everyone else joyous just to see them. George no longer froze when he heard Cynthia's name. He knew that he was loved by someone who belonged to him alone. If he sometimes fell into the old habit of reserve and withdrawal, gentle, persistent Jane banished it by persuading him to talk while she listened with her heart in her eyes. She lavished affection on him, making him know that he was so cherished that he could bare his soul to her.

Such a rare union of body and spirit needed no public caress to make itself known; it was in eery word and glance, in the very air around them. Observers felt humble in its presence. Susannah and Wesley were glad that his homeless heart had at last found sanctuary. Cynthia and Frederick grew a little uncertain as to the primary importance of ambition and success.

(Content yourselves, Cynthia and Frederick, with your common or garden variety of love. Seldom do two people mate who are both gifted with the qualities required for the extraordinary kind. When they do they pary for it in other ways. Those who have capacity for great happiness have also capacity for great suffering.)

Their happiness continued unmarred for a year. George whistled at his work. But many times during the day the whistle would stop abruptly and be followed presently by a soft laugh, after which Jane would emerge from the shop. Oftentimes hours after work were spent in planning the future around a possible child.

"You'll be sure to tell me as soon as you know, won't you, Jane?" George requested.

"Of course I will. Which do you want first, a boy or a girl?" as if she could give him whichever he desired.

"Either one. A little girl like you would be mighty nice. I can't help remembering how sweet Martha was last year."

Jane giggled, "In spite of the act that: you had to be made to look after her?"

" - And a little boy would be a let of pleasure. I'd like him to be a school master, I think."

"That's what you should have been."

"I didn't get enough education. But free schools are getting more common now. By the time he is ready to go to school maybe there'll be a chance to give him a good education, I'd like for him to go to the Academy." And he repeated his request. "You'll be sure to tell me as soon as you know, won't you?"

He asked this so many times that his eagerness at length worried Jane, for she was beginning to fear disappointment for him. Sensing this without words, as is the way with those who are very close, he ceased to ask. And then in the night she would hold him close and murmur endearments, trying to make up to him for some imagined lack in herself. He was just as tender, just as affectionate, assuring her that she was all he wanted in life because she had brought him all his real happiness.

On Sundays they went to church, for both of them had been doing this since childhood. The walk up Broad Street to Meeting was usually pleasant. Frequently there were lovely sunshiny days in winter when the weather was almost as warm outdoors as in. In summer the motley arrangement of the houses kept the landscape from being monotonous, while the surrounding flower beds provided a pleasant setting. Already the streets were being widened and paved with bricks or flat stones and trees were being planted, showing promise of the lovely town Camden was destined to become.

Once as they came away from the Sunday service a remark of a thoughtless young man carried to the ears of both of them: "Wonder when the Catts are gonna have some kittens."

Jane's bonnet hid her lowered face, but George could be seen to blush to the roots of his hair. His hands clenched into fists at his sides . . . What have I done, he asked himself; given to the only person who loves me a name that causes her to be insulted in public . . . ?

But to Jane he said nothing, not wishing to make the incident seem of any importance to her.

XVIII

Frederick's prosperity was steady. He kept his store well-stocked with goods from Lancaster, Camden and Charleston. He bought from Jack Black in Lancaster. His delight was to get in some new items and sell them to the farm families. He always had something to show to the customer and talk about after his purchases had been made and stored in his wagon. He did much business on credit, but his keen judgment kept him from making many mistakes in extending credit. While he had customers that paid cash, he had others whom he "carried" for about six months, during the season for cultivating the crops. These latter always paid up when they sold their cotton in the fall. He kept no record of their purchases, but carried their accounts in his amazing memory.

Harvest time meant as much to Frederick that it did to the planters. During pay-up time he came in each night to be with Cynthia as he counted his money and put it away. He told her who had paid and if his bill was fully settled. He calculated who might come in on the next day and if be might possibly pay all he owed. By December his accounts were usually settled. Then he began to revel in his year's earnings, to rest and visit and make plans for another year.

After five years his estate consisted of five hundred acres of land, His store was in a separate building and he had added two rooms to his house, all of which were ceiled, making a warm house where Cynthia was beginning to entertain on a small scale.

An out-building was added to shelter a carriage he had bought for Cynthia. He had never been convinced that he should buy slaves, though Billy often urged him to and quizzed him as to the wisdom of owning so much land if he were not going to farm.

To this Frederick always replied, "I like land. I want to own a lot of it. I can use it  hunting when I get established."

Cynthia never lacked for help when she needed it. Frederick could always hire a slave from Dr. Morrison whose house stood on an estate about a mile southwest of Frederick's place which was now called Fredericksburg. Frederick could mount his horse, take another with him and have the darkey at his home within a few minutes. There was Eli to drive for Cynthia, or Ren to take care of Martha, or Sukey to help with the annual accumulation of carding, spinning, dyeing, weaving and sewing. When Cynthia wanted to go spend the day with Katherine or Anne or some neighbor, she would take Ren along in the carriage to look after Martha. When she went to The Orchards for a longer visit Eli went along to bring the carriage back. Then either he or Frederick would go for her when the visit was over.

Early in 1820 she decided she wanted to make a visit of a week and took Ren along to look after the baby while she did the driving herself. She visited Anne first and discovered they shared a common secret, for each one was pregnant.

"Wouldn't it be funny," Anne laughed, "if Jane is that way, too."

Cynthia tossed her head. "Jane and George don't need a baby. They're satisfied with each other. I'm going down to see them before I go back home. Fred won't let me go anywhere after I start showing."

"I'd be ashamed to," Anne exclaimed. "Why I wouldn't think of showing my face outside my own house!"

Cynthia came back from her visit to Camden full of envy of Jane and half angry at Frederick . . . Why can't Fred be as good to me as George is to Jane, she scolded to herself. Why you'd think Jane was made of gold and fine as the queen of England, the way he treats her. And he don't just call her by her name; he says "my love" every time he speaks to her . . . Cynthia did not realize that Jane was envious of her being able to give her husband two children while she herself could give George none at all.

Martha was still the darling of everyone, though cherubic now only in looks; while her wings were growing shorter her horns were growing longer, so her mother said. She was rather small for her age, even as Frederick himself was not very tall, but she was lively and quick, never walking but running everywhere in the long full skirts in which Cynthia dressed her.

On the last day of their visit she grew fretful and complained, "Mama, my legs hurt. Let's go home. I want Papa to rub them."

"I'll rub them for you," Katherine offered.

But she pulled away petulantly, "I want Papa to rub them."

"Martha, let Grandma rub your legs if they're hurting," Cynthia ordered.

The child pouted and resisted, and was spanked, after which she cried incessantly and could not be persuaded to stop until Cynthia took her in the carriage and started home. Then she went to sleep with her head in her mother's lap. At home Frederick came to meet them. He directed Ren to unhitch and put up the horse as he turned to greet his wife and take Martha.

He exclaimed quickly, "Why, Cynthia, this child is burning up!"

Martha stirred and whimpered. Cynthia came to feel the child's face. "She is hot! And her face is red. She complained of her legs hurtin' before we left Mama's. Let's take her in the house and maybe you better go git the doctor."

Dr. Morrison was slightly amused at them. He said it was something she ate that upset her, and when they'd had a dozen children they wouldn't worry so about a little fever, and he left them alone. Frederick was not reassured.

"Don't fret about her," Cynthia counseled. "It may not be nothin'. Mama says a baby can be very sick one day and perfectly well the next. She'll be all right tomorrow.

"If she aint I'm gonna git a doctor from Lancaster," Frederick declared.

Morning found Martha very hot to touch, fretting and refusing food. Sometimes she put hat hand down to her leg and cried. It took Frederick all day to get Dr.. Blackmon down from Lancaster, and then he seemed puzzled by Martha's condition. He spent the night and had Frederick take him back to Lancaster the next day to get medicine, which did net seem to help in an way except to cool her fever.

Martha was sick for more than a week. When the fever left her she remained very quiet, showing no desire to get up. Cynthia and Frederick were so relieved to have her poor little body lose its great heat that they did not notice her listlessness. They began to rest better themselves and tried to feed her back to health.

At length they decided it was time she should sit up. Cynthia wrapped her warmly, and Frederick held her in his arms by the fire. She moved her arms and talked a little, but kept her legs perfectly still. Frederick noticed this and tried to tickle her toes. He found them doubled back under the sole of the foot. Quickly unwrapping them, he found the arches grossly exaggerated and both feet misshapen.

"Cynthia!" he called in a choked voice. "Come and look at this child's feet."

Cynthia came. "See if you can straighten them, Fred."

"I'm tryin', but they won't move."

"Try harder."

He pulled on the toes with considerable force and Martha screamed, "Papa, don't! You hurt."

"See if she can walk." Cynthia spread a quilt on the floor.

Frederick held Martha down to it. "Try to walk for Papa, Martha, girl," he urged.

She drew her feet up under her and would not put them on the floor. "It hurts," she wailed.

"Try, Martha," Cynthia pleaded. "You aint even touched the floor yet. Put your feet down. It might not hurt."

Obediently she put them down, but only the heels and twisted toes rested on the quilt and the exaggerated arch remained. Frederick loosed his hold on her. She stood uncertainly, then wavered and whimpered. He caught her up and held her close in his arms, hiding her eyes so that she could not see the distress on his face. Cynthia wept unrestrained.

"Don't do that," he whispered, "you'll scare her. You take her and I'll go git Dr. Morrison. Maybe he'll know what to do."

Dr. Morrison talked very glibly. "It's a deformity which sometimes comes on after a high fever such as she has had. Evidently something has caused the ligaments which control the muscles to contract. She may outgrow it after a while. In the meantime she should be trying to walk. She may have forgotten how and have to learn all over again. Get her to try."

Frederick told of the previous experience, but at the doctor's insistence got Martha up again. At first she cried bitterly and wouldn't try.

"Don' give up ," the doctor insisted. "If you don't get her started soon she may never walk again."

At last they persuaded her to stand and take a few faltering steps while Dr. Morrison watched.

"It's just as I said," he repeated, "a deformity, a type known as clubfoot. It is bad, but it is better than not walking at all. As I said, she may outgrow it. Keep her trying to walk, a little longer every day, until she forgets about her feet and runs and plays like other children."

When Dr. Morrison had gone, Cynthia left Martha with Frederick and went into the kitchen. Martha was soon asleep and Frederick went in search of Cynthia. He found her sitting at the kitchen table with her head buried in her out-flung arms.

"Oh, my baby!" she moaned. "My pretty little girl! She looked so much like an angel and now she's gonna be crippled! Oh, oh, oh, oh!"

Hearing Frederick come in, she waited for his comforting touch. When he did not come near her, she looked up resentfully, thinking . . . is he gonna leave me to bear this by myself? He was standing before the fire, his eyes turned unseeingly to the mantle, with tears pouring down cheeks, suffering wordlessly. They remained thus until Cynthia's self-control snapped and she began to sob aloud.

He whirled on her. "Don't do that, Cynthia! I can't stand it!"

"If you cared as much for me as George does for Jane you'd try to comfort me instead of hollerin' at me," she cried.

"I need comfort, too. She is my child as well as yours. If you cared as much for me as Jane does for George you wouldn't stay so far away from me."

"Oh! So you think Jane is better to George than I am to you! Well! I want you to know I could have had George if I'd a wanted him. And he'd a been a great sight better to me than you are."

"I've not been mean to you. I've been just as good to you as I know how to              I've built more rooms on the house for you, and had furniture made for them. I bought you a horse and buggy just for your own use. I hire a darkey to help you when you need it. I buy you everything you ask for. What more can I do? What more can I buy for you?"

"Money is all you think of, all you talk about! Money's not everything. You might show you care a little bit for me--like George does Jane. I don't believe you love me at all."

"Time was," he said heavily, "when you seemed to think money was just about everything. I seem to remember one time when you complained that I wasn't making money as fast as I had promised and Wasn't giving you everything you wanted, like a bigger house and a servant, and a chance to visit and have company. Well, you're gittin' your wish now, and you're still not satisfied. And you never seemed to care much whether I loved you or not."

"Fred!" Cynthia squealed. "How can you talk to me like that when my child is lying in bed a helpless cripple. And it's all your fault. You didn't git a fit doctor to her soon enough. Depending on Dr. Morrison! He's such a sorry doctor he has to teach school to make a living!"

"Dr. Morrison is all right. He knowed as much about Martha's case as Dr. Blackmon did. Everybody around here has him. He teaches school because there aint enough doctoring to keep him busy. About it being my fault Martha can't walk, didn't you tell me you spanked her for crying to come home so I could rub her legs?"

Cynthia screamed as if he had struck her. "You don't love me and you never did. You must have been in love with Jane. I wish I was dead. What have I ever done to deserve this?" And she sobbed endlessly.

An icy hand seemed laid on Frederick's heart. For a moment he wondered what Cynthia would say if he told her she had guessed right. He knew how tender were the feelings of George and Jane for each other. He wished futilely that he and Cynthia could feel the same tenderness. But they didn't and they were in this together. They must try to salvage something from their relationship. If she wouldn't try, then he must. With a sigh he turned and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Girl, don't take on like that. Course I love you. Ever'boy don't love in the same way. I can't act like George any more'n you can act like Jane, cause we not made that way. But I believe I can do some things George can't do. He never will give Jane a fine way of life out of that saddle shoe of his. But I expect to give you ever'thing you want jes' like we said when we got married. You got to choose what you want. You said you had a chance at George, but you took me. There must a been a reason. Maybe it was 'cause you thought I could give you the things you wanted. If that's so, then don't go wishin' you could have what George could give you, too. You can give me something Jane can't. They want children end can't have them. But we got one and gonna have another. We oughtn't to quarrel because our little girl can't walk like other children. At least we still got her. George and Jane proberly wouldn't even mind having a cripple, jes' so they could have a baby."

Cynthia rose and washed her ace in the wash pan. "You'd better go back to Martha. I'll fix her something to eat. We have to take good care of her."

Frederick came to rest hie hand on her shoulder. "And we gotta take good care of you, too. We want you and him, both to be safe."

She smiled wanly. "Another Adam, Fred?"

An answering smile touched only his lips. "I hope so," he said and was gone to Martha.

As he sat by her bed he looked into the chasm that was opening between him and Cynthia and did not like what he saw there. It was clear she had never cared deeply for him. Indeed it was doubtful if she could care deeply for anyone. She had married him, evidently, for the promise of success he seemed to hold out to her, for her ambition matched or exceeded his. But to be honest, hadn't she been second best to him? He had to have someone to work for to give meaning to his labors. He had thought they might make a worthwhile life together, perhaps even a happy one. Now that happiness seemed to be dependent on his ability to make money. If he did not do that, there would be nothing for him and Cynthia. That must mean continuous hard work and giving Cynthia her way as much as he could. He must find his greatest joy in his children.

At this point his thoughts returned to Martha. She was sleeping and looked lovely and healthy. He uncovered her feet and looked long at them. If there were anything that could be done for her he must do it. During the following week he brought Dr. Blackmon down from Lancaster again, but his verdict only confirmed that of Dr. Morrison. As the days went by the child improved, but her feet remained the same. Frederick was very gentle and tender with her, satisfying her every wish, and she repaid him with adoration.

But there was no prouder father in all South Carolina than Frederick Klemminger when in July a son was born to him and Cynthia. He wrote letters to his mother and brother in Cabarrus County, North Carolina. From Charleston he ordered cloth that had been woven in England for a dress for Cynthia and included with it an order for every kind of toy that could be found.

"You seem to be very proud of your boy," Cynthia remarked from her pillow.

"I am proud of him! And why shouldn't I be? As fer as I care, he's the only boy that's ever been born."

"Maybe we'd better call him Adam then," she suggested, smoothing the child's dark hair where his head lay on her arm. She then continued as though it were an afterthought, "How would you like to call him by the name of my little brother that got drownded?"

Frederick leaned over to watch him open his eyes, dig his fists into them and yawn prodigiously. "I don't care what you call him. I know whatever name he goes by he'll do it proud. Course I'd like to have one named for me, but there's plenty of time for that."

"Humph! You're pretty shore of yourself, aint you?"

He pinched her cheek. "You look mighty pretty yourself. Bein' a mother agrees with you. You oughtn't to mind havin' a big family if it makes you look like that. Remember we're goin' to build a town around this store of mine. It'll be a big help to have a lot of Klemmingers livin' here, make the place grow. I might call it Robertaville instead of Fredericksburg and let young Robert here have my store soon as he's old enough to run it. Then I'll build another'n right side of it, a different kind, and that will be the start of our town."

Shortly after the birth of Robert Adam Klemminger word was received that Selina, a tiny brunette maid, had come to bless the home of Billy and Anne Thompson. As the fathers of these two children prospered, their mothers could visit more often. And the little cousins spent many hours together. At home Robert was given his slightest desire until his wishes began to conflict with those of Martha and of anther little girl, Katherine Jane, who came along three years later.

XIX

Adeline was worried about Frank. He wasn't eating or sleeping very well. He was getting thin and was much more absent-minded than usual. For instance, she asked him only this morning to see about getting some meal because they were about out and he had forgotten about it. Now she didn't have enough to last until tomorrow. She would just have to send him over to borrow some from Susannah. Maybe that would teach him to remember.

Franklin went to the shop door and had his knock answered by George who was mortising and had to lay his work down.

"Come in," he invited.

"Howdy, George," He sank wearily into the chair George indicated.

"Don't you feel good, Mr. Frank?"

"I feel pretty good for a old man," with a feeble attempt at a joke.

"Pshaw, you're not an old man. But you do look worried. What's the matter?"

"You know when Billy left home I took Fred in with me. The only reason I took him was so Billy could go learn to be a farmer like he wanted to. When Fred got ready to leave he didn't say a thing to me about it. He just left me to git along the best I could. 'Course I didn't 'spect him to stay with me all his life. Up to then ever'body had been comin' to me fer their baskets, but when he left me I couldn't make 'em fast enough. So the people started goin' to somebody else. Now my trade has fell off so I don't git enough to keep me busy. And I'm not makin' no money. I don't git enough to buy the things we need. Only this mornin' Lina told me to have some corn ground for meal. Well, I had a order fer a basket, but I had rheumatism so bad in my hand I couldn't finish it, so I didn't git the meal. I let her think I forgot it and she's sent me over here to borry some. I'll finish the basket termor and I'll git some meal. You reckon Susie can let me have some?"

"Mr. Frank, I'm awful sorry! I -."

" Mind, I aint complainin'. I'll git along. I jes' got a little rheumatism in my fingers. When they git better I can work faster ad we'll be all right."

"You ought to tell Billy. He'd help you."

"I don't want to bother him, leastways not 'til I git where I can't help myself. He'll have to take care of me and his ma soon enough."

"I wish I knowed how to make baskets. I'd - "

"Here, now, none o' that. I tell you I'll be all right soon as the rheumatism gits outa my fingers. You gat enough on you. Why, Wes Carpenter's older'n I am. You'll have to take care of him before I'll need takin' keer of. But, here I set talkin'. Let me go see 'bout that meal. Lina'll think I got lost."

George went with him to find Susannah, then came back to his neglected mortising. He had to start over. In the midst of it Jane came in. She put her hand over his eyes and said, "Guess who?"

"Don't, Jane," He put her hands away. "I'm doing something I can't stop right now."

She desisted and walked around the shop inspecting, piling up pieces of wood and shavings.

"Is that Castelo's saddle?"

"Yes."

"Bout got it finished?"

"No."

"Got another order when you finish it?"

"Yes."

"Whose?"

Silence. She started to repeat her question, then noticed his frown of concentration. He seemed oblivious to her presence. Silently she stole away. Completing the mortising, he went into the bedroom to clean his hands at the washstand. Jane was lying across the bed sobbing. He lay beside her.

"What's the matter, hon?"

She sniffed a few times, then burrowed her head into his shoulder and murmured, "I wanta go home."

He smoothed her hair from her damp face. "You are at home."

"I mean I wanna go see Mama."

"Of course you can go see Mother Love any time you want to. Was you crying cause you thought I wouldn't let you go?" He smiled at her teasingly.

She wrinkled her nose at him and sat up, pulling him to get up beside her.

"You love me, George?"

He put his finger under her chin and raised her face. "More than anybody else in the world. You know that and that's not what you're crying about."

"You've got so fer off lately, George, and so sort of still; I don't know where to find you."

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to. The good Lord seems to've made me the kind of body that takes up too much time thinkin' and lookin' back. I'd change if I could."

"A while ago I went in the shop to tell you something and you wouldn't even look at me."

"I know, Jane. I was mortising. I started it one time and had to lay it down when Mr. Frank come in. I had to start it over when he left. If I'd stopped when you come in I'd a had to start over again. I didn't think you'd care. When I got through you'd gone. You know, Jane, no matter what I do or how hard I'm looking at it, I never really forget you, not even when I'm asleep." He pulled her curly head to his shoulder and cuddled it there like a child's. "Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?"

She tweaked his ear, then rested her arm on his shoulder. "I believe your wish is gonna come true."

"Which one is that?"

"Do you have so many wishes you don't know what I mean?"

"I've got everything I want."

"Ever'thing, George?"

A shadow came and went in his eyes. "Ever'thing, Jane."

She giggled and pulled his ear again. "George, you funny little thing! There is somethin' you want and you gonna git it." She pulled his head down and whispered, "We're gonna have a baby."

He pushed her away ad looked at her unbelievingly. "Jane! Are you sure?"

She nodded.

"How long have you known?"

"I've been pretty certain for about a month."

"A month! Why didn't you tell me? You promised you would."

"I didn't want to git your hopes up and then disappoint you. I talked to Aunt Lina. She thinks it's so."

"You mean you told somebody else before you told me?"

"Don't be foolish, George, I had to talk to somebody who knows what to expect before I could be shore."

"Well, now, Jane, I don't see why you were crying. You ought to be happy. I'm very happy." They laughed together.

"It was just foolishness. I guess I wanted to tell you and you was too busy to listen, so I thought about Mama and got upset. I'm all right now."

"If you want to go home I'll take you Saturday. I think you ought to go see Mother Love at a time like this."

XX

Samuel and Katherine were very glad to see Jane and rejoiced that her long deferred hopes were at last going to be realized. The mother and daughter started on her sewing and spent a lot of time talking together. But Samuel had little time to spend rejoicing with his daughter over her approaching motherhood. The darkies were upset. There was talk going around about a slave insurrection in Charleston and the name of Denmark Vesey was whispered behind hands. It was reported that the insurrection was stopped by the confession of a faithful slave and had not spread much farther than the Santee River plantations, yet Samuel thought uneasily of the effects of such rumors reaching his darkies.

There were few signs of trouble, unless he counted the look of hatred in Silvy's eyes which had been there so long now that he had forgotten when she had looked any other way. He stayed with Watts, keeping all the darkies working together in a field so as to be able to watch them carefully. One morning he noticed great excitement among them as they hoed in the cotton. Watts was just as puzzled as Samuel. They questioned the darkies, but could get no information from them until they came to Jim. He seemed unwilling to talk with the eyes of all the others on him.

"Massa, watch," was all he would say.

The excitement continued for more than a week. The darkies were growing noticeably sullen and intractable. Also they were eating more than usual. Then Watts discovered a run-away slave hiding over the stables where the fodder was stored. He was being visited and fed by Samuel's darkies whom he was trying to incite to rebellion. Samuel could learn nothing from the man, nor from the darkies except that he answered to the name of Jake; so he sent a letter of advertisement to the newspaper in Charleston. Meanwhile Jake was kept locked in an unused cabin. Jim was designated to carry food to him. Several times Silvy was seen near the cabin talking to Jake through the window and was sent away. The sullenness among the darkies remained.

Katherine spoke about it to Samuel. "The reason the darkies are upset is because they think you ought to keep Jake. Silvy says if you'll do that she'll marry him and settle down and quit running away, and the others won't cause no more trouble."

This provoked Samuel into a rare burst of profanity. "It can't be done," he finished. "You know, even if Silvy don't, that I can't keep another man's property. And even if I wanted to, I already advertised in the paper."

Samuel made a strenuous effort to keep is Negros away from Jake, but it could not always be done. To counteract the slave's influence he and Watts talked to Jim and Lije, his two most dependable darkies, urging them to help keep the peace among the others and show that any trouble they might cause would result in trouble for themselves, whipping, confinement, being sold, or even hanged. They listened respectfully.

Jim said, "Massa, I ain' gwine do nothin'."

And his words were repeated by Lije who added, "Massa, sen' Jake back, a sen' Silvy 'way, darkies do bettah."

Jim repeated his warning, "Massa, watch." And Samuel understood that they were on his side, but were waiting for a time when less attention was concentrated on them before telling what they knew.

Then came a morning when it rained so that the darkies could not work and stayed in their cabins. On that afternoon Mr. Porcher came from the Santee River plantation for Jake. He identified him and said that he was hiding from the justice being meted out to Vesey's followers. Mr. Porcher fastened Jake's feet with a chain and secured it to a tree in the yard near the kitchen while he talked to Samuel. The darkies began to emerge, one at a time, from their cabins and approached the group under the tree. Jim and Lije circled and came around in front of Samuel. They tried to attract his attention, but he was listening to a vivid account of what had happened in Charleston.

Porcher was saying, "Vesey told the slaves that Congress had freed them and their masters were holding them against the law. He promised that they would murder their masters, rape their mistresses, burn all the houses down, seize the money and go to San Domingo to live in freedom and luxury the rest of their lives if they would join the revolt.

"He had a big organization with dozens of lieutenants and upwards of five thousand slaves promised to be in Charleston on the night of June sixteenth. They were to wait for the clock on St. Michael's church tower to strike midnight and then they were to start. But there was one loyal slave in his organization. He couldn't stand the thoughts of what was to happen and went and told his master just in time to keep Vesey from getting into the arsenal and seizing the guns to supply the Negroes. If it hadn't been for that one loyal Negro I hate to think what South Carolina would be like now."

"And are the slaves being punished?" Samuel asked.

"The trials are going on right now in Charleston. Around twenty of the leaders have already been hanged and others will be. Some have escaped, like Jake here, but they will be caught and - "

Just at that moment Silvy yelled, "Massa!"

Samuel whirled and saw the half circle of sullen, black faces around him.

"Go back to your cabins!" he ordered.

They shifted and muttered, but did not turn back.

Silvy spoke again, "Massa, you not send Jake back; you let him stay."

"Go back to your cabins!" Samuel shouted. "Watts, git your whip."

His turning to give this command seemed to be the signal for which they were waiting. Jake struck instantly at Samuel with a powerful fist, knocking him to the ground where he rolled over, struck his head against the stone pillar under the corner of the kitchen, and lay still. At the same instant two slaves seized Mr. Porcher and Silvy rushed to release Jake. Jim and Lije each grabbed a stick from the wood pile nearby and came down with them on the back. of any Negroes that got within their reach. Watts came running with his whip. Using it freely, he, with the help of Lije and Jim, rescued Mr. Porcher, drove the Negroes back to their cabins and locked them in. Silvy had not been able to release Jake, so he, too, was secured.

Katherine and Jane were in the house working with Rachel at carding and spinning. The shouts brought theme to the door. Katherine was the first to see Samuel lying by the kitchen, unconscious and bleeding. He was brought in and placed on a bed. Jim was sent to fetch Dr. Morrison and to tell Cynthia and Anne what had happened. Prolonged ringing of the farm bell summoned neighbors who helped with the chores and feeding of the imprisoned darkies. Samuel died about dawn without regaining consciousness.

George, Frank and Adeline came from Camden. Cynthia and Anne came with their families. Neighbors saw that everything was done that needed to be done, including preparing Samuel's body and laying him is his coffin across two chairs in the living room. The family stayed upstairs, but in the room where Samuel lay the neighbors came and went.

After her first wild burst of grief and terror, Katherine was calm, but it seemed a calmness of desperation. An odd, hard look gleamed in her eyes. Once she was heard to mutter, "They'll all go; yes, they'll go; they'll all go!"

Cynthia and Anne wept unrestrainedly. Billy and Frederick were stunned. But Jane was as if turned to stone. Only her eyes, large and brilliant, seemed alive. She neither cried, but mechanically did whatever she was told to do. Her eyes followed George wherever he went. At length he put his arms around her and talked to her about peaceful things, but she did not respond, only sighed and leaned against him. She went downstairs for the services, but when time came to go the family burying ground she objected to having the home-made coffin shut up and placed in the wagon.

"Don't take him yet," she begged piteously. "Let us keep him a while longer." She looked imploringly at George. "You got my doll back for me; can't you git my Papa back?"

"Oh, my dearest!" he cried brokenly. And the sight of his tears loosed the fountain of her grief. She wept until she collapsed and was put to bed. The funeral was completed without her. For many days Jane's awareness came and went on waves of pain. At times she was dimly aware of whispers and soft footsteps; at others of a deep, dark river which it seemed her father was trying to help her to cross. At length she awoke to a feeling of great weariness, of emptiness and loss. Sensing that she was not alone, too tired to open her eyes, she called.

"Papa!" wondering if she had succeeded in crossing the stream.

Instantly George was beside the bed, holding her hands and looking at her as if she had come back from the dead. His tears spilled over on the bed. He knelt and gathered her in his arms, whispering her name over and over.

"George, don't. I'm all right. You mustn't cry so, you'll make yourself sick." She lifted her hand in an effort to wipe away his tears, but could not raise it to his face. "How thin my arm is," she exclaimed. "I must have been sick. Did we lose our baby? We did, didn't we? And that's why you're crying."

That brought him up instantly. "Yes, Jane, we lost our baby, but - well, you were pretty sick, and I was worried real bad. But you're better now. You're going to be all right. Maybe we can have another baby, but where in the world would I get another Jane!"

"You like me better now than you do Cynthia?" she asked hungrily.

"What a question! Cynthia wasn't meant for me. I'd never have been able to be the great success it would take to make her satisfied. And if I couldn't make her happy I'd be miserable myself. The longer I live with you the more I know that we were made for each other. Have I made you happy, Jane?"

She closed her eyes and tears slipped down her cheeks. "I'm sorry we lost the baby," she whispered. "Was it a boy or girl?"

"I don't know. I didn't think to ask." He reached down and wiped away her tears with his finger. "Don't worry, Jane, we have each other."

"I want to sleep now, George, I'm tired." And her eyes closed almost instantly.

XXI

George stayed at The Orchards during Jane's recuperation. Now and then he went down to Camden to see if Wesley needed him and brought back pieces of work which he could finish away from the shop. During this time he and Katherine had many long talks and became closer than ever. Katherine confided that her dearest wish was to have him and Jane live with her.

"You know, George," she said, "since Robert's death Jane has been my baby. All three of my girls were sweet and very dear to me, but Jane was as near like an angel as mortal could be. I don't think I could have given her up to anyone but you. Do you think it might be that sometime you could coma and live with me? I'd leave ever'thing I have to you if you would."

George took her hands and held them gently, two work-hardened hands clinging to each other. "Mother Love, I owe you a good deal. I got only a way-off recollection of my own mother, bet it seems like she must a been like you. I've felt like your son ever since that first time I come to visit here. But what I owe Mr. Wes goes further back than that. I guess I wasn't even six years old when he took me in. He's getting old new end he's not well and he needs me. I wish I could come and stay with you, but I can't leave him, not now."

Katherine sighed deeply, "I know. But maybe someday?"

"Who knows? I got a feeling that sometime we may have to."

Anne and Cynthia went home to their families, but came back often as they could to comfort their mother and be comforted. When Jane was strong enough to walk around the house the girls held a consultation with their mother. They were naturally concerned about who would stay with Katherine and run the farm. They had few suggestions to make. They felt that one of them really should move back home, yet they knew that practically speaking it was out of the question. They finally quit talking and looked very anxious. So did Katherine.

She turned to George. "Son, what do you think we ought a do?"

"You know, Mother Love, I believe Jane's Uncle Frank and Aunt Line might come and live with you. Uncle Frank hasn't been doing very good with his baskets lately. He has rheumatism in his fingers and they hurt when he uses them. So he can't get his orders cut on time. He's lost a lot of customers and sometimes he can't make enough to buy what they need. He's been right worried about it for some time now. Aunt Una don't know about it."

The girls were so relieved at this suggestion they were instantly enthusiastic. They urged George to go at once to Camden and find out what their Uncle and Aunt would say about it. Frank and Adeline were, to say the least, surprised. So new an idea called for considerable thought and persuasion. But when Adeline learned of their financial circumstances she was convinced at once that they should go. She suggested that George and Jane rent their house, but George vetoed that.

"I've seen a pretty place a ways out of Camden where I'd like to build us a little house as soon as Mr. Wes thinks he can get along without us. It's in a grove of trees and there's a big house close by. I 'spect I can get a little bit of land from the man that owns it and make a pretty good living making saddles and doing a little farming."

When they spoke to Wesley about it he told of someone he had heard wanted to rent a place. "I'll send him to you," he promised.

Everyone was relieved when the final arrangements were made and Frank and Adeline had moved in at The Orchards.

"I don't know nothing about running a farm," Frank told Katherine, "but I reckon I can learn. If Billy could learn I oughta be as smart as the young'un I begot."

"Won't be many darkies for you to bother with," she answered. "I aim to sell ever' one that had any hand in the trouble."

The farm and all the property now belonged unconditionally to Katherine. She gave Adeline all the necessary instructions about running the household, then left her in the capable hands of Rachel who was very dependable. Katherine next turned her attention to the farm. knowing Samuel's methods as well as anyone, she undertook Frank's training herself. Billy was swelled up with pride over what he considered his father's promotion and came regularly to offer help and advice. Jonas, too, was very obliging for he had not forgotten Samuel's help in getting him started on his own small farm. Watts had married Jonas' daughter and was a more dependable overseer, now that he had settled down.

True to her word, Katherine sold some of the darkies. She resolved to grow less cotton and more grain, live stock and vegetables. She would even sell part of the land for she didn't have enough hands to work it. She sent for the trader and did the bargaining herself. Silvy vas the first to go. She was separated from her baby which was to go to another. Katherine could not help feeling guilty about that, but her heart hardened when she remembered that Samuel would still be alive if Silvy had not listened to Jake and incited the others to revolt. When time came to separate them Katherine could not go through with it and allowed the planter who was taking Silvy to take the baby, too, for a small additional amount.

Jim and Lije and Rachel she kept, and three of the young field hands who were vouched for by them. She promised to buy wives for them when the trader brought some likely young wenches. Lije and Rachel were married to each other. Jim was married to the mulatto, Cele, from Jones' farm. When the wives for the field hands came, the number workers was not too greatly diminished. However, to be sure that she wouldn't be handicapped, Katherine sent for Will Plemmons to sound him out on a price for a portion of her land. Plemmons hemmed and hawed, and finally suggested that he lend her money and take out a mortgage en her land. This she agreed to do if sin should need anything.

George had to go back to Camden before Jane was able to travel. She missed him sorely, but Cynthia came again to keep her company. She brought all three of her children. It seemed to Jane that it was grossly unfair for Cynthia to have three children when she herseIf didn't have any. She felt as if she had failed George very badly. She had heard someone say that if you lost the first child you could never carry another its full term.

However, she improved rapidly as time went by and was soon able to go home. Near the time of her former pregnancy she found herself again with child. Almost afraid to hope, she went at once to George with the news.

"I'm afraid for you," he said, more frightened, really, than he was willing to admit. "I should have slept in the attic."

"Why, George, don't you want a young'un?" she asked in surprise.

"Course I do, but not at the cost of," hesitated, "so much danger to you. Jane, you don't know how sick you were before."

Her eyes grew wide. "But what can we do?"

He put his arm protestingly around her. "Don't worry about it. I'll take you to the doctor. He can tell us what to do."

Dr. Hilling put her to bed until she should pass the time of her former miscarriage. She stayed there until August, then she was allowed to get up and soon to help with the house work. George was very careful of her. He not only feared the loss of the child, but even of Jane herself. She had been so near death's door before that he felt he must guard her in every possible way. He had to go to church alone now, or with Wesley or Susannah. Once he heard again the remark which had reached his and Jane's ears on a previous occasion.

"I hear tell the Catts are going to have a kitten."

George was surprised at the strength of the anger that swept over. him. His face burned. He clenched his hands in his pockets. He turned and stared ferociously at the one who made the remark until the man's face reddened and he moved away. But the next day he heard it repeated at Dinkins' Tavery. One man was telling a friend what happened at church the day before.

"He said - I thought it was pretty funny - the rascal - he said, 'That old Catt is going to have a kitten.'"

And both men slapped their knees and laughed heartily. Others, hearing the laughter, turned to find out what the joke was. It was repeated and soon everyone e, turned to find out what the joke was. It was repeated and soon everyone in the room was laughing. Then the teller felt himself collared and turned around to face a blazing-eyed George.

"Shut your damned dirty mouth!" George commanded through his clenched teeth.

"Oh, I say, now, Mr. Catt," sputtered the man, "I didn't mean no harm. I - I -"

"Shut up! How would you like to have your wife's name bandied about in a tavern, the butt of a filthy joke? Would you like it? Say, would you like it?" George was yelling now and shaking the man mightily.

Three men grabbed him and released the choking victim. George shook himself free of them.

"Leave me be. All of you were in it, every low-life one of you. I can't fight the whole of you. But let me tell you something. If I ever hear that stinking slur cast at my wife again from anybody I'll kill him. Do you hear me? I'll put him under the sod just as sure as his mother was a woman!" With that threat ringing in the ears of everyone, he marched from the room.

He reached home in half the time it usually took him. He kicked rocks out of his path, skinning the toe of his shoe, and broke a switch to flick heads off weeds along the street. Jane came to meet him. When she saw his face she questioned him, "George, what happened?"

He had been so absorbed in his anger he had not thought of its possible effect on Jane. Now he brought himself up short and looked at her anxiously. He made a mighty effort to get himself under control.

"Got to go to work now, Jane. Run along and be about your sewing."

He sat down at his bench and picked up a saddle tree. She came over, took it from his hand and sat down in its place.

"Tell me what happened."

"Oh, it's nothing. I stumped the toe of my shoe on a rock and it made me mad. Give me the tree and let me get to work."

She put the tree behind her. "No, not 'til you tell me the truth."

"But I am telling you the truth, see?" And he stuck out his shoe.

She did not even glance at it. "You looked like a thunderhead when you come in. You were so mad you were most out of breath. See, you're still breathing hard." And she touched his hand which trembled where it lay on his knee. "When you saw me you stared at me and then your face changed. You're trying to keep something from me, something you think'll worry me, and it's no use. It will worry me more if you don't tell me."

He looked at her helplessly and made one last effort. "Let's not talk about it now."

She made a shrewd guess. "Somebody has said something about the Catts again."

"Yes," he admitted wearily, "and I rather let myself go this time. Come on. If I've got to tell you about it I may as well tell Mr. Wes and Mis' Susie at the same time. Something's got to be done."

Keeping her close beside him so as to watch her, he told what had happened. He spared no details in repeating his threat.

"You oughtn't a said such things, George," Susannah scolded.

"Sayin' them aint so bad, just so he don't do 'em," Wesley put in mildly.

"I will, though," George said doggedly. "I heard it before and I know I'll do something if I ever hear it again, but I don't know what. This morning I didn't even know what it was 'til I got home and saw Jane. If it happens again I'll do the same thing because it makes me so mad. I had my hands on Mickle's neck this morning. If somebody hadn't pulled them away I don't know what I might have done." He turned toward Jane who was looking at him intently. "I'm sorry the name I give you should be the cause of such things being said about you."

"It's not really your name," she said simply.

He stared at her, then said gloomily, "It's the only one I've got."

"But it was a made-up name. It's not the one your Ma and Pa had. If a name can be made up for you one time, why can't it be done again?"

He still stared at her and his mouth dropped open. Wesley and Susannah stared, too. The silence grew, was pregnant with meaning. George pivoted toward Wesley.

"Do you think I could do that?"

"I 'spect you could."

"How would I go about it? I guess I could ask somebody - Mr. Blanding?" He turned to Jane. "What would I change it to?"

"Oh, something like Catt, not Cattle or Catarrh, though."

He did not notice any joke. "Catta; Catta. Let's don't have the cat sound at all, just one T."

"Cato!" Jane exclaimed.

"That's it! That will do!" the others agreed.

Mr. Blanding told George he really should have an act of the Legislature to change his name, but that it should be easy to do; he himself would consult the Senator from Kershaw County. When the legislature met in a few months the bill was introduced and passed without a hitch. George and Jane became Mr. and Mrs. George W. Cato.

To explain his exigency, George said, "I have to change my name or I'll kill somebody."

The news quickly spread over Camden, and, while there were some sly remarks made secretly, those who started it were heartily ashamed of themselves. To relieve the tension that had bean set up in George's mind, Jane began to call him Mr. Cato. He played the game cheerfully and they soon began to feel at home with their new names.

In the early morning hours of St. Valentine's Day, Jane awoke with a sudden sharp pain. It passed and she turned to go back to sleep. Some minutes went by. She dozed. Then she sat bolt upright in bed, pulling the rovers off George.

He moved drowsily and pulled at the cover. "Jane!" Then he noticed her sitting up with her hands clutching her abdomen. "What is it, Jane?"

"'S'all right," she gasped, and presently it was over.

"What's the matter?"

"I had such an awfull pain. It's the second time. I don't know what to make of it."

"Is it time, do you think?"

"I don't know. I wish Mama was here."

"I'll get Mis' Susie."

Susannah was inexperienced, but she thought it might be that Jane's time had come. "You better go git her Ma, George. Wes can git the granny."

"I don't want to leave her." He turned a frightened face to Susannah.

"I'll send Wes and you can go git the granny. It won't take you long," she said kindly.

It took all day to get Katherine to Camden, but Jane was still in labor when she came. The period between pains had grown shorter and shorter until her frail body was punished with one long agony of exquisite torment. The granny did all she knew to do, but finally the doctor was called to come. George walked the floor, wrung his hands, stopped before the closed door and listened, wept when he heard Jane's cries. At length there was silence, the silence of death, it seemed to him.

"Mother Love," he called, "what's happened? Is Jane all right?"

Still silence. Wesley came to him. "I'm going in there," George said.

"George, wait a minute."

"I tell you I'm going in there. She's been suffering since early this morning and it's nearly midnight. She's my wife. I got a right to be with her."

"Calm, George."

"Why is everything so still, Mr. Wes? I'm afraid she's dead." And he buried his head in his hands and sobbed aloud.

"Listen!" Wesley ordered. Through the door sounded a thin wail. A long breach shuddered through George's body. He stared at Wesley.

"What was that?"

"It's your baby, George. It's crying. That shows it's alive. Now, set down and wait. They'll come for you directly. Ever'thing's gonna be all right now."

George sank down on the floor near the door with Wesley standing beside him. Susannah came out for water and found them.

"It's all right now," she whispered. "you all go to the fire. The baby's fine, a pretty little girl. But Jane's had a hard time. The doctor's working with her."

George got up instantly. Wesley almost forced him into the kitchen.

"Jane needs me," he insisted.

"You can't do her no good right now," Susannah declared. She was filling bottles with hot water and putting them under a cover in a basket. "I'll come and git you as soon as she feels like seeing you. Doctor says she's gonna be all right. She's just tired."

"There, you see, George. You can't do her no good," Wesley pointed out. "You'd only be in the way. You'd do better to stay here by the fire and not git yourself chilled so you'll be strong for her and fit to help her when you do git to see her."

He slumped in a chair by the fire until Katherine came in half an hour later with a carefully wrapped burden. She put it in his arms and turned back the corner of a quilt, disclosing a tiny, wizened, red face with wet dark ringlets framing it, and a mouth that turned down at the corners like a little old lady's. She squinted at the light until George shielded her eyes with his hand. Then she thrust a tiny ball of a fist into her mouth and went off to sleep. George's face was transfigured. It brought a lump into Katherine's throat to watch him.

Holding her with extreme care, he got to his feet. "I got to show Jane our little girl."

Katherine touched his arm. "Jane's asleep."

"Is she all right?"

"Yes, but the doctor says she'll have to be kept quiet for a while and she'll have to stay in bed for a few weeks."

"Can't I see her?"

"You can peep at her, but you mustn't wake her."

He went to the door and tiptoed in, just gazing at the wan face on the pillow. The results of the suffering showed in her pinched, drawn face.

"It musta been awful," he muttered.

"It was hard to watch," Katherine assented. "She oughtn't to ever have another."

"She shan't. It's too hard on her."

Jane stirred and Katherine took him by the arm. "You'd better go. I'll stay with her for the rest of the night." She reached for the baby.

"Can't I keep her?"

"No, I'll put her in the bed with Jane. You'd better go to bed, too. Ever'body else's gone. I'll look after ever'thing until morning."

George started to protest, but she cut him off. "You'll be needed tomorrow. We'll have to take turns staying with her. The doctor says she may be pretty sick for a while. He's coming back tomorrow."

He touched the baby's face with his finger and turned to Katherine in awed amazement. "It feels just like velvet, Mother Love! I guess I'm the proudest man in the whole world. When Jane gets well things will be just about perfect for me."

Katherine's eyes misted as she took the baby. "What are you goin' to name her?"

"Why, Jane, of course."

"She oughta have two names. Nearly ever'body does."

"Some have more than two. I'd like to name her Katherine Adeline Susannah Jane."

"That's enough name to weight the little thing down."

"I'll let my wife pick out the other name.

"For weeks she was called simply The Baby. Jane was very slow in regaining her strength and evinced little interest in a name. Then George began calling her Little Jane. Everyone protested.

"We can't have two Janes in the same house."

"Let's call her Cynthia Jane," her mother suggested. "Cynthia named one of her girls for me. I guess I ought to name one for her. That suit you, Mama Susie?"

"Uh huh," Susanna grunted.

"All right with you, George?"

George was silent.

Wesley interrupted. "You know what I'd like, Jane?"

"What, Papa Wes?"

"I'd like to have a Mary in the house. That was my Ma's name."

George came suddenly upright in his chair. "Mary was my mother's name." Everyone looked at him.

"George," Jane said, "are you just saying what Papa Wes said?"

"No. All at once I remember. Mary was my mother's name."

"Are you shore?" Susannah asked.

"Course I am. I tell, you all, Mary was my mother's name."

"You remember anything else, George?" Wesley asked.

"No." He slumped in his chair while the others stared at him.

Finally Jane broke the silence. "That gives us two reasons to have a Mary in the house. We'll call our little girl Mary Jane. And you know what, when she gits old enough to talk I think she oughta call you all Grandpa and Grandma. What do you say to that?"

The two elderly people laughed aloud. Susannah. said, "Grandma!" in an awed voice, while Wesley said, "Seein' as how she aint got no grandpa I guess I can make do."

XXII

The tiny mite who was named Mary Jane Cato nursed ravenously and slept through the first few weeks of her life by the side of her exhausted mother. The entire household was in awe of her, starting at her slightest whimper and hastening to supply her wants, everyone, that is, except Katherine, who stayed with Jane a number of weeks after her confinement.

"Wait 'til you've had as many as me," she scolded, "and you won't be so quick to jump when one squalls. I had nine, three that's living now, five that died when they was babies, and Robert. I used to run ever' time Millie, that was my first one, moved, just like you all do now. But I soon learned, and you all will learn, too. Let 'em cry. It'll make their lungs strong."

But Katherine, too, became concerned when Mary Jane began to cry a lot, especially at night, keeping everyone awake every night until near midnight, then falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. She began crying again after nursing in the mornings and kept it up most of the day, stopping only for short naps. Sometimes she stopped nursing to cry angrily.

"She must have the colic," Katherine decided. "My William had it for three months when he was first born. I thought I'd never raise him and I didn't. But he died in a fit, not from the colic. He turned blue in the face. We never did know what ailed him."

Near the end of March Katherine felt that she must go home. Franklin and Watts would need to consult her about the spring planting, since she determined that she would run the plantation herself. But she hesitated to leave Jane, who was regaining her strength very slowly and was yet hardly able to look after the baby. It was not expected that Susannah would be able to do everything, since Jane still needed some care. In the end it was decided that George would rent Cele, black Jim's wife, from Jonas, if possible, and delegate to her the task of caring for Jane and the baby.

Jonas was willing because Cele had a baby which came about the time that Mary Jane had been born, and she wouldn't be of much help in the crop that summer. Cele made a capital nurse. But she was distressed by the difference between the size of Mary Jane and her own plump, good-natured Ras whose skin glistened as if it were greased. The white child was not many ounces heavier than when she was born, while the little darkey had already doubled his weight. Mary Jane cried incessantly, slept fitfully and gnawed her bony fists. She had no color in her cheeks and her tiny bones seemed about to break through the skin.

Cele said positively, "That baby's hongy, Mis' Jane."

Jane sighed, "I don't feel like nursing her any more now, Cele, I'm afraid my milk aint rich enough for her."

"Pshaw, y'aint got anuf, Mis' Jane. You is too flabby. She cries soon's she gits frough sucking. I gwine let her suck. I got plenty."

Mary Jane sucked noisily at the plump, black breast until she went off to sleep, well-fed and content. After that she shared the little black boy's food supply daily and grew plump and rosy and happy. One could almost see her growing, so quickly did she fill out the little frame. Soon she was dimpling and smiling, cooing and gurgling with delight at anyone who leaned over her cradle to speak to her. Sometimes she reached up exploring fingers to lodge them in the hair of the head bent over her, and the visitor would have to be rescued from her clutches, while she crewed with pleasure.

George had been frightened for the life of his child, but now he took new heart. He began again to plan for a home for his family. He talked over his idea with Wesley. There was a spot on the road from Camden to Kershaw which he thought would be a very pretty place for a home. He would establish a shop in his house and take work home with him, but he would continue to be Wesley's partner and would come to Camden every few days to bring his work and get new orders. Wesley agreed that George should have his own home and, eventually, his own business. He confided that some day George would be his heir. As a surprise for Jane, George bought thej parcel of land and arranged for a small house to be built on it in a grove of hardwood trees. He would do like Frederick, start with a small house and add to it as need arose.

In the meantime, he was engaged in the fascinating business of watching his daughter grow. He liked to hold her, although he had at first been afraid to do so for fear she would break or come apart. As soon as she was old enough to notice her surroundings she began to reach for everything and carry it straight to her mouth. She liked to hold George's finger. She bit it so often that the end stayed sore. She often went to sleep holding it. When she began to crawl he lived in fear of what she would put in her mouth. Once she was found sitting on the floor with blood coming from her mouth.

"Laws a mussy," Cele screamed, "de baby's bleedin' to clef!"

George heard and came running. He snatched her up and forced his finger between her gums. He was shocked to find that she had put a bug in her mouth and was greatly relieved when there were no harmful effects. He remembered that somewhere he had read about a special providence which looked after fools, drunk people and babies. If that were not true about babies, he told himself, they'd never live to get grown.

Very early, as she began trying to talk, the grown-ups had fun translating her jabber into words. All of them talked baby talk. Wesley would come into the room and speak to her. Mary would jabber at him and Susannah would translate.

"Dodd mornin', Dranpa."

"I bet 'Papa' will be the first word she says," George remarked with an I-hope-so air.

"She'll have to hear it a lot then," Susannah put in. "I've noticed babies almost always say first the word they hear most."

"I'll help you, George," Jane offered. "I'll start calling you Papa."

George flushed. "I guess I'm selfish, Jane. She really ought to say 'Mama' first."

"You can help that along," Wesley teased, "by callin' Jane 'Mama.' Then it'll be a race to see which one she says first."

There was a great deal of merriment as George and Jane proceeded to put this into practice, especially when to his "Say Maria" and her "Say Papa," Mary Jane would squeal out with, "Icks da goo giwi." Then came the day when, out of a clear sky, she sat up in her cradle and very clearly and definitely called, "Baba."

"George!" Jane shrilled, "Papa, come quick!"

In alarm George figuratively flew into the bedroom.

"She said it! She said 'Papa' just as plain! Say it again, honey. Say 'Papa.'"

Mary Jane looked at George, turned her head to one side, smiled shyly and would not utter one word until he started to go back to work. When he opened the door she said, "Baba."

He came back grinning and caught her up in his arms. "Oo did say it! Oo said Papa! Oo itty bitty darlin'!" And he pitched her into the air and caught her expertly as she came down. She cackled and crowed and squealed, "Baba," while Jane laughed with delight.

"Papa, quit." Jane subsided. "You'll tire her out."

"But she did call me first," he exulted as he put her back in her cradle.

"That's because I told her to," Jane reminded him.

He went over to her and put his arms around both her and the chair. "Don't you care. It's just the same as if she said 'Mama' first. We're a family and Mama and Papa is the same. She don't know which is which."

"George, you still like me even if you have got Mary Jane, don't you?"

He smoothed her hair. "Course I do. What makes you ask?"

"I was afraid you mighn't. Cynthia said one time you were so crazy to have a baby, if I ever had one you wouldn't care nothing about me any more."

He sat on the arm of her chair and pulled her close to him. "I think more of you now than ever. It's as if you are one end of a rope and I am the other end and Mary Jane is a weight hung in the middle. The weight pulls the two ends closer together. Look at her now, settin' there in her cradle playin' with her fingers. She's a part of me and a part of you. In her we're more fastened together than we'd ever be without her. I loved having you for my wife before she come, but if I had her without you I don't know what in the world I'd do."

When Mary Jane began learning to walk she tired out all of them. She would toddle about as long as anyone would hold her hand, but would make no effort to walk alone. When she was left standing on the floor in an effort to induce her to take a few steps toward outstretched arms, she either cried or crumpled to the floor and began to crawl forward. She liked especially to climb steps. When she got to the top, or bottom, as the case might be, she immediately turned to go down again. She would keep this up endlessly until her companion, usually Wesley, or Susannah, or George, never Jane, was too tired to go another step. If she were picked up she drew up her knees and pulled down with her arms so that it was hard indeed to hold her. She wanted to walk!

She was a few days over nine months of age when she finally ventured to walk alone. Shortly after that Jane decided she must do without Cele. Black Jim had been down several times and was pathetically glad to see his wife and little son. It was amply evident that he missed them sorely, yet the will of his white folks was his law and he uttered no complaint. But now Jane felt that if she were ever going to take care of her baby it was time she was beginning.

Laughing in rather a forced way she told George, "I'm afraid I'm gitting lazy. So long as I don't do nothing I won't feel like doing nothing. And I think it is high time we let Cele go back to her husband. Soon as she can wean Mary Jane you can take her home and I'll take over the care of the baby."

"There's not a lazy bone in your body," George said seriously. "You'd a worked if you'd a felt like it. But I think you're right about Cele. She ought to go home. I'll help you with Mary Jane 'til you get used to taking care of her. She's pretty heavy for you to lift now. When you get strong again I've got a surprise for you."

 After Cele's departure Jane made a valiant effort to do her share of the household chores. But she grew very tired, and sometimes had to lie down when a task was half done for a short rest. She had not recovered her strength as rapidly nor as fully as women usually did after parturition. Nursing the baby kept her vitality low, too, until Cele took that over. Then she held her own very well until the child's second summer. The heat was exhausting, and the baby made more work than usual, as toddlers are wont to do. She began to literally drag around the house. She lost her appetite, became pale and thin, was habitually tired and evinced little interest in her surroundings. She developed a short, dry cough. Doing her daily chores eventually became such a task that she had no energy left to care for her personal appearance, to play with Mary Jane, or even to make love to her husband.

When Mary Jane was in her third summer Dr. Bland came by one evening after supper to order a saddle. He found everyone sitting on the porch, and he sat down with them, chatting pleasantly after he had given his order. lie was a small, middle-aged man with black hair which was worn in a style called roach. His keen gray eyes under bushy black brows rioted Jane's appearance.

Presently he addressed her. "How old is your little girl, Jane?"

"Goin' on three."

"You don't say! It's hard to believe. She certainly is a fine girl. And you, are you fine, too?"

"Oh, yes, I'm gittin' along all right."

"She aint, neither," Susannah broke in. "She stays tired all the time. She don't eat enough to keep a flea alive. Look how bony she is."

"I'm looking." He raised his eyebrows judicially. "How long have you had that cough?"

Jane was flustered. "I - I don't hardly know."

"You took a cold last winter and you never did get over it. It bothers me to see it hang on so long."

"Do you sleep well?" the doctor pursued his questioning.

"Well, no, not very."

"Are you bothered with night sweats, do you wake up in the night and find your clothes wet with sweat?"

"No, I don't do that, not at night, but I do sometimes in the daytime when I git real tired."

He turned to George. "I'd put her to bed if I were you. I'd make her stay there all the time. Maybe allow her up an hour a day, but she shouldn't do a thing, not even care for the little girl. Somebody else ought to take that over altogether."

George was getting alarmed. "What's the matter with her?"

"Nothing. Nothing, that is, that rest and care won't cure. She looks like she never got over having the baby. She ought to have stayed in bed longer then. She'll just have to make up for it now. Well," rising, "I better go now."

George and Wesley both said, "Don't hurry, Dr. Bland."

"Better get on back, I reckon. Let me know, George, when you get the saddle ready, no hurry, though. Jane, you go to bed and stay there. And start eating. You won't ever get any strength if you don't eat. Mr. Wes and Mis' Susie, you all take care of yourselves. All of you come to see us."

"We will. You all come."

"Thank you. Goodnight."

And the little doctor was gone, leaving near consternation in his wake. All of them had known Jane was not strong, but no one dreamed it was serious. They were sure now that new arrangements would have to be made. They sat quietly now. George was turning many things over in his mind. Jane began to cry.

George spoke gently, "Why don't you go put Mary Jane to bed, dear?"

"In a minute," she managed to whisper.

Susannah asked, "What did Dr. Bland mean?"

Wesley answered, "Why, that Jane aint doin' so good."

"I'm all right," Jane protested. "Just a little tired, that's all. I don't need to stay in bed. I might rest a little more, but I can go on doing my work. There's nobody else to do it."

George interrupted, "You'll have to do what the doctor said, Jane. I'll figure out a way, but I want to think about it first. Let's not talk about it any mere 'til morning. Let's all of us go to bed now."

When morning came George laid down his ultimatum to Jane before they got up. "You're going to stay in bed, just like the doctor said, startin' right now. I'll take care of Mary Jane. I'll have to take some time off from work during the day to do it, but I can work later in the evenings if there's anything pushin'. I'll bring you your water to wash in and your meals. I don't intend to put any more work on Mis' Susie or Mr. Wes. And if you're good," he smiled whimsically, "I'll let you set up for an hour every evening after supper."

Jane's eyes filled with tears of weakness. "I'm sorry I'm so much bother."

"Dry up now. I'll manage. You're my wife and I'm going to take care of you. Why, Jane, what in the world would I do without you?"

"Hush, George. I'm not goin' to die."

"Course not. You're gonna rest in bed and get well and strong."

Susannah changed George's plans about who would take care of Jane. "You're not going to do ever'thing," she told him briskly. "I'll look after Jane and you can tend to the baby."

This was a task thoroughly to George's liking. Mary Jane kept up a continuous prattle while she was being bathed, dressed and fed, though he could not understand everything she said. He made up his mind that they were going to learn to talk to each other and therefore he would not talk baby talk to her any more. His greatest task was keeping her occupied and content while he worked. His first few days as chief parent taxed his ingenuity to the limit. Gradually, however, he worked out a scheme. After all the morning tasks were done, he allowed her to stay in the room with Jane until one or the other grew tired. By that time Susannah would be cooking and Mary Jane could go into the kitchen and pretend to help. She was given odds and ends of greens and fruit and dough to make whatever she willed, which kept her busy until noon. After dinner she was put into her cradle beside George's work bench to rest. She spent the afternoon in the shop with George and Wesley. Jane was always tired then, and Susannah was busy with household chores, such as spinning and weaving, sewing, or making jelly and preserves.

George made a playhouse for Mary Jane in a corner of the shop. He nailed some left-over boards together to make two sides and a pointed top and pushed the whole into the corner, letting the walls make the rest of the house.

"This is a house for your doll," he told the little girl.

Wesley was listening. "I'll make you another doll and some furniture. How'd you like that?"

Mary Jane smiled happily and said, "Dranpa!"

He started to work at once and spent all his odd moments whittling a doll, a bed, table, chair and cradle out of bits and pieces of wood. He and George never tired of watching her at her play and listening to her patter.

The only thing that marred George's enjoyment of his child was his worry about Jane. After months in bed she showed almost no improvement. During the winter she insisted in sitting in an armchair by the fire, wrapped snugly in a quilt. But the attempt usually ended in her being put back to bed wet with the perspiration of nervous debilitation. After one of these experiences, George left Mary Jane in Wesley's care and went off toward the stores. When he came back he set about his work quietly. But anon he went in to Jane. She was hot and restless. He bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and straightened the cover. He went back into the hall in time to open the door to Dr. Bland. He ushered him into the bedroom.

"Just look who's come to see you, Jane," he cried cheerfully.

She tried to look pleased. "I ought to be up, but George won't let me."

The doctor came forward and took her hand. "How are you, Janie? I was passing and I thought I'd stop by and see you, and see if you were doing what I told you to do. You must be getting along all right. I see you've got a pretty color in your cheeks.

He sat down in a chair George placed for him, and George sat on the bed. He talked casually, asked a few questions, and examined her as he talked, so that she scarcely knew she was being examined. After half an hour's visit he stood up.

"You're doing pretty good. You stay in bed and take care of yourself, and one of these days you'll be coming to see me."

George went with him to the front door where, out of earshot of Jane, he asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"Come down to the apothecary's as soon as you can get away; I want to talk to you."

He went later in the afternoon while Jane was asleep. He came away from the consultation with a stricken look. He staggered a little as he walked. His hands trembled as he constantly raised them to brush away some imaginary object before his eyes. He stumbled into the shop and sank into a chair. Wesley was busy smoothing a saddle tree and did not look up.

Mary Jane turned from her playhouse and cried, "Papa!"

George did not hear. His face was pale and his hands numb.

"Mr. Wes, Jane has consumption!"

"You don't say!" The look on George's face struck all words from his mind. They sat and stared at each other, each becoming increasingly aware of the exigencies that had come upon them. George dropped his head into his hands.

"What did the doctor say?"

"He said the staying in bed ought to a helped her, but it hasn't, so it must be that the dampness is bad for her, and if I don't take her away she won't live long."

A long pause. "Where does he say you ought a take her?"

"Tennessee, or Missouri, or the Indian Territory, anywhere away from all this dampness."

Another long silence. "When does be say you oughta go?"

"Soon as I can. He says it's already mighty late, and she's going down hill fast. Papa Wes," unconsciously giving him Jane's name for him, "what am I going to do? I oughtn't to leave you. You need me. Besides that, it costs money to travel. I've saved all I could, but that's not much. And then there's the house, all finished and ready for us to move into. I just been waitin' for Jane to get better to tell her about it. There's a lot of reasons why I can't go, and yet for Jane's sake I got to go. I'm in an awful fix."

Wesley sighed deeply. "Don't think about us, George, me and Susie. You was going to be the comfort of our old age, and you couldn't a been better to us if you'd a been our own boy, but I'll tell you the same thing I would tell our own boy if we had one. When your wife's health is in the balance you don't weigh us at all. Do your duty by Jane. Me and Susie'll make out."

George sat with his shoulders hunched over and his head supported by his hands. Wesley shuffled around to put a fatherly hand on the heaving shoulders.

"Pull yourself together, Son. It's got to be worked out and it's up to you to work it out. You got to face Jane pretty soon and you don't want her to know how scared you are. You got to tell her different from how you told me."

Mary Jane came up to George. "Papa!" She patted his knee. When he paid no attention to her she began to whimper.

"Take her to Mama Susie," he begged Wesley. "Give me a few minutes to git myself together. I got to think."

Telling Jane about it was one of the hardest things George ever had had to do. He had to hide his own anxiety so as not to alarm her. Yet he dared not put it off in order to think of what to say for she would read his thoughts in his face. He whispered it into her curls as he held her against his heart in bed, made of it a great lark on which they were going together, with Mary Jane to bear them company when they should get tired of each other. She giggled a little uncertainly at the idea that they would get tired of each other. She began to find the same difficulties which he had mentioned to Wesley.

"Pooh!" he ridiculed. "We'll think of a way. Let's write Mother Love to come down for a few days before she has to have the spring plowing started. We ought to be ready to go when spring comes."

Katherine came willingly. George felt an overpowering sense of relief when he saw her. He folded her in his arms and for the second time his control gave way. Wesley opened the shop door, gently pushed them inside and closed the door. They sat down on the work bench and poured out their tears to each other. When they were calm they went in to Jane. Katherine had difficulty in removing from her face the shock she felt at sight of the change in Jane. The once dark curls were now discouraged locks of pepper and salt. Her face was thin and lined. She still sat up and tried to walk some every day, but the frame that had been exquisitely tiny was now so wasted that there was scarcely strength enough in it for tottering around.

Katherine made no remarks as she observed her loved ones. She saw the little lady George's training was making of Mary Jane. The child was small for her age, having Jane's brown hair and Cynthia's blue eyes and fair complexion. The corners of her mouth still turned down, but often were lifted in a demure smile. She had an affectionate, sunny disposition, yet reflected George's influence in developing his shy, sensitive nature. She received love so freely that she gave of it freely to everyone around her; but she could be quickly cowed by a stern word or glance.

She asked, "Mama, why do you stay in bed?"

Jane answered, "I'm tired."

The child pointed to herself, "I get up." She went from one person to another. "Papa is up. Dranpa Wes is up. Dranma Susie is up. Dranma Love is up. Why don't you get up?"

Katherine answered quickly, "Mama is sick, honey. That's why she stays in bed. Maybe we all oughta go out and let her rest. Why don't you go play with your dolls, Mary Jane?"

One thing Katherine had always loved about George was his innate fineness and gentleness of character. She took note of how this had been refined until he was the soul of tenderness and courtesy. The sprinkling of gray in his hair, the starkness of his profile, the stoop that was beginning at his shoulders and the heaviness of his step revealed how he had been harassed. Often he waited a long time before answering a question, but he was remarkably cheerful, especially before Jane. She felt guilty because of the impasse they had reached in their lives; she felt that. it was somehow her fault, that perhaps it was lack of congenital resistance that had brought them to this. She resolved that she would find a way to help them. When she had been with them two days an idea occurred to her. She took George into Jane's room after supper to reveal it to them.

"I had just come back from a visit with Cynthia when I got your letter, George," she began companionably.

"How were they?"

"Fine. Jes' fine. You know they already have four chaps and will soon have another one. Fred's got a white man living in a house close to him now and he has a big boy and girl. The chaps help Cynthia and the man helps Fred."

"Don't they use Dr. Morrison's darkies now?" Jane asked.

"No. Fred never did like darkies. Said he don't know how to git along with them. He's making plenty money outa his store . . . " George stirred restlessly, but Katherine apparently didn't notice. "He 'spects a town to grow up where he is. Says he's going to give land for a church some day. And he lets people camp there when they go through in them covered wagons. You know, lots a people are leaving the states now and moving into the territories. They say the land is better out there, it's not wore out and it's easier to make a living where there aint no slaves."

"Do people really travel in covered wagons?" asked Jane.

"They certainly do. A family come by while I was at Cynthia's and camped across the road from the store. There was a man and his wife and a boy about six and a girl about two. They had ever'thing they needed packed inside the wagon and they cooked them something to eat over a fire in the yard. The woman and the little girl slept in the wagon and the man and the boy slept on quilts under the wagon."

George and Jane looked at each other.

"What were they driving?" George asked.

"Mules. They had two of them hitched to the wagon. The man got corn and fodder from Fred to feed them, and stored some in the wagon to take along with them. They didn't carry much victuals except meal and 'taters and fatback and dried beans and molasses. They depended on gittin' some from people along the way as they needed it. And the man said when they wanted fresh meat he'd kill some birds or a squirrel or a rabbit, or catch some fish. They was bound for Oklahoma Territory, they said."

"George," Jane almost whispered, "do you suppose we could do that?"

"I'm wondering about it," he answered thoughtfully.

"I don't see why not," Katherine said vigorously. "There's several old wagon frames 'round the house at home. You could put a body and a cover on one of them and make it do."

"It'd take ever' cent I got saved to buy two mules and all the things we'd need," George began to object, "and I wouldn't have nothing left to buy food along the way."

"I got two oxes I was going to sell," Katherine offered. "I'd just as lief you had them."

"We can't take your animals, Mother Love," George protested.

"Jane is due somethin' from her Pa's belongings. He give Anne and Cynthia a horse apiece when they got married. You didn't need a horse, George, so Jane never got nothing. Sam always said Jane was to have something when she needed it, and I reckon now's the time. So that's settled and we won't say no more about it. You can go up with me in a day or two, George, and we'll git the wagon ready."

XXIII

Katherine stayed in Camden long enough to help Jane get together the things the family would take with them in the covered wagon. Then George took her home to The Orchards. On the way he stopped to show her the house he had ready to move into when Jane should be well. It was a three room log house with the chinks between the logs filled with something that had been mud when it was first put there, but was now sun-baked until it was as hard as a brick. The inside was covered with old issues of the Camden Chronicle.

George was pathetically proud of it, but Katherine's mother heart ached so that she said brusquely, "Sell it!" He looked at her in consternation, then answered bitterly after a moment, "Yes, I'll sell it."

In a few days George was back in Camden with the covered wagon. He had taken the best of the old wagon parts and, with the expert help of Frank, Jim, Lije and Watts, put them together to make a sound wagon frame. It was an easy matter to make a body. To this he fastened a framework of hoop-shaped heavy splits cut in half, and covered the whole with a homespun tent.

While the men were doing this Katherine, Adeline and Rachel made a special mattress for Jane. A regular size mattress would have taken up so much room it would have been next to impossible to put anything else in the wagon. So one had been made less than half the usual width and stuffed tightly with feathers.

Coming into Camden with the oxen pulling the covered wagon was almost like a triumphal march for George. Everyone knew of his plans and came out on their porches or into their yards to watch him go by. Mary Jane danced up and down on her toes when she saw him drive into the side yard. Susannah's eyes bulged and Wesley grinned broadly. George lifted Jane in his arms and took her to the kitchen window. Opening the shutter, he supported her weight while she looked out at what was to be her home for a while.

The next job was loading the wagon. First was the mattress for Jane and plenty of quilts for cover and to make pallets for George and Mary Jane. Cooking utensils, tin plates and table ware, a wash pan, a bag of homemade soap, George's gun with a suply of powder and shot, an axe, a pick and a shovel were stored under the seat where George would sit to drive. A small wooden trunk containing their wearing apparel and other needed articles was placed at the head of Jane's bed. The neighbors began bringing in supplies, ham, potatoes, turnips, corn, live fowls.

George debated long about his tools. Saddlery was the only trade he knew and the only way he felt sure of being able to make a living. But the tools belonged in reality to Wesley. George had drifted into using them as he grew up. He and Wesley took turns using them, each working on a different part of the saddle at the same time. No question had ever come up as to the ownership of the tools. It was assumed, after George became a partner, that they were half his and after Wesley's demise would be wholly his. Obviously he could not take them with him. He hesitated to invest part of his savings in new tools and supplies because so many unforeseen difficulties could arise that might cause him to need money or make it impossible for him to use tools.

In the midst of his indecision Frederick and Billy came down for a weekend visit to bid them godspeed and to see if they could help in any way. George was bombarded with advice.

Frederick said, "You can buy tools you see you can use them."

Billy had a better suggestion. "Why don't you jes' fergit it about saddlery and help the planters with their work wherever you stop? That way you can learn farming, and when Janie gets well and you settle down, you can be a farmer 'stead of a saddler. There's more money in it."

George realized this was sound advice. Billy's air of superiority had always roused his umbrage and disinclined him to follow the counsel. However, when Wesley seconded it, he agreed it was probably the best plan.

As the time set for departure approached, George became more and mere depressed over leaving Wesley and Susannah. No one realized more than he the great debt he owed them. On their last night in Camden he left Jane alone, after putting Mary Jane to bed, and went into the kitchen to have a last visit with them. Susannah sat by the fire that was never allowed to go out. For a wonder, her hands, that were never wont to be idle, were folded over her apron. Her hair came in straggling little tendrils from under her cap; George noticed with a start that it was entirely gray. Her usually erect shoulders seemed to sag a little tonight. He realized suddenly that she was getting old. He turned to Wesley, wondering what changes his eyes, sharpened now by the prospect of separation, would find there. And he saw that the usually sallow skin was almost the color of the leather he worked with, the shoulders more stooped than ever, and the hairline receded beyond the center marking.

Wesley laid aside the copy of the Chronicle which he was pretending to read, upside down, when Susannah said, "You're goin' to ruin your eyes, Wes, tryin' to read by that light. Put the paper down and les' talk to George." Her voice broke a little as she added, "It's his last night."

George protested, "Mama Susie, I - "

"It's all right, George, don't mind me." She touched with her foot a small iron pot on the hearth as they sat down. "Here's your little pot. Don't you want to take it with you?"

George looked at it oddly. It was coal black, about half a foot high and eight inches across at the widest part. "I forgot about it. I wonder how I come to have it."

"Frank said you had it in your hand the first time he saw you outside the house where that awful man lived."

"Oh, yes, I remember now. I was going to get fire in it."

"What do you want to do with it?"

"You use it, don't you?"

"Wes heats his shavin' water in it."

"You keep it for me. I'd like for Mary Jane to have it when she grows up."

"I reckon that means you're comin' back sometime," Wesley said.

"I hope so, Papa Wes. I want to. Course ever'thing depends on how Jane gets along. Whatever happens, I promise you this, if you ever need me all you have to do is let me know and I'll come."

"Well, now, George," Wesley began mildly, "I don't want you to be a frettin' yourself about us. Me and Susie's gonna be all right."

"You don't know how I feel about leaving you," George stated earnestly. "Seems like I can't bear to go to save my life and yet I know I got to. I feel like I'm playing a dirty trick on you."

Susannah caught up the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. Wesley reached out a steady hand to place on her knee.

"Now, now, Susie, don't you start to blubberin' and git yourself all worked up. She jes' hates to see you go, George. I know how you feel about leavin' us. You always was jus' as thoughty of us as you could be, lots more than that Billy Thompson is of his ma and pa. The Good Book says when a man gits married he's got to leave his pa and ma and cleave to his wife. And that's what you got to do, cleave to Jane."

"But it also says a man is supposed to take care of his parents in their old age because they took care of him when he was little. And I'm leaving you just as you're beginning to need me."

"Well, Son, if that's gonna bother you, less look at it this a way. I'm good far several years yet. I'm bound to git where I can't work much one of these days. When that time comes, if me and Susie git to sufferin' for the necessities o' life, I'll send you word. Then you can come home an' stay long enough to close our eyes in death an' see us buried decently. Then you can sell or take our property here, the house and the furnishin's, and my saddle business, it's all yours, and go back to wherever you was. That's all any man can expect of his children."

Susannah had put her apron over her head and was weeping silently. George struggled to speak, but could not. Wesley got up and took a book from the table. As he sat down and opened it, Mary Jane came into the room.

"Pape, Ma'y Jane and Mama wants some water."

George lifted her to his knee and whispered, "In a minute."

Wesley began to read stumblingly, "Thou whom I have taken from the ends of the earth, and called thee from the chief men thereof, and said unto thee, 'Thou are my servant, I have chosen thee and not cast thee away. Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea I will help thee; yea I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.' Behold all they that were incensed against thee shall be ashamed and confounded; they shall be as nothing and they that strive with thee shall perish. Thou shalt seek them and shall not find them, even them that contended with thee; they that war against thee shall be as nothing, and as a thing of nought. For I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, fear not, I will help thee."

Slowly he closed the Bible. Slowly he rose and knelt before his chair, placing his head in his hands and resting his elbows on the split-bottomed seat.

"O Lord," he prayed, "we come to thee tonight with our hearts hurtin' because of the partin' that's being put upon us. It seems like we have more to bear than we can stand. We're asking thee to help us git through with this thing we got to do. We ask for thy blessings on this boy, our son, whose heart is so bothered. Help him to bear his burdens. We beg that most of all thou will give him peace. Calm him and help him to git the strength he's got to have to take care of the things he's gonna run into. These blessings we ask for Christ's sake. Amen."

They all stood up, feeling strong and comforted.

"George," Wesley held out the Bible from which he had read, "me and Susie want you to have this."

George took the book and opened it at the fly leaf. He read: To George Washington Cato, out foster son, from Wesley and Susannah Carpenter, April 12, 1827.

He shook hands with Wesley and kissed Susannah's cheek. "Thank you, Father and Mother. You are the only parents I remember and I'll never forget you. I'll keep this and use it, and I'll come back to you just as sure as my name's George."

He got the water for Mary Jane and took a cupful with him. As Jane drank it, Mary Jane asked, "Papa, why did Dranpa Wes git down on his knees? Why did he hide his eyes, Papa?"

"What is she talking about?" Jane wanted to know.

He showed her the book and she was very touched as he explained to her and Mary Jane what had taken place.

"We must use it," she said.

"Every night," he agreed.

They spent the first night of their long trek at The Orchards. Jane stood the trip well. Katherine filled all the remaining space in the wagon with supplies, smoked meat, potatoes, dried peas and beans, pumpkins, winter squash, dried fruit, molasses, meal, coffee and tea, some eggs and a string of dried red peppers. She packed enough cooked food to last two days. She had Jim tie fodder on every available foot of space on the wagon as food for the oxen, plus a sack of corn which was put on the seat beside George. Jane smiled and waved goodbye from her bed in the wagon. But George held Katherine convulsively close.

"Mother Love, oh Mother Love," he murmured brokenly, over and over. Both of them had an anguished feeling that from now on their lives were going to be so terribly different.

The covered wagon made detour by the Billy Thompson place, then hit the main road from Camden to Charlotte by Frederick's place. Saying goodbye to Billy and Anne, and Frederick and Cynthia was net so difficult since they were finally on their way and anxious to be gone.

Once started the travelers soon forgot the sorrow of parting in the new things there were to see. Jane, who had never been outside three South Carolina counties, did not remember that she was tired, but lay with her head raised so that she could watch the passing scene where George had raised the wagon covering a bit, Through the rolling hills of the Piedmont they passed, where people were turning the long dark furrows of soil with mules and oxen, preparing to put in their crops of cotton and corn, where fields of oats were making the fields green with the promise of a rich harvest, where the tall pines stood in virgin forests interspersed now and then with coppices of oak, hickory, poplar, beech, gum, sourwood and cedar. Solitary homes were seen at distant intervals, flanked by a few outhouses, and bare yards under the shade of apple trees.

Evening was usually heralded by the singing of the darkies as they finished their day's tasks and headed for their cabins. The Cato family contrived to stop each night near one of these country homes. This not only furnished them with water and protection, but also an audience whose interest in their adventure was heartening. They were able to get advice about the road and whose place they might reach by the night. It gave them a feeling of security to drive up to a house and call the owner by name when he came out. This ensured their welcome and caused them to invariably be well treated.

George was a little diffident at first about approaching strangers for accomodation, but he soon learned that people were glad to exchange their hospitality for the news and "other talk" which he could bring them. He learned also to ask for little messages to take to the families that were recommended to him as being good people with whom to stop. For many weeks they never spent a night in the wagon and received two meals each day gratis. He did not offer to pay but once. After that he contrived to help with the early morning chores. When he found a farmer who was pressed for "hands," he spent a few days with him, exchanging work for supplies and sometimes a bit of cash.

As they came into the mountains of western North Carolina they noticed with surprise a difference in advancement of the season. The leaves were still small and a delicate green. The trees on the higher slopes were just in bud. The oaks gave variety to the scene with their reddish leaves only now venturing out. Flowers were in bloom here that had already faded in the foothills. The woods were gay with both pink and white dogwood, with the yellow, orange, white, pink, red and lavender of the wild azalea, clumps of the delicately tinted laurel and the gorgeous rhododendron. It was all so new and so breath-takingly beautiful they made no haste at all, but drove leisurely, stopping at times to let the oxen rest since the road now and then seemed to be going straight up the mountain. However, it only seemed so, for it twisted and turned and brought the same scene in view a number of times before really proceeding much distance. Such was the way of mountain roads.

To these low-landers the mountains were awe-inspiring. Mary Jane chattered like a blue jay, but her parents remained rather quiet, drinking in the beauty of the purple peaks proudly flung against the flawless blue of the sky, or having their heads secreted in a cloud that came down like a hat with no crown, allowing their dark peaks to rise above he incredible whiteness.

"Will the mountains fall on us?" Mary Jane asked.

"No," George answered.

But they were both surprised when they came to a place where a part of the mountain on the right had fallen into the road.

George explained, "It probably happens when it rains. We'll find a place to stop then."

And with his shovel he moved enough of the dirt to make it possible for the oxen to get the wagon over it. As they went further into the mountains, settlements became more scarce and the houses farther and farther apart. They were unable to reach a house every night. Then George began to ask for advice about good camp sites and when he might come to the next house. They made their first camp at a wide space on the right bank of a fair-sized stream which the road followed. A spring came from a fissure in the mountain which towered over this tiny plain and flowed across the road into the stream. Camps had been made here before for there were charred remains of a fire. The trees had been cut away from the camp site which was a relief to George, as he had no wish to have a wild animal dropping from a tree on to the top of his wagon in the night.

He watered the oxen, tethered and fed them. Then he collected wood and, with flint and steel and some dry, half rotten wood from his tinder box, he started a fire. From the wagon he took two iron pots and a skillet. He put water in the pots, placed their short legs on rocks and transferred some of the coals of fire to the space under them. He laid two stones close to the fire, put pieces of burning wood between them and placed the skillet there. In one of the pots he made coffee. In the other he put potatoes and a cabbage which his host of the previous night had given him. He sliced some fat back into the skillet and fried it crisp and brown. He saved the meat for their supper and put the grease into the pot with the cabbage and potatoes. He mixed some meal with salt and water and put it into the skillet to cook.

George and Mary Jane sat on stones to eat. Jane propped herself up against the wagon wheel. The heat of the day had given way to a pleasant breeze. The gurgling noise of the stream and the vesper song of the wood thrush made their first evening meal alone something special, except for the bread.

"The bread's not good," George stated flatly.

"It's all right for your first try," Jane assured him. "Next time put a little bit of the grease in it and don't pour it all out in the skillet. Leave a little bit in. the pan and let it sour. Then when you mix it up with the meal next time put some soda in it to make it rise and it'll taste better."

Sleeping out was a new experience for them, too. Jane and Mary Jane slept soundly. George was wakeful at first, feeling a greater responsibility now that they were alone. However, tired nature soon overcame his uneasiness and he slept until the birds' songs awoke him.

Thus they came through the mountains. When it rained they sought shelter at a house if cue were near, otherwise under a clump of trees. They always made at least one stop during the day, usually when the sun was directly overhead, to let the oxen feed and rest. They themselves ate cold food at that time. Some times they found berries or thorn apples along the roadside. They were careful not to go too far from the wagon for fear of snakes and bears. Sometimes they stopped long enough for George to take a few fish from the streams they came to. These Jane cleaned while they traveled, for she was improving rapidly. She sat up a good deal of the time, walked about during their rest periods and ate, slept and looked better. They were really enjoying their travels.

The early morning was always a wonderful time, when they could see the tops of the trees begin to be touched by the sun's rays and watch the wisps of fog before them waver and melt away. The evenings, too, had their own special kind of beauty, the glory of a rainbow glimpsed out the back of the wagon, or the ethereal quality of a sunset just before the darkness drove them to rest. The mornings gave them zest to start a new day, the evenings put a benediction on its close. Truly the quest for health was a boon to all of them, even drawing them closer together as a family.

As they left the mountains they dropped down toward the valley of the Tennessee River. They were not sorry to come again to the lovely rolling hills. Though they had enjoyed the highlands, they missed the nightly visits with the friendly farm folks to which they had become accustomed in the Piedmont. And there had always been that lurking fear of landslides. Jane was looking better every day and she did not get so tired nowadays. George was beginning to feel easier in his mind.

They came more often now to villages and farm homes. The plantations were large, well-tilled and prosperous hooking. A good bit of the land was in pasture or forests. The farmers welcomed them and there began again the experiences they had had during the early days of their journey. Crop cultivation was in full swing. Sometimes George spent an entire week with one farmer, using his oxen to help with the plowing. He was always well rewarded.

In the central basin they came upon the Barstow family who had left the farm next to The Orchards a number of years before in search of fairer fields and greener postures. Mr. Barstow had settled his large family on a farm and was prospering. He was surprised and delighted to find this Mrs. Cato was little Janie Love. It was so good to see familiar faces again that they spent several weeks there. Their youngest daughter, Belle, was older than Mary Jane, but quickly made friends with her, which delighted the child's parents for they knew she needed the companionship of other children. Mr. Barstow urged them to settle there. He offered every inducement he could think of--cheap land, fertile soil, good water, virgin timber, salubrious climate, little competition from slave labor, good neighbors and hospitality. George parried every inducement.

"The doctor said for us to travel until we find a place that suits Jane. Then we can settle. We'll go on through Tennessee into Missouri. If we don't find a place we like any better, we'll come back here and give this place a try. This suits me mighty well, but I have to know if it suits Jane."

While there George sent a letter to Katherine and asked her to send it down to the folks in Camden. He was happy to say the change had been good for Jane and he had hopes that she was going to be all right.

When they left the Barstows, the Catos went leisurely across the state toward the Mississippi River, sometimes exchanging work for provisions, sometimes camping. Often in the early evening the sky would be suddenly darkened by the passing of a huge flock of birds, passenger pigeons. George could not resist firing into a flock. Three fell to the ground and he retrieved them. Jane's eyes filled with tears when she saw their beautiful green, gold and violet feathers stained with their own life's blood. George's heart sank at the sight of the tears. He knew that the birds would be very tempting to her appetite and give her strength, but he resolved to find some way of getting them other than by shooting.

One afternoon they flushed a covey of prairie chickens from the roadside, and soon another, and another. These plump, brownish birds reminded them of guineas at home, except for their different color and markings. Early in the mornings they could hear the hollow booming of this bird at a short distance from their camp. George thought here was a fine way to provide an appetizing stew for his invalid wife. He conceived a plan for trapping the birds in great numbers and keeping them on hand for use when needed.

When they left home they had supplies stored in sacks. Most of them were empty now and he thought he might put them to use. When they camped again he cut down a tree about five inches in diameter, cut off the top and branches and skinned the bark from it. He stuck it in the ground in an open space near the camp fire,. It shone gleaming white in the dusk. He propped two of the sacks against the pole at the ground with their openings held wide by sticks. He cut another stick, this one long and slender, and went out into the coppice, poking into each bush he came to. The sleeping birds were shooed from their roosting place, and they flew straight toward the gleaming pole. Being unable to alight there, they slid down the pole and into the sacks. George came quickly and tied them up. Some of them he left in the sacks, cutting holes so that their heads could come through for air. He tied the feet of the others and laid them on the ground inside a pen of sticks. For traveling he made a crate by lashing the sticks together with vines and tied the crate on the back of one of the oxen. For a while then they had meals of fried, roasted or stewed chicken. He noticed a tuft of feathers on each side of the heads of the chickens and below that a bare, orange colored sac that could be inflated.

To the northwestern corner of Tennessee, across the Mississippi and into the lowlands of southeastern Missouri the covered wagon by easy stages came. This low land was too much like the region around the Wateree to suit Jane. They moved on westward to the foothills of the Ozarks. Winter would soon be upon them and they must find a place to stay during the cold weather. George found a fur trapper, a Mr. Furman Martin, who agreed to take them in and let his wife care for Jane and Mary Jane in return for his help with the trapping. Being settled in one place for several months, he paid fifty cents to send a letter to Wesley and Susannah in far-off Camden. 

The trapping business did not greatly interest George. It was beyond anything he had ever known about in all his life. An incident with a bear persuaded him that this was not what he wanted to do. A number of traps had been set for mink and muskrat. Each day when George and Mr. Martin went to check the traps they found them thrown and the bait gone. They never discovered how this happened, but one day they found a very angry bear in one of the muskrat traps. The trap was so securely fastened that he had not been able to escape with it. Martin went home end came back with his wagon and some rope. They tied the rope around the bear's feet, legs and mouth, freed him from the trap and put him in the wagon. As George drove home the bear somehow managed to get Martin's hand in his mouth. He almost chewed it off before George could get to his knife and slit the bear's throat.

The Ozark winter did not agree with Jane. Everyone thought she would be better when warm weather came. So when the trapping season was over, the covered wagon came out of winter quarters and the Cato family started traveling again, going through Missouri in much the same way they had gone through Tennessee the previous summer. The following winter found them in the northwestern part of the state where George housed his family with the owner of a saw mill and helped with the various jobs connected with that kind of work. Trees grew abundantly along the streams and were cut or sawed down for lumber for houses, for cordwood which had many uses, foe fences and firewood. It was hard work and gave George an aching back for many days and calloused hands for several years.

Jane's health remained about the same throughout the Missouri travels. George now felt sure that a familiar face as well as a different climate would help her to improve as she had done when they first started on their journey. So when the spring of 1829 came the heads of the oxen were set for the farm of Albert Barstow in the Tennessee basin. Another letter was posted to the families in South Carolina asking that news be sent to them there.

XXIV

Katherine Love held a great ache in her mother's heart for her youngest daughter and the man whom she had come to look upon as a son, But that did not keep her from taking care of the legacy left her by her beloved husband in trust for their children. With the willing hands of Adeline and Frank she kept the farm going. After the adjustment to Samuel's death things ran smoothly. Katherine was a just and capable manager. Billy Thompson, too, was prospering as a farmer and boasted of a growing family. Frederick and Cynthia now had six children. His store was rapidly becoming a mecca for the spreading of news and the airing of political opinions. People came from miles around, not only to buy, but to discuss and argue.

The green-faced Dr. Harrison got in the habit of coming in almost every day. He was always sure to meet some of his neighbors there and get into an interesting conversation or even a friendly argument, than which he liked nothing better. The new tariff which had caused an uproar in Congress was the subject of many discussions. It was commonly called the Tariff of Abominations. The national government seemed committed to the policy of a protective tariff, though Southern Congressmen opposed it bitterly. The South Carolinians were especially outspoken in their opposition, for the tariff seemed to them to be frankly sectional, protecting the manufacturers of New England at the expense of the agricultural interests of the South. Senator Mobley expounded on the especially pernicious points of the tariff and how to combat them.

"South Carolina is by nature and inheritance wedded to the system of staple raising for export. It is treachery for the Northern manufacturers to line their pockets with gold plucked from the great Southern goose. I favor refusing to buy their goods. I think like David Williams said in a letter he made public the other day: I will protest by constitutional means against the policy of protection. Meanwhile the proper method of defense against it is for us to make and wear our own clothes, and raise our own horses, mules, cows and hogs."

Planter Caston, small, bet making up in intensity what he lacked in stature, began to stride up and down the store. "That's an outrage! Why are they allowed to do it? Why don't our representatives do something? It is direct discrimination against us in favor of other sections of the country."

"My dear friend," the Senator said, "it is aimed at South Carolina. There's no doubt about it. South Carolina has taken the lead in opposing the extension of the National Government's powers. Our Senators and Representatives right now have the most powerful voices in Congress. Look at Calhoun! Look at Hayne! Why, that Hayne wouldn't mind tackling Daniel Webster himself. I warrant he could argue him down, too."

Dr. Morrison chuckled. "He'll have to be good to get anywhere with Dan Webster. There's a story going 'round that Webster got on a case with the Old Scratch once about a man's soul and the Old Scratch came off second best with a jury from hell." And the doctor laughed with relish.

Frederick joined in the laughter, but Mr. Caston looked a little uncomfortable and the Senator glared, but he went on.

"They've put the tariff over this time. If it stays in effect long it will hurt the South materially and particularly South Carolina. Our people will be the poorer for it."

"Maybe it won't have much effect on the general run of people," Dr. Morrison put in for the sake of argument. "Most of them are agricultural."

"That's just the point I'm making," stormed the Senator. "Most of them are agricultural. They get less money for their crops and therefore have to pay for the things they buy, while the price of those things go up."

"But they grow nearly everything they need at home," the doctor insisted. "They grow their own wool and cotton and make it into clothes right on the farm. Every farm has artisans to make the things that are needed. There are really very few things a farmer has to buy."

"My dear Doctor," Senator Mobley almost shook his finger in Dr. Morrison's face, "twelve years ago South Carolina was second to New York in exports. Now her exports are about half what they were then and she is way down in rank. Why is that? Because of the willful, unlawful control of government exercised by the interests of another section of the country."

"Might it be because our soil is wearing out, that our people are moving west to newer, richer fields, where the competition with slave labor is not so keen? Could that be why our exports are falling off?" queried the doctor softly.

"Allow me to point out," raged the Senator, "that the price of cotton slumped from twenty-eight cents to eleven in one year's time."

"Perhaps that was because there was more cotton raised. You know the law of supply and demand is still in operation."

Mr. Caston came into the prickling silence. "I like to buy the manufactured things rather the waiting to have them made. It saves so much time. When other planters' wives and children have bought clothes and shoes, I like for mine to have them, too. But the price cotton is now, I won't have enough money to run me next year, to say nothing of buying anything."

"When the National Government," boomed the Honorable Mr. Mobley," sets itself up in favor of one section of the country against another, then the unfavored section is justified in disregarding the national voice."

"That is a dangerous doctrine," Dr. Morrison objected. "There's no telling where it may lead."

"Let it lead where it may, true sons of the South can follow. South Carolina went into the Union of her own accord and she can come out if necessary when she wishes."

"And she will come out," Mr. Caston agreed, "if she isn't treated fairly."

"Not so fast!" calmed the doctor. "What could South Carolina do out of the Union, a lone state to form a tiny nation? She would be the prey of any European country with an eye on her rich agricultural and mineral resources."

"South Carolina would not long be alone," the Senator advised. "There are other states that merely await our move. They will fall in line in an instant."

"Don't forget," Mr. Caston added, "you, yourself, pointed out, Dr. Morrison, that some of our people have moved to the states west of us. They think like we do and will follow our leadership."

"Gentlemen," Frederick, interposed. "You're talking about breaking up the Union. Don't you know that all the people across the ocean is eyeing us? Some of 'em think what this country is trying to do can't be done. And some of 'em hope it can so they can come over here and have a chance for a better kind a life than they can have over there. People in debt, people that don't have no hope of peace, like my pa, who never thought they could be anything different from what their people had been before them, people like that can come over here and make a new kind a life, learn to be whatever they make up their minds to be. It's a sort of a dream to them. If the Union falls it will mean that for them dreams never do come true."

There was a long moment of silence into which Dr. Morrison, sorry now for the storm he had unwittingly stirred up, projected, "Yes, South Carolina's place is in the Union. There she can help work out the salvation of the whole nation. Outside the Union she can do nothing. Like Fred says, we are trying something new. It is inevitable that mistakes be made. But men who are smart enough to think up the principles that have gone into our government will sure have descendants, like you, Senator, who are smart enough to think up ways to make them work."

Senator Mobley looked mollified, Mr. Caston turned to Frederick.

"You favor your father's adopted country whenever you can, don't you, Fred? And well you should, for you have done very well for yourself."

"Yes, I got my home and my family, my land and my store, and some friends. I been gittin' along all right."

"How long have you been in this part of the country, Mr. Klemminger?" queried the Senator.

"I come in 1812."

"With mostly ambition and determination, I suppose?" Dr. Morrison said.

"And now you own your home and store and considerable land," continued the Senator. "You've done very well."

"How much land do you have, Fred?" Mr. Gaston asked.

"About eight hundred acres. There's a place next to my land on the west side I'd like to own. It's got two hundred in it. When I git it I'll have what I wanted, a thousand acres."

"Do you mean to cultivate it?" interrupted the Senator.

"No, not now. I tried farming in North Carolina. I like keeping the store better. I couldn't work this much land without slaves and I don't want no slaves. Me and my children grow enough for our own needs."

The Senator was curious. "What will you do with so much land if you don't farm?"

Frederick smiled expansively. "I like land. When I was a little boy I wanted to be big so I could own some land. It makes me feel like - like - " he floundered into silence.

"I know what you mean," Dr. Morrison said. "It's a fine feeling just to know something belongs to you. You have good land for hunting, wooded land for turkey, meadows for quail. I'm sure there are ducks in your bottom land, and there must be deer in that large plot you have above my place."

"Would you hunt with me?" Frederick asked eagerly. "Would all of you hunt with me? We could go in the fall."

"Capital!" Senator Mobley agreed heartily. "there's nothing I like better than a good hunt."

"I hunted turkeys on my wife's pa's place, The Orchards. We hunted on Thanksgiving. Would you gentlemen want to hunt then?"

They agreed instantly and enthusiastically. Soon after they took their leave of Frederick who was beaming with pleasure.

Frederick had grown a little portly of late and his hair line was farther back than it had been formerly. Lines were showing In his face, good humor lines around his eyes that came when his face crinkled in laughter, worry lines across his cheeks because anticipation was so much greater than realization.

He had wanted a home of his own, a wife and children, a store and an estate. He wanted friends and social life and a chance to feel that he was an important part of his country. All these things he had to a degree. His place had been called Fredericksburg at first for a joke, but the name had stuck and it was thus referred to now. His house stood in a grove of water oaks. Room after room had been added to the first little I-shaped log house, ceilings had been put in, weather-boarding put on the outside, and chimneys added until the house was large enough and warm enough to accommodate the ever-increasing family in comfort. It was a bewilderment of roofs, eaves, and ells, but had a quaintly attractive look in its isolated setting across the road from the store.

The ease with which he had achieved his material success left him privately amazed and self-congratulatory. But his relations with his wife were a source of disquiet to him. She was acquiescent, even responsive to advances by night, but overly free with a lashing tongue by day. He could tell she was disappointed in him, but for what reason he could not fathom. She had appeared to want the same things he did. He had thought he was supplying them, yet she was less easy to live with than ever. He had believed that in order to keep her contented he must fill her lap with plenty. He had worked, thought, planned, even prayed the prayers of a good Lutheran, for success to keep his dream of a good home, beautiful children, a large estate, all presided over by a charming, gracious lady who made his life a daily blessing. Outwardly he seemed to have all these things. Inwardly there was something lacking. This intangible deficiency left a void in his life, a loneliness in his soul and lines in his face. Genial, friendly, popular, he hid this infelicity, threw himself into his work, putting out feelers occasionally in search of the quality for which he felt the need, drawing them back when his wife stepped on them, never fully realizing for what he was searching.

For Cynthia was absorbed in externals, unaware that it was this same hunger of the spirit which Frederick felt that was sharpening her tongue and putting ridges between her dissatisfied eyes. She moved about her house proudly erect, not a flaw in the lovely complexion nor a gray hair in the dark crown, yet eternally busy with the small tasks not to be trusted to a servant. There was always a child to be spanked, a baby to be changed or the nausea of another on the way. She had had a child almost every two years since her marriage. By her thirtieth birthday she had five children. This left her little time for the social activities that to her were the cream of existence. She longed to dress up, to entertain and be entertained, and to be admired for her beauty as she had been before her marriage. But there was always a child that spoiled her figure or took her time. Though she loved her children after they come, she resented it each time she found herself pregnant. She resented, too, the need, as much spiritual as physical, that took her willingly into Frederick's arms in a mutual searching for a meeting of the spirit. The physical pleasure kept them constantly yearning for a deeper source of contentment which the inarticulate Frederick knew not how to supply to a self-absorbed, capricious wife, finding herself trapped by the fruits of love.

The year 1829 saw the birth of their sixth child, a girl who looked so much like Cynthia that she was given her name. She was such an exquisitely beautiful child that her coming, to some extent, made up for what had happened to Caroline the previous year. Before she could walk Cynthia had found her stiff and unconscious in her cradle where she had been placed asleep an hour before. Dr. Morrison was sent for at once and he used hot applications on her until she revived. She had a high fever for a week and did not improve much for some time after. Her feet were watched closely, so that the gradual change that was brought about by the drawing of the tendons of the calf was not noticed until Dr. Morrison called their attention to it. Then they saw that she had the appearance of being extremely bow-legged below the knees. She did not learn to walk until she was four. Then she reeled slightly from one side to the other as she set her feet down. When bringing her foot forward she moved it in a slight arc and set it down on its outer edge.

Cynthia and Frederick were not prepared for this blow, and they took it with no more fortitude than they had shown when Martha had become deformed. Caroline was consigned to Martha's care as a child. Cynthia had a vague feeling that they should be very close to each other, for the time might conceivably come when they would need each other.

Just two years older than Caroline was Samuel who was called Fraidy-Cat. Five years younger than Robert, he was teased and frightened so many times by his older brother that any new thing aroused but one emotion, fear, which was accompanied by tears, a running nose and a slick, whitish sleeve on which the nose had been desiccated. The first turkey he saw frightened him into a corner of the kitchen where he peeped out with wide eyes from behind the meal barrel. Robert persuaded him to follow the turkey hunters once. Frederick brought him back almost incoherent with fear of the shooting and the flight of the turkeys. The next time he followed them he was discovered and brought into the blind while the hunters waited for the return of the turkeys.

"You have to be still, Sammy," Frederick cautioned.

After some time a turkey responded to the call. All waited almost breathlessly as the call. was sent back and forth, first by Billy Thompson, then by the turkey. Samuel, held tight by his father's arm, peeped through the leaves and saw a fine gobbler coming at a trot.

"There's a turkey! There's a turkey!" he squealed.

The skittish bird took wing and escaped in spite of the shots that rang out. Frederick took the little fellow home.

Once when all the family were going to a basket meeting at Hanging Rock Church, the wagon became stuck in the mud at the ford where the road crossed a creek. The horses had such a hard time pulling the wagon that Sammy began to cry.

"Oh, oh, oh, oh! We'll all be lost in the mud! I know we'll all be lost in the mud!"

Catherine was like none of the other children, but had inherited her grandmother's nose. She had a rosy, dark complexion with dark hair and nondescript eyes. She was just two years younger than Robert and had often to protect herself from his teasing, pinching, hair-pulling, sudden, stinging slaps and snatching of playthings. She helped protect Martha and Caroline from him, too, when she could, for Robert was sometimes heedlessly rough. It was small wonder that she developed an aggressive personality tempered by motherliness. The other children were named William, Mary and Frederick III, and were all born before the family moved away.

Of all these Robert showed most promise and brought most exasperation to his parents. He was neither large nor small for his age. He had gray eyes, dark hair and dark complexion. And he was badly spoiled. Frederick bad begun it as soon as he was born and he had been ably assisted by Cynthia. Their hearts had been so sore, at the time of his arrival, by Martha's illness and resulting deformity that all their hopes fastened on him. To them he seemed phenomenally perfect. He was not allowed to cry. Frederick would go to any lengths to keep him amused. He took up a great deal of time with him, keeping him in the store, talking to him, taking him for rides on his horse. Robert grew to expect this attention and to cry when he didn't get it. After a time Cynthia became tired of this and protested to Frederick.

"You're spoiling that young'un. You'll have him rotten."

"I don't like to hear him cry. I'm gonna take him up." And Frederick would give the little fellow whatever it was he wanted, for Frederick's heart had fastened itself upon this tiny lad as one who would bring him compensation for many disappointments life had dealt him, never thinking of his responsibility for early instilling in the child the qualities which would enable him to have a good life.

Robert was four years old before he was ever really thwarted in his desires.

One afternoon Martha was sitting on the ground playing with small pieces of colored glass which she found under the ash hopper. The ash hopper was a large basket placed on stilts with a tab underneath. Ashes from hardwood which was burned in the fireplaces were emptied in the basket, water was poured over them and allowed to drip down into the tub underneath. This was used with grease to make lye soap for the laundry. Sometimes a piece of glass was thrown into the Eire and partly melted so that it assumed a glossy appearance in which the light made many pretty colors. Where the ash hopper had been emptied was where Martha had found the glass bits she was playing with. She poured them from one hand to the other, then placed them on piles of sand she had made. Robert was watching her. He came over and picked up several pieces of the glass, turning them over in his hand.

"Gimme my pretties," Martha ordered.

"I wanta play with 'em." And he began to make piles of sand.

"You go find some for yourself. Gimme mine." She got up and hobbled toward him. He ran and she, of course, could not catch him. She began to cry and call.

"Mama, make Robert gimme my pretties."

Cynthia came out as Robert ran into the store which was empty of customers at that moment. She followed with Martha.

"Robert, what you got that belongs to Martha?"

Robert began to cry. "I want them."

"What's he got, Martha?"

"My pretty rocks I found under the ash hopper. I was playing with 'em and he come and took 'em and I want 'em back. Make him give 'em to me, Mama."

"Give them to her, Robert."

Robert turned to Frederick. "I want 'em. Can't I keep 'em, Papa?"

Poor Frederick! He was caught between two fires of his own building. He wanted to placate Martha and he wished to please Robert, but he dared not cross Cynthia in a thing that was so obviously wrong.

"Do what your Mama says, Robert," he ordered.

Robert threw the pieces of glass to the floor, lay down on his face and began to scream.

"Shet up that hollerin' or you'll git somethin' to holler fer," Cynthia said.

Robert only screamed louder and began to kick the floor with his feet. She leaned over and slapped him soundly. He flung out his arm savagely and struck her on the leg, almost over-balancing her. She looked at Frederick with a wordless demand.

"Git up, Robert." Frederick spoke sternly. When the child continued to cry without obeying, his father stooped and picked him up, sat down on a box, laid him across his knees and administered his first real spanking. Cynthia watched grimly as Robert kicked and screamed and Frederick used the palm of his hand efficiently, but not too severely.

"Make him hush that hollerin'," Cynthia exclaimed.

Robert began to beg. "Don't, Papa, don't hit me no more. I'll be good."

And Frederick stopped. He wanted desperately to clutch the now subdued boy to his heart, but he could not weaken under Cynthia's sternly triumphant eyes. So he allowed him to go away with gasping breath and heaving shoulders. Later he went out to find him, and had to search for some time before he discovered him, tear-stained, dirty and asleep, under the house. Frederick pampered his yearning parenthood by holding the dark head close to his shoulder and putting the small arms around his neck while he carried him in. He brushed the dirt off his clothes, washed his face, hands and feet and put him to bed.

Catherine soon began to take attention away from Robert. When she started walking and talking she made him feel that nobody cared anything about him. He was often told to get out of the way and to go out and play. When Catherine was patted and kissed for her winning ways and bright sayings, he tried the same things and was slapped for showing off. He was bewildered and hurt, not understanding why he was pushed aside now when once everybody had been glad to have him around. To him grown-ups now became doubtful, suspicious people, especially his parents. They had once seemed to love him, had thought he was somebody special, had let him have everything he wanted and had given him a great deal of attention. But now. Now he was neglected, discarded, forgotten. He was getting no attention and had an indefinable idea that he would rather be punished than ignored. So he took refuge in little meannesses. Cynthia scolded and spanked and talked to others about how bad he was in his presence. She thought to shame him, but she only succeeded in emboldening and hardening him.

Frederick was sorely troubled over the change in Robert who was no longer the affectionate little fellow he had been. Finding his place in his parents' affections apparently taken by the younger children, he made their lives hectic by the endless little tricks which wide-awake boys can think of, taking their playthings, pulling their hair, pinching them, pushing them down, throwing mud on them. Cynthia was distressed. Clinging stubbornly to a delicate condition after the birth of Samuel, she continually called on Frederick to punish Robert for his misdeeds. This was not to the father's liking, for his heart ached over his eldest son; he hoped against hope for some bond of understanding between them.

So Robert came to the age of six with a terrible disposition and a worse reputation. He teased older children and bullied younger ones. He pouted and played tricks to get even when he was denied anything. He was prepossessing in appearance, always attracting attention in public. Yet he was made to feel that this, too, was a fault in the eyes of his parents, for one or the other invariably answered compliments with the remark, "You ought to see the way he behaves at home."

He was both sullen and bold, and alternated between moments of despair because apparently no one cared a fig about him and a determination to do as he pleased in spite of all efforts to control him. This stubbornness only brought on more punishment with the result that he wore a desperate, hunted look as if he felt that all hands were against him. He could not tell that Frederick would far rather caress than punish him; neither did his father know that he often longed to slip his little hand in Frederick's big one and for just a moment feel that he was wanted.

This was the year that he started to school to Dr. Morrison. Cynthia would teach the little girls at home, but was dubious about undertaking the education of Robert. When Frederick asked the doctor about taking him, he was given a very positive answer.

"I'll take him in my school, Fred, but I'll grant him no favors. Even though you are my friend and I am your physician, I know that boy by observation and reputation and I'll have no foolishness out of him. Either I'll break his spirit or I'll break his head."

Frederick shuddered a little at these harsh words, and he could not help wondering what Robert would be like with a broken spirit. He was sure that was what was needed; yet he wanted somehow to warn and prepare the boy for what was in store for him. He took him over to the doctor's house that first morning, talking as he held the child in front of him on his horse.

"I'm taking you over to the school at Dr. Morrison's house, Robert. You're gonna learn to read and write and cipher and spell. I want you to study hard and behave yourself. I'm telling you, you'll have to do that, for Dr. Morrison is a man who won't stand for no foolishness. He keeps a big stick over in the corner of the schoolroom and he lays it on your back hard when you cut up or miss your lessons."

"I'm gonna git my lessons, Papa," Robert said enthusiastically.

"That's what I want you to do; always git your lessons. Then when you're a man you'll have book learnin' and I'll be proud of you. Wouldn't you like that, Robert?"

"Yes, sir, Papa. I like for you to be proud of me."

"And you will behave yourself, won't you? You're my young'un and I don't want nobody beating on you."

"Yes, Papa, I'll behave. And, Papa?"

"What is it, Robert?"

"Why is Dr. Morrison's face so funny looking?"

"He was sick one time and took some physic and it turned his face green. But you mustn't say nothing to him about it, Robert."

Behaving himself in school came easy to Robert, to the surprise of everyone. For one thing, the prospect of Frederick's being proud of him was greater as an incentive than talk of Dr. Morrison's severity was as a deterrent. The way he was started off struck a spark of interest on the very first day. He was handed a card with the alphabet illustrated on it, told what the names of half a dozen were and given a copy of them to imitate on his slate. He liked doing things with his hands and set to work at once, keeping at it so steadily that he had achieved a creditable result by the time Dr. Morrison came to him again. The teacher was pleased with his quiet diligence and said so. He resolved to try to control this unruly boy by keeping him busy.

Robert was fascinated by the new things he found out. He caught on quickly, though sitting still on the long benches, which were too high for his feet to reach the floor, gave him shooting pains in his legs. Writing interested him most, and he expended a great deal of time and patience working over the copies that were set for him. Years afterward, when his beautiful handwriting was admired, he would grin wryly as he thought of the green-faced instructor whose rod of correction had less to do with his education than the twinkle in his eyes and the air of amused tolerance with which he presented both side of a question.

Once when Sumter Ferguson had to sit on a stool with a pointed cap on his head for not knowing the rule of three, while the others grinned behind their hands, Robert's face grew hot. He knew if such a thing ever happened to him he would do something terrible, for it was intolerable that he should be laughed at. He was deeply sensitive and passionately desirous of approval in spite of the protective air of indifference and bravado which he wore. Some instinct told him not to employ the tactics he used at home for fear, not of the rod which seldom touched him even lightly, but of unpredictable consequences to and within himself.

Another factor in Robert's success in school was the respect which one intelligent mind accorded another. Dr. Morrison recognized Robert's ability, particularly in mathematics, and an unspoken bond of understanding existed between them. Mathematics was the doctor's pet subject, stating each rule, giving several examples and outlining problems to be solved by its application.

Robert never ventured to talk with the school master. He plugged away at his lessons which were always long and hard enough to challenge his ability. The doctor saw to it that he was kept busy, and Robert took care that the work was done creditably. So, for the length of time he stayed in school, he received about twice the amount of education as the others. He was in school about three months in the winter and four weeks in the summer.

Laying-by time came in August, when the farmers ceased cultivating their crops and waited for the harvest. It was at this time that the camp meetings were held. Cynthia had been Baptist and had attended Laurel Hill church most of the time with her parents. But the place of worship nearest Fredericksburg was the camp ground at Hanging Rock which was kept up by the Methodists. There being no Lutheran church anywhere they knew of, Frederick took his family to the hanging Rock camp ground each August for a week of preaching services.

The Hanging Rock was a phenomenon of nature. From the lower side it seemed to be hanging on a hillside and might at the slightest touch tumble down, down to the foot of a steep, tree-covered slope. It was possible to climb on natural foot-holds above to its top where one could overlook the leafy mantle of tree tops to fleecy clouds in the distant blue. Above, the rock seemed a natural place to go, to look around and admire the view, but, looking at it from below, you felt that if you should venture to the top it would surely plunge down the incline and crush you.

A battle had been fought here during the Revolutionary War. General Davie and Major Garden were in command of the American soldiers and they attacked the British troops encamped with General Tarleton about daybreak on the morning of August 6, 1780. The battle went in favor of the Americans because of the element of surprise, but was not decisive. General Davie kept urging his men to annihilate the British but they had come upon the upper part of the camp which had been deserted by the British and were more interested in plundering than in fighting.

The breatworks which the British had thrown up around their camp remained there for many years. Trees and vines grew up around them and became a favorite place for the boys to play during the time between services at the camp meeting. For it was near this spot that the Methodists had their camp ground. The church had originally been a brush arbor made of bushes cut and placed across poles, which were held up by tall stakes driven into the ground and having forked sticks at the top to hold the poles. The seats were unplaned slabs with two legs at each end forced through auger holes. This arrangement was temporarily adequate but unsatisfactory because rain forced the worshipers to stand on their seats. As soon as the men had time they held a working and put up a log tabernacle which was used year after year. There were several preachers who served during the week. One would start the services at nine o'clock in the morning. When he got tired another took over and kept going until noon, at which time they took a break of two hours for dinner. The afternoon services lasted in the same way until time to cook supper.

The people came for miles around. They brought enough food, cooked and uncooked, to last as long as they planned to stay. They came in wagons, in buggies, in ox-carts, on horseback and a-foot. They carried quilts to sleep on and some brought tents for shelter. Some camped under their wagons, others in a cabin or under an improvised brush shelter. Some slept on the benches in the church.

During the services the people came and went. They sat in the pews until they grew tired or the children became fretful. They went outside to walk around and rest, then went back in to listen to more preaching. Sometimes a preacher would end his sermon to an entirely different group from the one with which he began. The women usually slipped out a while before the service ended to get the meal ready. Sometimes among the crowd were those, known as blackguards, who came not for the preaching but for looting, They made a practice of slipping around at night and picking up whatever they could get their hands on. One man, sleeping on his pew, had his shoes stolen off his feet.

Around Tarleton's breastworks the trees and vines had taken over. In the fall wild muscadines ripened in abundance, but in August the vines themselves were an attraction for the boys who came to camp meeting. A large one was selected and cut off at the ground. The runners growing out from it were trimmed off and the trunk smoothed so that young hands could hold on to it without being hurt. This was a grape vine swing for the boys. They took turns holding the vine very firmly in both hands, running very fast along the top of the breastworks, jumping off to swing high above the ground and coming back to the jumping-off place. Robert was one of the best at this kind of swinging. But his luck did not always hold. After the swing had been in use for some time the vine began to slip. It was just that youngster's luck that it should finally slip loose from the top of the tree when he was swinging and let him land on the ground. He rolled off down the hill, struck his head against a stump and lay still. At first the other boys laughed, but when Robert did not move they came to him and tried to get him up. They talked excitedly among themselves.

"But he's got the breath knocked out of him."

"We better go sit his pa."

"Les wait a little bit; he might come to."

"Robert! Robert!"

"Don't shake him; you might hurt him."

"I don't know what to do."

When time came to go back into the church for the afternoon service, Frederick missed Robert and came to find him. He was just coming around after having been unconscious for about thirty minutes. The boys all tried to explain at once as Frederick picked him up and took him back to the wagon. It was several weeks before he finally recovered from the effects of his fall.

These camp meetings were held eery summer and the Klemmingers always attended them. Robert liked to go to the services. He sat with Frederick and watched the interesting things that went on around him. The shouting and gesticulating of the Reverend Walling interfered not at ell with his pleasure.

There was a man whose sleep had been disturbed last night. His valiant efforts to listen to the sermon were in vain. His eyes would close to slits, his jaws sag, and his chin start on a slow trip to his chest. When the muscles of his neck were sufficiently relaxed his head made a sudden dive and his eyes flew open as if pulled by a string. Robert almost laughed aloud and Frederick's forbidding glance brought his eyes back to the front. Then he saw a woman who kept trying to brush something off her neck. He snickered when he saw that it was a small, dark, clinging bug which exudes blood and a disagreeable odor when crushed. Robert found a straw on the floor and thought to help the woman out by getting the chinch to crawl on it, but Frederick's frown caused him to desist.

A particularly loud exclamation from the preacher attracted his attention now and he became engrossed in watching a fly trying to alight on the hot, perspiring minister's nose. Suddenly the man leaned far forward and pointed his finger toward the exact place where Robert was sitting. It seemed that the man was actually pointing at him.

"Do you know," he shouted, "do you know what the Lord is going to do with you?"

He had Robert's undivided attention now as the boy waited breathlessly for the answer.

"If you don't quit your meanness and join up on the Lord's side, He's going to send you straight to hell just as sure as you're sitting there. You're going to get eternal punishment, yes, you are."

Robert's heart began to beat fast. He knew what punishment was, oh, didn't he know! He wasn't sure about eternal, but he thought it must be something which made the punishment worse. He certainly didn't want that. He wasn't quite sure, either, what the preacher wanted him to do, except to quit his meanness. He wanted to hear more.

"Once there was a little boy who heard the Lord call him. The Lord said, 'Samuel! Samuel! And what did Samuel do? Did he run and hide? Did he quit his work and go to the boat race and leave the Lord to get His work done the best way He could? Oh, no! Samuel answered the Lord's call. Samuel said, 'Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth! Samuel said, 'What is it, Lord? Go ahead and tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.' What are you going to do when the Lord calls you?" Again came that relentless finger apparently pointing straight at Robert. "He's calling you now. Don't you hear Him? What are you going to answer?"

And the preacher launched into his invitation to the lost and strayed. With hammering heart Robert listened closely. He had followed the preacher's words; he wanted to escape the punishment; he wanted to know what to do; he wanted to step out on the Lord's side. So when others began to respond to the invitation to go down to the mourner's bench, he went, too. He was beset by fear, and he had an obscure feeling that his going would relieve him of the fear which was threatening to choke him and was already bringing moisture into his eyes.

After this came the noon recess. Robert went to dinner comforted and unafraid. When he reached the wagon Martha pointed to him and cried out, "Robert's got religion. He went down to the mourner's bench." And she laughed merrily.

Frederick looked at him curiously. He had thought vaguely that they might be pleased. His face reddened. He turned away and ran toward the Hanging Rock where the children had often played hide while their elders napped after dinner. This time he was not going to play, but was running away from the titter that went around the table at Martha's words. He was too angry and hurt to look where he was going. He stumbled, fell and went rolling down the hill beside the rock. One leg crashed into a broken sappling, tearing a deep hole in the fleshy calf. At his scream Frederick came running, and again this year picked him up and carried him back to the wagon. He was bloody and crying unashamedly. The attention he now received almost made up for the many hurts he had taken with feigned indifference, that is, until he looked at his wound and remembered why he had gotten it. His sensitive, hungry soul, sheathed in many protective layers of pretense at indifference, coldness and callous meanness, could never bear ridicule. From that day he turned resolutely away from all religious pretense.

XXV

The sentiments expressed by Senator Mobley at Fredericksburg were but an echo of great leaders of South Carolina. In fact, the state was militant with two opposing parties, one the Union party and the other the Nullifiers. The Union party held that South Carolina, having entered the Union of her own free will could secede at any time, but as long as she was in the Union she could not veto an act of the National Government. The Nullifiers held with the Union party on the first thesis, but maintained the opposite on the second.

A crisis came in 1832 when Congress again changed the tariff, removing some of the more objectionable features, but establishing beyond a doubt protection as a policy of the National Government. The Nullifiers were in power in the state and held a convention in Columbia with Hayne, now Governor, as chairman, and declared the tariffs of 1828 and 1832 null and void. A torchlight procession marched through the streets of Charleston celebrating the occasion. Demonstrations were held in other towns as well.

The men of Camden were unequally divided in their loyalties, most of them leaning toward nullification. Some prepared to answer the call for volunteers when President Jackson seemed disposed to enforce the provisions of the tariffs and South Carolina made ready to resist. Wesley, being older and not so fiery as the younger men, felt that a mistake had been made. He had a sincere conviction that South Carolina's representatives in Congress were powerful enough to cause the law to be changed by peaceful means rather than by the act of nullification, secession, or war. His contention seemed to be upheld by the fact that Hayne, while still Senator, had stood up ably against Webster in debate. Wesley, among many others, was considerably relieved when the crisis was averted by the clever compromise of Henry Clay.

"We've not seen no hard times yet to what we'd a seen," he said to Susannah when he came in to tell her of the reconvening of Congress in December and its action, "if we'd a gone to war. Governor Hayne thought the other states was going to follow South Carolina's lead, but they didn't do it. I reckon it's a good thing they didn't, but I'm afeard we aint heerd the last of this. Once a horse gits the bit in his teeth he's much more apt to bolt."

"Well, don't you bother your head about it," she soothed. "It's always worked out and I 'spect it'll keep right on working out." She looked at him worriedly. Even she could see he had aged since George left, whether from missing him and Jane and the baby, or from worry over not being able to do his work so well any more, she did not know. His gray hair was now little more than a fringe around the sides of his head. His hands trembled so that he was able to do but little work on the saddles. He managed, however, to do some of the less important jobs for another saddler and made a bare living that way. He walked to the stores every time the mail came. They heard from George once or twice a year and Wesley always looked for his letter weeks before it came. Soon after the excitement over the nullification proceedings and the subsequent happenings had died down, a letter came from George. It ran thus:

Pleasant Grove, Tennessee

November the eighth, 1832.

Dear Papa and Mama Carpenter,

Once again. I take my pen in hand to address a. few lines to my foster parents. This leaves me feeling very well and with a much brighter outlook on life. I have gained in weight and I believe I feel and look better than I ever have in my life. I hope this finds you enjoying good health. I thick about you constantly and I wish I could hear from you more often. I trust that you, Papa Carpenter, are still able to work with the saddles and make a good living. I would not like to think that you were suffering and I would arrange to come back at once if I thought you needed me.

As long as you don't need me I think I will settle in this country. It is a pretty place. It has a good many hills, but not very high, and much rich bottom land. There is timber, and streams to water the land. It does not have the kind of soil that you find around Camden, but is rich and dark and grows many different kinds of crops. I have told you before we are living with Albert Barstow. He is a good neighbor and all of them are good to my wife and little girl. The land I am thinking of buying lies next to his farm. I like farming and I think I would be able to make a better living at it than I have at the saddle trade. I have not gone back to being a saddler.

But the thing I have considered most in making my decision to stay here is that the climate suits Jane. You would not know her, she has improved so much since we come here. She has gained weight. She stays up almost all the time during the day. Her color is good and her cough almost gone. She helps Mrs. Barstow with the housework. I believe there is a good chance of her getting well.

Mary Jane is too. She is almost nine years old now, but is still little for her age. I guess she will always be little, like her Ma. She still has as much pretty brown hair as ever. She helps around the house and Mrs. Barstow thinks there is nobody like her. She does not look much like Jane or me, but is fair and has blue eyes like Cynthia. She has been my mainstay ever since Jane got sick. She has not been going to school like the Barstow children. I teach her myself. She learns fast, if I do say so myself as shouldn't. She is now reading Pilgrim's Progress. Of course, I have to help her with some of the words, and she asks lots of questions about religion. You would be surprised at how well she understands it.

It is growing late and the light is getting dim. My eyes are not what they used to be. So, I will close for this time. All join me in sending their love. Trusting that this finds you as well as it leaves us, I remain,

                  Your affectionate foster son,

George W. Cato.

Susannah's eyes were alight with happiness and affection as Wesley finished reading the letter to her. "The dear boy!" she crooned, using the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. "I'd shore love to see him."

They were both silent for some time, each mind busy with the pictures which the letter had conjured up.

Finally Wesley observed, "Well . . . you can!"

She knew exactly what he meant. She looked up, then away from his speculative eyes. "Yes, I know. We can send for him. But do you think we ought to?"

"Well, you know what he said; if we ever need him all we got to do is let him know and he'll come."

Again there was a long silence, broken eventually by Susannah. "You're barely able to make a living now, you know, Wes."

"Calm now, Susie. Les be shore we need him before we send for him. We oughtn't to bring him home jes' cause we want to see him and Jane and the baby. I can still do a little work. on the saddles."

"Not much, you can't."

"But we aint suffering yet. Besides there's a way you can help. Then we can wait a while before we send for George and that'll give him time to git started with his farm."

"What you got in mind, Wes?"

"Mis' Blaney, the woman that lives in the Thompson house, asked me as I come from the stores this evening if you couldn't do some sewing for her. Seems a woman died and they want a shroud made for her and aint nobody to make it. She thought maybe you'd do it."

"My land, who's dead?"

"Near as I could make out, 'taint none o' Mis' Blaney's folks, leastways she didn't act like it was."

"Did you tell her I'd do it?"

"I told her you'd help out."

"Of course I will. I'll git my shawl and go right on over there and see what I can do. Why didn't you tell me when you come in?"

"I had to read George's letter, didn't I?"

As a result of this, Susannah began to get work on shrouds. What she made helped out Wesley's infinitesimal earnings, so that they managed to hove enough to live on; enough, that is, until Wesley had another heart attack. This time he was at his bench cutting leather when he felt faint. He managed to call Susannah and she helped him to bed, then got a neighbor's boy to go for the doctor. The doctor was not encouraging.

"You know you are not going to get well," he said from his seat by Wesley's bed. "You know that already because it's your heart. But I'm not saying you're going to drop off right away. You may live several years, in fact, you might outlive me. On the other hand," he paused, hesitating to say what he knew to be true.

"I may go at any time," Wesley finished for him.

The physician nodded slowly. On the other side of the bed Susannah turned her head away. Wesley looked at her tenderly.

"Don't you fret, Susie. It's nothing new. We've knowed it was coming sometime." Back he turned to the doctor. "How long will I have to stay in bed?"

"You should rest several weeks. You might sit up a little after a few days, but not for long at a time, just until you begin to feel the least bit tired."

"Will I be able to work any more?"

The doctor shook his head. "I wouldn't count on it. If you have anyone to notify, anyone to come and look after your wife and your business, I'd send him word."

The two distressed old people were left alone in the house when the doctor had gone. He carried with him a letter to be posted to George in Tennessee telling him that which they dreaded had come to pass; Wesley was no longer able to make a living and he was needed. They knew it would probably be several months before George could come in answer to their summons, but they faced those months calmly with serene confidence in his timely arrival.

Wesley was never able to get up again. His work had to be abandoned, and the business of making a living devolved on Susannah. She spent most of her waking hours, when she was not taking care of Wesley, in sewing. Her customers furnished the cloth which she sewed at home. Sometimes the garments were ordered in advance. Susannah, when she had time, made cloth herself to keep on hand so as to be able to supply the demand on short notice.

Wesley steadfastly set his head to hold on to his spark of life until George should arrive. His flesh fell away almost visibly. His hair became snow white. His yellowish skin hung in folds on his arms, with the blue veins showing through starkly. Eventually Susannah fed his meals to him.

This she was doing one November evening when the covered wagon rolled into the yard. At first neither of them knew what it was. They could only see an expanse of whiteness when the shutter was opened. But a hail from George brought their trembling hearts almost to a standstill with unexpected joy. Susannah hurried to the front door and held it wide for them to come in. George stayed only long enough to hug Susannah and squeeze Wesley's hand, then went back to see about the oxen. Jane and Mary Jane sat down in the room with Wesley while Susannah busied herself with getting them some supper. Presently George's voice was heard in the room with her. They were all hungry and tired and sleepy.

It was a few days before they began to seem like themselves. The two old folks were pathetically glad to see them, and sat and locked at them as if their eyes could not get their fill. They looked well. Jane was plump and a rosy brown, Mary Jane just as George had described her in his letter, still with the downward turned corners at her mouth and the glorious long brown hair in a braid down her back. George was looking so well they could hardly believe he was the same person. He was bronzed and muscular, and radiated happiness. It seemed as if the new life he had found in Tennessee had burned out the fires of uneasiness and introspection that had always plagued him. He hod got close to nature and had absorbed peace from her cycles of unceasing sameness, the eternal progression of the seasons, the sun, the rain, the crops, finding essential variety in the new grown, the cultivating and the harvest. He was the personification of tenderness toward those he called his girls. It was evident they felt very secure in his love and care. A happier family could not well be imagined.

Mary Jane was a model of deportment. Her father's influence was evident in everything about her. She conversed like an adult and amused Wesley by sitting at his bedside and talking of her life in Tennessee.

"Tennessee is different from Camden," she confided.

"How is it different from Camden?" he asked, smiling and feeling much stronger since their return.

"Oh it's prettier, but Camden is pretty, too," being careful not to give offense. "Tennessee has hills and Camden is so - so sort of flat. There are lots of big trees, and pretty little branches. Papa wouldn't let me go wading much, but I liked it."

"What did you do in Tennessee?"

"In the summer time I did lots of things. I took water to Papa in the field. I picked berries and I helped cut apples and peaches to dry. I'm most too little to hoe, but I did help Papa some. I fed the chickens and minded the calf for Belle to milk. I brought water from the spring, and kept the fire going around the pot when we washed."

"My, you done a lot of things. Did the smoke ever git in your eyes?"

She laughed at the recollection. "It followed me all around the pot. Mis' Barstow said smoke follows pretty girls around. I guess that is just a saying," She laughed self-consciously.

"Seems to me like I heerd that sommers," Wesley said gravely. "I wouldn't be sprised if the smoke knowed what it was doing."

Their eyes twinkled at each other.

"Do you remember anything that happened when you lived in Camden before you went to Tennessee?"

She cast her eyes down, then looked up at him candidly. "I remember you reading the Bible and getting down on your knees to pray. You prayed for us, didn't you?"

"Yes, my child, and I believe God has answered my prayer."

"God always answers prayer, don't he, Grandpa?"

"Not always, honey. Depends on what you askin' far."

She looked at him with a question in her bright eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"If God don't answer all the prayers, how does He know which ones to answer and which ones not to answer?"

"Because He knows ever'thing. He knows what has already happened in days gone by and what's gonna happen next. So you see He knows if what you're askin' fer is good fer ya or not."

Mary Jane looked a little puzzled.

"If what you're askin' far," he explained further, "is good far ye, He'll give it to ya' but if it aint good fer ye, He will give you somethin' else."

"Then He does always answer prayer, don't He ?" Wesley was in his turn puzzled. She went on. "He answers it some way, whether He gives you what you ask for or not. He always gives you something."

Wesley's puzzled look vanished. "You know more about the Lord than I do," he stated. "But comin' back to Tennessee, what did you do there in the winter time?"

"Papa and I read. I read to him and he helped me with the words."

"Do you like to read?"

"Oh, my, yes. I like it so much that Papa has to make me quit when it gets dark."

"Can you write?"

"I can write some, but not so good."

"Well, you're young. There's plenty of time for you to learn."

"I'll write you a letter when I go back."

Wesley's face clouded. She saw it instantly. She had learned to be very sensitive to what could be teed in one's face.

"Does anything hurt you Grandpa? I'll get something for you if you want me to."

"Yes, child, something hurts me, but there aint nothing you can git that'll do me any good."

"Maybe Papa can get something for you. He can always help Mama when I can't. I'll call him."

"No, don't call your Pa. It does me as much good to have you with me as anything. There aint nothing nobody can do fer me."

Though Wesley was too unselfish to tell Mary Jane what was in him mind, he knew that he would never get the letter she promised to write. He knew George had brought his family home only to see him die, not that they all realized that. He seemed better at first because of the new interest their coming had brought, but when he became accustomed to their presence the bonds that had held him seemed to relax. He grew weaker so gradually that it was scarcely noticed. He had no more attacks. One night just before Christmas he awakened Susannah about midnight.

"Susie, my feet's awfully cold."

She slid out of bed instantly. "I'll git a jar a hot water to put to 'em."

When she came back with the jar wrapped in a piece of flannel, he lay with his head half off the pillow as if he had struggled to raise it and couldn't. He was beginning to get cold all over and his heart had ceased to beat. Susannah stopped short at sight of him, then came quickly and examined him. Convinced finally that there was no spark of life, she sat down and wept quietly. But her grief was brief. She and Wesley had already faced this and decided what she would do. She stood up and looked at him a long time. Then she went back to the kitchen and brought more water. She bathed and dressed him, made the bed and arranged him on it with his eyes closed, his hands crossed over his chest and the sheet drawn over his face. Then she replenished the fire and sat down to watch out the night beside her beloved dead. At first the tears poured silently down her face. But presently she grew calm, and peace seemed to come to her soul as she sat and thought, through the long hours, of Wes, her young lover, of the first weeks of their married life, of the many years between then and now. When others began to come in she faced them serenely.

About sun-up George aroused and, missing the usual activity around the house, came into the room. He took in the scene at a glance.

"Mama, Susie, why didn't you call me?"

"It's all right, George. It happened about midnight. I didn't see no use a botherin' you and Jane, for there wan't nothing you could do. There was only one last thing to be done fer him and I done it. I wanted to. Now he is ready fer his coffin. All that's left to be done is to tell the neighbors and arrange about the funeral. Don't you want to see him?"

They approached the bed and laid back the sheet. "You see how peaceful he looks! The lines o' sufferin' is all done smoothed out of his face. He aint hurtin' no more and he aint worryin' 'bout nothing. Lately he was dissatisfied cause he couldn't work. He didn't want to bring you back from Tennessee. He worried a lot cause I had to work so hard. Now he is well and happy. I'll miss him, o' course, but it would be wicked fer me to wish him back. His face may look cold and gray to you, but it's tellin' me something. It's tellin' me he's with the angels now and he'll be watchin' over me 'til I go to be with him. And it won't be long before I'll go. We had forty-six years together here, but up there we'll never be apart no more. That's something to look forward to, aint it, George."

And George, remembering how near he had come to losing Jane, could only bow his head in silent tribute to a love so great that it transcended even death itself.

XXVI

"What are we going to do, Mama Susie?" George straddled a chair in the kitchen where Susannah was washing out the dishrags after doing the breakfast dishes. It was about a week after Wesley's funeral.

"Well, George, the house is mine as long as I live; then it's yours. The saddlery tools are yours already. I'm shore you can git Wes' old customers back and they'll be glad to recommend you to other people. You made a good reputation for yourself when you was here. As fer me, I can go on with my sewing. I like to sew, and there don't seem to be many folks who're willin' to work on shrouds. Between us we oughta be able to keep all four of us alive."

"I would like to be back in Tennessee in time to start a crop in the spring," he said hesitantly, as if he disliked telling her.

She looked up, startled. "I hadn't no idee but what you'd stay with me as long as I live. Jane seems to be all right now. And it won't likely be long you'll have to stay. I got a feelin' I'll be seein' Wes soon."

"How you do talk!" he chided. "How about you coming to Tennessee with us?"

"What would I be doin' in Tennessee? I don't know nothin' 'bout a farm. My home is here and my heart's wropped up in it. All the good that me an' Wes knowed was here. My memories is in this old house, in ever plank and cobweb and dabber nest. An' Wes' grave is here. When I go I want to be laid right beside him. If I was in Tennessee, you'd never git me back here. So I better stay where I am."

George said no more, feeling that she was too near grief to have other worries projected upon her now. Presently he went to find Jane, who was straightening the bedrooms.

"Mama Susie wants us to stay here as long as she lives," he began, helping her with the covers.

"That'll be all right, George. I think we ought to stay with her, at least for a while."

"But we can't commit ourselves to stay indefinitely. Mama says she wont live long, but she is strong and healthy, and after she gets used to doing without Papa she'll feel better and last a long time. I hate the idea of sitting around here waiting for her to die so we can go back to Tennessee."

"Do we want to go back to Tennessee?"

"Of course we do. That is, I do, don't you?"

"Tennessee is all right, but I like it better here."

"Honey," he pulled her into his arms against the foot of the bed, "It's a risk to run. I'm afraid you might get sick again. You know the doctor said when we found a climate that suited you, we were to stay there."

"I'm all right now, George. Really believe I'm all well. We been here two months and I've not noticed any bad feelings."

"Two months is a short time compared to the years of Mama's life."

"What else can we do if she wants us to stay with her? Did you ask her to go with us?"

"Yes. She don't want to go." And he repeated her reasons for not wanting to leave Camden. "I didn't mention what it might mean to your health if we stay here."

"Les' finish the bed. Git on the other side and help me put on the coverlet And les' just stay here with her for a while and not worry 'bout anything. I like it here; it makes me think of when we were first married. I feel fine. If I git to feeling bad, I'll tell you. It will be time enough to plan then what to do. By then things might be different."

So back to the saddles George went. It was not difficult to get work because he was remembered. Then, too, the man with whom Wesley had been associated was glad to throw work his way. Susannah continued her sewing and Jane kept house. Mary Jane, almost ten now, busied herself between the three. She held the leather for George to mark off his patterns and did many of the small tasks which he himself had done for Wesley when he was a child. She peeled potatoes and shelled peas and beans for Jane. To Susannah she was the greatest help of all. She would thread the needle for her, pull out and rewind basting threads, and keep the floor clear of scraps, as well as deliver her finished work for her. In fact, she was as busy as any one of the four.

A year passed in this way and winter was upon them again. Jane caught cold and was unable to throw it off. George began again to think of Tennessee. He mentioned it one night after supper while they all sat in the kitchen.

"Mama Susie, have you made up your mind to go to Tennessee with us?"

Susannah looked up in surprise. "Why no. I didn't know you were still plannin' on goin'. I thought it was settled that you'd stay here as long as I live."

Jane shot him a warning glance, but he continued, "I'm afraid it's going to hurt Jane's health if we stay on here. She's caught a bad cold and hasn't been able to get rid of it. That's not good for her. You know her trouble started that way before. I'm honestly afraid to keep her here any longer."

Susannah sighed, fluttered her hands a little at her work. "George, I can't go to Tennessee. I'd not be satisfied for one minute away from Camden. I'd not last six months."

"Mama, try to see my side of it. I'm being put to my shifts. I can't leave you, and I can't let Jane stay here. I'm so worried with trying to do what's best for both of you, I'm near out of my mind."

"I know, George. I see what a fix you're in. You're pullin' against the current, as Wes would say. I don't know what to tell you to do. I'm ashamed that I'm in - in - the way," and she began to weep.

He went to her swiftly and, kneeling beside her chair, put his arms around her. "Don't cry, Mama. You're not in the way. Don't ever say that again. We like staying here with you. We want to take care of you. Please don't worry. We'll think of something. We're not going to leave you here by yourself."

Jane stood agitatedly. "We don't have to leave her! I'm not sick. I can stay on here just as easy as not."

But, Jane!" George protested. "You know the climate of Tennessee is much better for you. I don't know what will happen if you stay here."

"Tennessee! Tennessee! I'm sick of the sound of that word. I don't need to go back there. I'd rather stay here where my folks are. Just because I got a cold don't mean I'm going to die of consumption!"

Her shrill tone brought on a fit of coughing and she began to cry. George left Susannah and went to her.

"Jane! Jane!" He took her arm and put her in a chair. "Don't, Jane! You'll make yourself sick. Get her a cup of water, Mary Jane."

The coughing subsided, but the crying continued, positive proof to George that she was not well.

What is it, Jane? What do you want to do? We'll do anything in the world you want to do if you'll only stop crying."

"I want - to - go home," she sobbed.

"Home? Which home, dearest?"

"The - The Orchards."

He pulled her head against his chest and patted it, looking at Susannah, who met his eyes gravely. "I think you oughta take her," she mouthed.

The room was filled with the question which, though unasked, seemed to be shouted from wall to wall. Mary Jane spoke.

"You take Mama to see Grandma Love, Papa, and I'll stay with Grandma Susie."

Susannah looked lovingly at the girl. "Yes, George, that's the thing to do. Mary Jane will be as much help to me as anybody I know. Why, she already can sew pretty near as good as I can. You go ahead and take Jane to see her ma. You'll see how good we'll git along."

George turned Jane's face up. "You think we ought to do that, dear?"

Jane nodded, sniffed a little, dried her eyes and said, "We can tell Mr. Blaney we're going and git him to look out for Mama Susie and .Mary Jane at night. And we'll be back before long."

Jane was everjoyed at being at home again. She explored every nook and cranny of the place. She was in the fresh air and sunshine so much that her cold disappeared and she became more like her old self. She was so happy, she reveled so in the old associations, and especially at having George there with her. They were so like newly-weds again that he hesitated to urge that they return to Camden. Each time he mentioned it, she put him off.

"We'll go in a week or two."

Finally she sent George down over night to see about Mary Jane and Susannah and to tell them that they would be home soon. Susannah understood and was considerately non-commital. When he returned to The Orchards he found the situation there altered. Franklin had had a stroke. He fell in the lot trying to catch one of the horses. Jim and Lije found him and brought him in. George got home a few minutes after it happened. He lay in a coma for several days, then rallied and seemed about to regain his strength. After a week he suffered two more strokes, the last one being fatal. The shock of his passing was so great that the household was completely disorganized. Adeline was prostrated. As soon as she recovered sufficiently to be moved Billy took her home with him. George and Jane were left at The Orchards alone with Katherine. Adeline got better, but she never seemed to have any desire to return.

George went around and about the plantation, taking over Franklin's duties and helping Watts as best he could. He said nothing about what his wishes were for the future, but he often looked wistfully at Jane who avoided his direct glances.

Spring came on, and something must be done about the crops. With no verbal understanding, George set about the work. Learning from Watts what was usually done, he set the machinery in motion that resulted in the year's crops. He worked hard all day long every day, finding in physical activity and the resulting fatigue surcease from the worry that gnawed at his vitals. He could not have realized to save his life that he loved either Jane or Mary Jane more than the other. He missed the little girl so much that it was like a tooth that ached all the time. Yet longing for the sight of her, for the delight of her lovable ways, the pleasure of her companionship, could not tear him from Jane's side for more than a few days' visit to Camden. Susannah was getting along remarkably well with the child to help and both seemed well and in good spirits. George could not be sure of telling the truth when he told himself the same thing about Jane. She seemed content and was active enough, goodness knew, never seeming to take time for her rest periods. Yet he thought her color was not good, and often at night she was too tired even to talk to him, not to mention returning his caresses.

XXVII

After the crop was gathered in the fall, George brought Dr. Bland up from Camden to see Jane. An exhaustive examination disclosed that she was rapidly getting back into the condition in which she had been previous to the departure for Tennessee. The doctor censured George for having kept her in South Carolina so long.

"You had better get her away from here if you want her to stay alive," he told him firmly.

George knew not where to turn. He was humiliated by the doctor's suggestion that he was neglectful and hurt that not one voice had been lifted in his defense. Once again he went over all the arguments with Jane, both for and against their leaving. To all his pleas Jane had two unanswerable arguments.

"There's nobody to stay with Mama, and besides I'd rather stay here where my folks are."

Cynthia learned of the threat to Jane's health and came down for a sisterly visit. Robert drove for her and they brought two-year-old Fred, the latest and final addition to the Klemminger family. Robert was fifteen now. He behaved with less perversity, but was still given to pouting and playing tricks. He sometimes indulged in periods of supercilious silence that not even Frederick could penetrate.

Cynthia came with no other idea than to visit with Jane and her mother. Yet underneath her consanguinious interest was a feeling of curiosity about George, and about how he felt toward her. Frederick gave her little cause nowadays to think herself lovely and cherished. She had all her physical needs abundantly supplied, she even had plenty of attention, from the children and at meal times. Sometimes she wondered if she were beginning to lose her attractiveness; she was only thirty-eight and she felt young. So her heart quickened with a bit of interest when she found that she could have a little tete-a-tete with George every day. Carelessly she toyed with the idea of testing her power.

George's heart was sore with the thought of his culpability if Jane should not get well. To lose her would be terrible, but to be blamed for it was not to be borne. He welcomed the chance to talk to Cynthia. Perhaps she could persuade Jane to leave with him; perhaps Frederick could think of some plan for Mother Love.

Jane was spending a great deal of her time upstairs in bed now. Katherine at sixty-two was very active. She supervised her household and took a lively interest in the conduct of the farm. There was considerable work to be done. Watts had moved on to a tiny farm of his own. Katherine, lacking funds, had not replaced him. Several of the darkies had died since Samuel's demise and none had been bought to take their places. Some of the less productive fields had been allowed to lie out for a few years to rest. George thought they might fertilize them and continue to plant them, but Katherine preferred to clear new ground.

Winter work on the plantation consisted of mending leaky roofs and sagging doors, butchering a dozen or twenty hogs and curing the meat in the smoke house above fires of hickory logs, knocking down the cotton and corn stalks and planting the grain. There were fences to mend, cord wood to be cut and stacked, straw from the piney woods to be raked and hauled to the stables, and the new ground to be cleared, the roots grubbed up and burned. Overseeing all this work was as much as George could do, though Jim was as much help as Watts had been. He came in each evening tired from work, to be met at the door by the-old-man-of-the-sea with his burden of worry about Jane. He was glad to relax by the fire in the house with Cynthia who rocked Fred to sleep while Katherine fixed supper and Jane rested before eating. Robert had found an admirer in Jim's son, Rube, who called him "young Massa" and made him feel important. The two spent their time mutting, rabbit hunting and trapping muskrats. Consequently Cynthia had George all to herself each evening with ample opportunity to achieve her unconscious purpose.

"George, you don't look as good as you once to," she said, rather tactlessly, one evening. "I used to think you was good-looking."

He grinned ruefully and put his hand to the thinning spot in the hair on top of his head. "I don't look it now, do I? I can't say the same thing about you. You're prettier than ever."

He was actually going to be gallant! This was a good beginning. Let him talk a little about himself, then switch to discussion of herself.

"You're not worried about nothing, are you, George?"

He turned a surprised look on her. How could she possibly think he wasn't worried! "Yes. I think about Jane all the time. She oughtn't to stay here any longer, and yet I can't get her to say we'll leave. I wish you'd talk to her, Cynthia, maybe you can persuade her."

"Who'll stay with Mama if you and Jane leave? She can't work the plantation by herself."

"Looks like Frederick or Billy could do something. I don't think I ought to be expected to sacrifice my wife's health and life for a plantation."

He looked at her sharply. A trace of anger came in her eyes, which she quickly veiled with long, curling lashes. She bent over Fred for a moment, swallowed her ire and looked up, smiling.

"You oughn't to worry so about Jane. She's always been poorly. You can ask Mama. She'll tell you Jane's had sick spells all her life."

"I'm afraid I don't understand you. Knowing that Jane has never been strong gives me more cause to worry about her now than ever."

"I mean she's had these spells before and she's always got over them. Why one time she vomited for a year."

He looked at her in astonishment. " - vomited? For a year?"

"Yes. It was when she was about nine years old. You can ask Mama. She'd start ever morning soon as she got her breakfast and she'd vomit off and on 'til dinner time. When she felt like she was through being sick she'd empty the bucket and go lie down for a while. Then she'd eat dinner and be all right for the rest of the day."

It was a tale George had never heard before and he found it manifestly incredible. "How pitiful! I've never known her to be like that."

"Oh, she out-growed it, but it took her over a year to do it. So you see there's no use in taking Jane's little sick spells so seriously. She always gits over 'em."

"But she has had consumption!"

"Fiddlesticks! People who have consumption don't git well. Jane was pretty sick one time, I know, but she got over it. I never saw her looking better than when you all come by on your way home from Tennessee."

"That's just it. Tennessee suits her and South Carolina don't. If I don't get her away from here she's going to die!"

"There's not no danger, George. Jane'll be all right before long. She'd a got better before even if you hadn't took her away, All she needed was a little rest and attention. You know Jane craves attention."

George found himself constantly staring at Cynthia during this conversation, so many astounding remarks had she made. Now he could not believe that he had heard right. Did she mean to imply that Jane played at being sick to get attention? She seemed to read his thought; she had not meant to go that far.

"Of course, I don't mean to say," she added gently, "that Jane aint sick. I know she feels bad, but a little attention will make her feel better. We are both alike that way, we both like to be noticed. The only difference is she gits it and I don't."

She turned on the full power of her charm, gave him an innocent, wide-eyed look which spoke of patient endurance of neglect, then she veiled her eyes and whispered, "Oh, George, I wish.you'd tell me what to do."

"About what, Cynthia?"

"About Frederick." She was sure of his attention now. "He is different from what I thought he was. All he cares about is the store, and buying more land. He don't pay me no mind at all. Things just aint working out the. way I meant for them to. If I'd a knowed how he really was I'd a done different years ago."

George was still staring at Cynthia. She did not look like the neglected, unhappy wife she was picturing herself to be. She had more of the appearance of a woman who managed to get what she wanted; still there was a dissatisfied frown between her eyes. What could she be trying to tell him?

"I, - I'm sorry, Cynthia. I thought you and Frederick were very happy. You certainly seemed suited to each other, and you give the appearance of being happy."

"Appearance? Pshaw! A body has to keep up appearances. Not even the day we was married was he as nice to me as you are to Jane right now."

A ?eat light began to dawn on George. Frederick was the calm, undemonstrative type who showed his affection by working for those he loved; Cynthia craved the fruits of his labor, yet she wanted as well vocal proof that affection existed.

"My dear," he reproved gently, "surely you wouldn't compare yourself to my poor Janie who hasn't known a well minute in so long! You have everything a woman could want, a good home, a husband who works all the time for you, money to spend, seven fine children to whom you are all important -"

"Yes, I've got all them things, like you said. But," Cynthia was very sincere now, "something is missin'. I don't know what it is, but it just aint there. You and Jane have got it and it keeps you close to each other, and always thinking about each other. Frederick used to be all the time saying things that made me mad, and I guess I did him, too. Now we got hardened to it and don't seem to mind snapping at each other. That aint no way to live. We never had what seems to hold you and Jane together."

George answered carefully, sorry for the woman, temporarily eclipsed, who would tomorrow be ashamed of this outburst. "You're not really dissatisfied, Cynthia. When a woman is unhappy it shows in her face and you don't have that look. Do you remember, before you were married you told me that you were an ambitious woman and that what you really wanted out of life was not just to be loved and happy, but to have money and society? You said, too, the way for a woman to get what she wanted was to marry a man who'd work to get them for her. Now you've got what you wanted. Don't be disappointed if you find it's not as satisfying as you thought i'd be. Nothing ever is. Think how much worse you'd feel if you didn't have it. You seemed to be saying that money was all that mattered to you and that things of the mind and the soul were not important. You may be finding out now that you do have a need for them. That is all that me and Jane have. We have no society doings, no powerful friends, no money to speak of. If we did not have this feeling of importance to each other would really be poor. It's sort of like each of us being enough for the other. The one thing I want most of all to give her - good health - I can't do. The least that can be expected of me, then, is to make her know I love her."

"You do love her, don't you?" she asked, wonderingly, as if only now was she convinced of it.

"With every part of me."

This conversation was not going as Cynthia had planned. Although she had no wish to rob Jane of anything, she had wanted some assurance that George was still partly hers. Without volition, she added:

"And once you loved me, very much, I thought."

He clasped his hands over his left knee and stared into the fire. "Yes. I thought I'd die when Frederick told me that you were going to marry him. But I didn't. And now I see that everything happened for the best. We'd only have made each other miserable, for neither of us could have given the other what we most wanted from life."

"If you had married me you wouldn't have been troubled with so much sickness," she reminded him.

"Maybe not. In spite of all Jane's suffering, which, God knows I'd have borne for her if I could, we've been happy. I don't know of any two people who have been happier than we have. If ever a marriage was made in Heaven, ours was."

"I guess I never really knowed you, George," Cynthia said, humbly, for her. "I never give myself a chance to know you. I was so busy looking for a man who would be rich some day, I couldn't see what was right under feet."

"That is surely true, I was under your feet," he commented with a trace of bitter wonder for the young man he had been then.

"Many's the time I been sorry for the way I treated you. It's no use to say now that I wish I'd done different."

"No-o, because you don't know how you'd feel if you didn't have Frederick."

"There's no tellin' how things would have turned out if I hadn't always had my own way ever since I was little. Mama and Papa had lost a lot of babies before and Anne and Jane were so easy goin' it wasn't no trouble to git my own way. I can see myself in Robert right now. Maybe," she hesitated, looking at him cautiously, "maybe our children can find happiness together, if we couldn't?" She turned the statement into a question at the end that hung in the air between them as his eyes swung slowly to lock with hers.

Reading, finally, the purpose of the entire conversation in the querulous, frustrated look on her face, he turned away, remarking casually, "I ought to go to Camden while you're here to keep Mother Love and Jane company."

And Cynthia suggested as casually, "Why don't you take Robert with you?"

George lay wakeful in the next bed to Jane that night, for Jane, being restless, slept alone now, as could be easily arranged in the big, barn-like house. As he thought over what had been said downstairs, he wondered if he had read Cynthia right in judging that the whole thing sprang from her dissatisfaction and led to a proposed alliance between Robert and Mary Jane. It seemed too ridiculous to be given a second thought; they were mere children. But the seed lay there, Perhaps the qualities which had always made Cynthia attractive to him and now seemed to be making him acceptable to her would find their flowering in their children and make for great happiness for them. He would not try to influence Mary Jane in the choice of a husband, but neither would he put a stumbling block in Robert's way if such a thing should ever seem probable. His heart quickened a little at the thought. With Frederick's son to look after, Mary Jane would be sure to be well taken care of, a thing which he did not seem any too able to do for her mother.

Cynthia, too, 1ay awake for a time, because already, as George had surmised, the feeling of shame was catching up with her; she had invented her wish to lead a different kind of life, exaggerated her dissatisfaction, and misrepresented Frederick. What perversity could have possessed her? After all, she had admitted nothing; nothing, that is, to make it difficult for her to face George. And how he had lectured, in a round-about way! It was not so much the words he had used as his gentle chiding manner. Her face burned with both anger and chagrin. What had really started her off? She thought back and remembered seeing George give Jane her physic before supper. He had supported her head with his left arm while she drank, and then before he let her go he had pressed her close to him. Cynthia wondered what it would be like to have someone love you like that. She had always taken whatever she wanted, from either Anne or Jane. She didn't really want George; she just wanted Frederick to have a few of his qualities. But she was curious about his feelings. Well, she knew now; they no longer existed as far as she was concerned. She realized she had not been sincere, but had acted purely from selfish motives. Indeed, selfishness had motivated many acts of her life. Still, there were certain attributes of her nature which responded to the tender, considerate, intellectual side of George. And all these traits might combine, well, say in a grandchild. She smiled as she dozed off.

Robert had not been enjoying his visit to The Orchords very much. There was not enough to do to keep him occupied, for he liked activity. He was not to "foo1 around with the darkies," for they were busy gathering in the last of the crops, planting grain and getting the plantation ready for winter. George was always busy with Jane, and Cynthia with Fred. So that left only Katherine to help him keep out of mischief. He knew her well enough for she had come often to visit them, but they had never been really close. Now, however, they spent a great deal of time together and became the best of friends.

Katherine had many jobs to oversee and often rode her horse around over the plantation. Robert formed the habit of riding with her and became very useful. When they were not riding, he helped her with whatever she had to do. He handed her wool when she was carding and took the bats from her when they were finished, placing them carefully in a box. When the spinning started he lifted the bats ever so gently from the box and handed them to her, watching with fascination as she spun them into thread. He was on hand, too, when two or three spools of thread were twisted together on the spinning wheel to make the yarn stronger, then were wound into hanks and dyed in a wooden tub with dye made from walnut hulls, poke berries or leaves of certain plants found on the plantation. And as they worked they talked. There seemed never to be an end to the questions he asked about the things he wanted to know.

"Grandma, there's a bird nest in the apple tree. What kind of bird does it belong to?"

"It's a jay bird, Robert. I saw him in there last summer. They shore did make a lot of fuss when the little birds started learning to fly."

"Grandma, why do you plant your wheat in the fall? I read in a book about where they plant it in the spring."

"Spring would be too late for us here in the South. The hot weather would burn it up before it got ripe."

"Grandma, do you believe in God?"

"Why, yes, child. Course I do. I couldn't git along without Him. Don't you believe in Him?"

"Yeah, I spose I do." The boy hesitated. "He don't seem to like me."

"What makes you say that?"

The boy was tempted to confide his bewilderment, but he was afraid of being laughed at. So he changed the subject.

"Are you warm enough, Grandma?"

"Well, to tell the truth, I'm almost never warm enough from October to May."

"What makes you so cold? I'm not cold."

"I guess it's cause I'm so much older than you, child."

"Do all old people git cold?"

"I reckon so. Looks like the older a body gits the colder natured they git."

"Methuselah must've froze to death."

Katherine looked at, him strangely for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Robert, I declare you the funniest young'un."

He flushed, but more from pleasure than embarrassment.

When George invited him to go to Camden, Robert asked his grandmother's permission and was told to go. They spent two nights. George was closeted with Susannah most of the time, for he felt that some understanding must be arrived at. He put before her the facts of Jane's poor health, his duty to Jane's mother as well as to her, and Jane's very great unwillingness to leave The Orchards. He also mentioned what Cynthia had said about Jane getting over her illness.

Susannah had her answer ready to all this. "I believe Cynthia's wrong there. If you hadn't of took Jane away from here when you did she would a died. The way she looked when she come back showed this aint no fit place for her. Now she's sick agin, I believe the same thing is so. If I was you I'd make ray plans to leave, come spring. As for me, I'll be all right. Just leave your girl with me and you can go as fur as you please and stay as long as you want to. I couldn't ask for a better helper and there aint a finer girl nowhere than her. She goes to church ever Sunday and reads her Bible ever night and says her prayers. She has some chickens in the back yard and a little herb garden. She says Mis' Barstow showed her how to git 'em started. Yes, we sit along all right, we do. Mr. Blaney looks in ever day just to see we don't come to no harm. So there's no reason for you to have us on your mind."

"But - ."

"I know. Somebody's got to stay with Janie's ma. Well, you aint the only son-in-law in the family. You been there a year. There aint no call for you to kill your wife for the sake of your mother-in-law. I should think she'd see that. I'd tell that Billy Thompson to do something."

"He's got his own mother, now."

"And well he should. After all she lived on somebody else a mighty long time."

"Mama Susie, don't be unfair. Uncle Frank was manager for Mother Love 'til he died."

"Mebbe so, mebbe so. But what's to hinder that Fred from doing something for his ma-in-law? He's makin' money, I hear tell. I'd go see him."

"But I can't get Jane to agree to leave."

"Pshaw! Make your plans, boy. Git your things ready, and tell her you goin'. A woman needs a little bossin' ever now and then. That's my advice to you. Take it or leave it."

Mary Jane and Robert were left to their own devices in the kitchen. They had not seen each other very many times and each was wondering what the other was like. Robert felt compelled to show off before this little cousin who sat so quietly and looked at him with her big eyes. The only girls he knew very well were his sisters and he heartily disliked them because they tattled and often made him feel mean and inferior. He wondered what Mary Jane would do if he pulled that long braid of hair that hung down her back. He wished she wouldn't stare at him so solemnly. Mama never let him play mumblety-peg on the floor at home. He wondered if she would tattle if he played here on Susannah's kitchen floor.

He took out his pocket knife and opened it, whistling casually. Leaving the large blade half open and the small one extended straight out from the handle, he began to pitch it to the floor, making it stand up expertly. He stopped the whistling when he saw that he had her attention.

"Want to try?" He offered her the knife.

She threw it awkwardly and blushed when he laughed.

"Let me show you. Hold the knife like this." He placed the handle straight out along his forefinger, curving the end of the finger around the end of the handle, and flipped it over skillfully, making it stand upright with the small blade sticking in the floor. "That's a hundred points. If both blades stick in the floor, like this," illustrating, "that's fifty. The big blade sticking in without the handle touching the floor is twenty, and with the handle touching is ten. When the knife lies on its back you git five points. Five hundred is the game. You try again now."

He allowed her to practice until she was able to make some points, and felt strangely elated when he could brag on her.

"Now, let's play a game. I'll go first." He threw and made fifty points. She reached for the knife, but he quickly retrieved it. "No. It's my go again. You don't git to try 'til I miss." And he continued to throw until

e had made five hundred points without missing. "There. I won the game."

"But I didn't get to play."

"I know it. I won before you got started."

"But that's not fair!"

"Course it is. I won, that's all there is to it."

"How can you say you won when I didn't even get to play?"

"Cause five hundred's the game and I'm so good I didn't miss, goose."

At such an impasse as this his sister Catherine would have slapped him and run and Martha would have called Mama. Mary Jane only looked at him. He hung his head, fumbled with the knife a bit, then handed it to her.

"Here; you go first this time."

They played game after game and Robert won every time, until the tenth one which Mary Jane won.

"Let's do something else," he suggested. "Let's write. Can you write? Where's your slate?"

She brought her slate and pencil from the bottom drawer of the sideboard. They pulled their chairs to the dining table and bent over the slate. Here again Robert could show off. He used the slate most of the time because Mary Jane did not ask for it. She admired his writing so generously that he felt quite puffed up. When Susannah and George came for them, Mary Jane whispered to him. "I had a good time."

And Robert answered, "I'll write you a letter when I go back home."

XXVIII

The mail came down from Lancaster to Frederick's store in a package which was called the Fredericksburg Bundle. There were letters for Senator Mobley and Dr. Morrison more often than for anyone else. Frederick had a special shelf to the right of the door where he placed the mail. Anyone coming in could reach up and shuffle through it in an instant. It did not come more often than once a week. Frederick's family and a number of the neighbors were invariably on hand to watch the coach that brought it go by. Frederick went through it eagerly, just as though he were expecting a letter. Any messages belonging to those present were handed out at once, and the others placed on the shelf.

On a raw January day in 1836 Frederick was surprised to find at the bottom of the bundle a letter for himself. He almost called out his own name before he realized it was for him. When his boys and girls saw that Papa had a letter, they followed him into the store and watched while he opened it. It was written on one side of a sheet of paper which was then folded with the writing on the inside and was addressed on the outside to Frederick Klemminger, At his store, Near Lancaster, South Carolina, and was sealed with wax. It was from Christopher, in answer to Frederick's letter written in 1833 telling of the birth of his son Fred. It was brief and to the point. Robert read the trembling, scrawled words:

My dear Brother,

I now seat myself and take my pen in hand to let you hear from me. This leaves me well and I hope it finds you the same. I got your letter telling me about your son Fred. I got a Fred too. I got 7 boys and 4 girls. My oldest boy is 28. How many boys and girls have you got now? Ma don't feel so good now. She wants you to come home for a visit. We would all like to see you and your children and your pretty wife. I sold Pa's farm for $300. I have $100 for you. I will look for you soon.

Your brother, Christopher. Robert relished his importance in being able to read the letter. Cynthia stood at his right shoulder, Frederick at his left. The other children crowded around, listening breathlessly. As he finished a clamor of questions broke out. Frederick took the letter and walked behind the counter, followed by Cynthia. They leaned against the wall and studied it.

The small Cynthia pulled at Robert's sleeve. "What is it?" she whined.

"It's a letter from Uncle Christopher," Martha explained.

"Uncle 'Stopher, Uncle Stopper," Fred chanted.

"What's a letter?" Cynthia persisted.

Robert laughed scornfully. "My goodness! She don't even know what a letter is!"

"Well, what is a letter?" This from Jane.

"It's a - it's a - well, it's a piece of paper that Uncle Christopher wrote on and sent down here to tell Papa something."

"Who is Uncle Stopper?" Cynthia demanded.

And Fred asked, "Can the paper talk?"

Robert answered both questions, looking first at Fred, then at Cynthia. "No, the paper can't talk, Uncle Christopher wrote on the paper like I write on my slate and I read it like I read from a book. Uncle Christopher is Papa's brother."

"Like Robert is our brother," William explained.

"Humph!" Martha sniffed. "I hope he's a better bother than Robert."

Robert raised his hand and Martha streamed.

"Mama!"

Her mother looked over at them, but Robert was innocently scratching the back of his neck. She turned back to the letter which they had reread several times.

"I'd like to see Ma and Christopher and his eleven children," Frederick mused.

"There aint no reason why you can't go to see them," Cynthia pointed out.

Frederick tapped the letter. "He says for all of us to come. We'd have to shut up the store. I can't do that."

"We can't all go, but you can," she insisted, "Robert is old enough to look after the store. I can help him."

Robert, hearing his name, turned interestedly to listen to the conversation. As soon as he caught its drift he burst out, "Let me go with you, Papa."

"You can't," Cynthia answered for her husband who, she knew, found it hard to refuse him anything. "You have to help me look after the store. I'll oversee it, but I can't stay in here all the time. You'll have to do that."

He argued, and begged, and finally stormed, but to no avail. Frederick would have tried to arrange it, but Cynthia would not give in. Then Robert began to pout. He came to the table and ate his meals in a stony silence. He listened to Frederick's instructions about the store, but gave no sign that he understood them. He watched his father ride away on the chestnut mare without a sign of farewell. He stayed in the store faithfully. When a customer came in, Robert looked at him until he told what he wanted. Then he got it for him silently, and silently received the money. He made no conversation, answering only briefly the questions that were asked of him. None of this escaped Cynthia. She thought with anger of how long he could hold a grudge. Finally she took him to task.

"Robert, you should a been cordial to Mr. Williams. He's used to your Pa taking time to talk to him."

"I answered all his questions, Mama."

"Yes, but you didn't try to make talk. That's one reason your Pa does so good in the store. He talks to ever'body and makes friends. That helps him sell stuff. The way you doin' you'll ruin the business."

"If Papa's so all-fired anxious about selling stuff why didn't he stay here and do it? It don't make no never-mind to me."

Cynthia raised her hand threateningly, but Robert dodged out of her way.

"There aint no reason," she continued, "why you can't tend to the store for a while. Your Pa deserved some time off. He aint been back to North Carolina since we been married. Besides it's time you learn about the store. I heerd him say more than once that he means for you to have this store when you git grown."

Robert answered promptly, "I don't want it. I'm gonna be a Uncle Billy, only I'm not gonna have any slaves. William can have the store."

"You mean you don't like the store?"

"I hate it."

"You just sayin' that cause your Pa made you stay here."

"Papa didn't make me stay in the store. He couldn't. I stayed caused he wanted to see Uncle Christopher and Grandma and there wa'n't nobody else to stay. But that don't make me like it. I like to work with dirt and growing things."

"But there's more money to be made in a store than on a farm. Your Pa made ever'thing we got out a this store."

"Pshaw!" Robert answered rudely. "If you think Papa's done so good why don't you treat him better than you do? Aunt Jane's a heap nicer to Uncle George than you to Papa. If I had a wife I'd want her to be like Aunt Jane."

Cynthia's face flamed and she started toward Robert, but he bounded out the door. Why is it, she thought to herself, that he can get right to the bottom of anything? He can out-talk me and make me mad at the same time. He aggravates me more than all the rest of my children put together.

When Frederick returned from Concord, he was quiet and thoughtful. The peaceful calm of Christopher's existence had put its mark on him. There, away from the large plantation owners, with his few elderly couples on his farm, Christopher lived a life of deep satisfaction. He grew his cotton and corn, raised his cattle and tended his geese, and chickens and guineas; and he never knew of the doctrine of nullification, or that the Seminole Indians had fought a brief but bitter war against the United States.

Seeing Christopher's numerous children cheerfully obeying their parents, doing their share of the farm tasks and treating each other with amused and friendly tolerance, turned Frederick's thoughts inevitably to Robert. Perhaps this homey, affectionate atmosphere of filial obedience and mutual helpfulness would be good for him. The impertinent conversation in the store was duly reported to Frederick, and it added to his thoughtfulness. He was beginning to wonder what he would ever do with Robert. He resolved to have a talk with him and put him into some kind of work for the future. He clung to the hope that his pride - his store - would yet belong to his favorite son. They were dusting the shelves and rearranging the goods on them one morning in February when Frederick broached the subject.

"Robert, I'm afeard you'll lose trade if you carry on in the store the way your Ma says you done while I was gone."

Robert was grimly silent for a moment, then commented, "Seems like all the women folks around here tell on a body."

Frederick was shocked, and answered sharply, "She has the good of the store at heart; that's what's best for all of us, especially you."

"Why me?" coldly.

"Cause it's gonna be your store some day."

"I don't want it," stolidly.

"Robert, I'm s'prised at you. You know it's been my idee ever since you was born to give you this store to make your livin'. I picked this place cause it's a likely spot for a town, a farmer's town. There'll always be a market here. It's a place to make money and be a big man. I wanted to do that and your Ma thought I would, but I aint got enough learnin'. I tried to give you as much schoolin' as could be got around here and I had just one idee in mind, that you could do what I couldn't. Your Ma has been disappointed in me and that makes me feel bad. I'm puttin' it up to you to 'suage that hurt and make me and her both proud of you."

Robert was touched. He partly understood now why his father sometimes stood so quietly with that far-away look in his eyes. He knew, too, why his mother often spoke sharply to the lover who had promised more than the husband could perform. He felt a fleeting pity for them and knew a momentary desire to make it up to them; then his heart hardened as he thought of the lack of consideration for his own wishes in the matter. Perhaps if he controlled his volatile temper he could make his father understand.

"Papa, I'd like to do what you want me to, shore 'nough I would. I want you to be proud of me. But I don't want to stay in a store. I want to farm. But, more than anything else I guess, I want to make up my own mind what I'll do. A feller can't always be having somebody telling him what to do. He's got to learn to do for himself sometime. You wasn't much older 'n me when you left home the first time, you told me."

"But, you're not like me, Robert."

"No, sir, I'm not. That's why I don't want the store. I want to own a piece of land and be able to walk around and look at my crops growing. I like to git my hands in the dirt, my own dirt, and make things grow, just for me. You oughta know how it is, Papa. You. like land; you own a thousand acres."

"But I'd rather work with folks than with dirt."

"And your land aint doing you no good. You're just wasting it."

Frederick was taken aback, and not a little rebellious himself. This boy was the son whose coming he had welcomed so ecstatically; his every reasonable wish he had wanted to gratify; for him he had striven to build up the trade for this store; his brilliant mind he had endeavored to have trained so that some day he might take his place as a leader in the county, the place which he himself had hoped to fill. And was he now to bring this dream tumbling about his ears? Should he allow this young upstart to turn his face from the way of his father and choose a new occupation which he could neither understand nor appreciate? Should he let him become an ordinary dirt farmer along with other non-slave-owning families which the Negroes designated contemptuously as po' white trash? Forgetting that he had not only deserted his father's ancient occupation, but had also left his inheritance, he hardened his heart. A child should be guided by his father's older and wiser head, he thought. Out of his disappointment he spoke more harshly than he knew.

"You don't know nothing about farming."

"I can learn."

"You'd only make a failure."

"Uncle George didn't fail."

"You don't have none of his blood in your veins."

"Uncle Billy didn't fail, and I'm kin to him. If he can learn, I can."

"Your Uncle Billy had your Grandpa Love to help him. You don't have nobody. And besides, you aint got no land."

Robert turned an incredulous look on his father, who owned a thousand acres of land and could say his son had none. Frederick saw the hurt and wanted to defend himself.

"The store is for you."

"I don't want the store, and I don't need your land neither. I. can git land for myself. What anybody else can do I can do. I don't need no help."

The words were spoken with such haughty self-assurance that they angered Frederick. "You young rascal. You can't talk to me like that. I'm your Pa and you owe me some respect."

"Dr. Morrison says respect has to be earned," Robert quoted impudently.

Frederick grasped a measuring stick lying across the counter and started toward him. Robert stood stock still, eyeing him with a cold dignity. Frederick raised his arm ominously, then slowly lowered it, letting the stick rap sharply on the floor. He turned and leaned against the counter with his back to his rebellious son. At last he spoke with difficulty.

"You can go to your Uncle Christopher's if you want to. I talked to him about sendin' you up there, but we didn't make no arrangements, so he won't be expectin' you. I won't have time to write him to meet you in Charlotte. If you think you can find the way, you can ride my horse. If Christopher wants to be bothered with you, you can stay 'til summer is over, and learn what you can about farmin'."

Robert swallowed painfully. The abrupt change in his father robbed him of the power of speech. To avoid unmanly tears he turned and ran from the store. Frederick gave the necessary instructions to the household, and when the boy returned to the house Cynthia was packing his clothes. All three of them were reserved when they said goodbye. Robert burned with a desire to understand this father who, in spite of disappointment, was trying to give him a chance to do what he wanted to do. Frederick's heart was filled with bewilderment and angry pain at what seemed a lack of appreciation in his son.

Robert liked his life in Christopher's crowded, busy household. He made friends slowly and carefully. There was Paul who was already seventeen and who liked to tease and embarrass the younger ones. Robert disliked him intensely. But there was also Fred, named for his father, who was about Robert's own age. They became fast friends. They worked together, clearing a new ground, piling and burning the roots after the trees had been cut and hauled away. They followed each other in the plowing, one breaking the ground, the other laying it off in rows for the cotton. They went hunting or fishing on Saturday afternoons, sat together in church on Sundays, smoked rabbit tobacco in corn cob pipes, and went courting.

For Robert had found a girl friend. He began to take an interest in his appearance. He scraped at mud spatters in his half let trousers, and worked long on his unruly dark hair until he persuaded it to part nearly in the center and lie flat. He grew shy and tongue-tied in the presence of girls, so different, seemingly, from his sisters. But somehow ho found it easy to talk to Elizabeth Schmitt, if no one else were listening. He and Fred had found her talking to their Grandmother Lyerly one Saturday afternoon when they had gone to show her the fish they had caught. She had followed them. out into the back yard to watch them dress the fish, making lively comments and watching their every movement with her bright blue eyes. She had stayed on to talk to Robert while Fred took the fish in to his grandmother. She told him that she lived in the next farm house, just over the hill and that there was a spot where she watered her father's cows each evening before milking time.

If Robert followed the brook which flowed between Christopher's land and the next farm, he came to the place where Elizabeth watered the cows. There, while the cows drank and cropped the lush grass that grew along the banks of the stream, they talked many times and of many things.

Then there came the afternoon in August when Paul carried some corn to the mill in Concord, and returned with a letter from Frederick. It said for Robert to come home for he was needed, and to bring with him the one hundred dollars which Christopher had for Frederick. When the letter had been read and gaped at by everyone, Robert stuffed it into his pocket and walked away. The farther he got from the house the faster he went until he found himself running along the path he had made by the brook. He tripped on a protruding root and fell headlong. He lay there and cried tears of anger and frustration, thinking hatefully of the father who would give him a taste of the life he craved and then snatch it away. Reaching into his pocket, he seized the letter and tore it into fragments. He threw them from him and watched the breeze flutter a few of them into the brook where they floated away, tiny white boats whose message belied the placidity of their movement.

Watching them, he grew quiet and thought about his situation. At first he was rebellious. The notion came to him that he need not go. Instantly he knew the answer to that; Uncle Christopher, used to unquestioned obedience, would send him home. Then why not run away. A deep-lying loyalty, a sense of fitness buried under the selfishness and repression of his distrait personality, forbade it. But one thing he would do; he would see Elizabeth and have an understanding with her; and he would come back. He arose, bathed his flushed, dirty face in the cool water of the brook, and went to the ford. There he sat with his back against a tree and waited an hour for her to come. The two cows had been staked out all day in a field where the wheat had been cut in late spring. Three times Elizabeth had gone to move them to fresh places. Now, just before sunset, she brought them to get water. Robert watched for the first sight of her brown, homespun dress, then stood up.

"Howdy."

"Why, howdy, Robert. I didn't know you was gonna be here. You scared me."

"I didn't low to scare you. I come to say goodbye."

"Goodbye? You leavin'?"

"Yeah. I got a letter from my Pa a while ago. Paul got it in Concord. It said for me to come home, they need me."

"You goin'?"

"I got to. Uncle Christopher will make me."

"When?"

"I expect I'll go tomorrow."

"For good?"

"No. I'm coming back. That is, I am if - if - " He stood tongue-tied, digging his toe into the soft earth. He wondered if she cared about his coming back. Under his thick brows he stole a look at her. She was looking down at a twig she held in her hand and was picking absently at the leaves.

"Elizabeth, do - do you want me to come back?"

She looked up and giggled, then began flipping the twig at a black-eyed susan that had found a foot-hold in the grass and reared its flaming head to the sun.

"I'll miss you."

"Will you wait for me? You won't git married before I come back, will you?" He was looking at her eagerly, but she avoided his eyes.

"When will you come back?"

"I'll come next spring. I'll git my father to buy we some land. I told him I wanted to be a farmer and he'll let me be whatever I want to be. He said Uncle Christopher could learn me to farm. He'll let me have some land, I know he will."

"Robert, we're too young to be a-talkin' like this."

"I'm goin' on seventeen."

"I'll soon be sixteen."

"My Ma was married when she was eighteen. By the time I go home and come back and raise a crop on my land I'll be goin' on eighteen and you'll be nearly seventeen. That's not too young to - "

"You askin' ma to marry you, Robert?"

"I'd like for you to - in about a year, or maybe two. Would you wait that long for me, just 'til I git started to farming my own land?"

"Will you shore 'nuf have some land?"

"My Pa's got a heap a land in South Carolina. And he'll git me some up here if I ask him. And he'll give me the money Uncle Christopher has for him."

"La, do you reckon he will?"

"I know he will." Robert spoke with more confidence than he felt. "Will you wait for me, Elizabeth?"

"Well, I'll ask Ma."

"No, don't say nothing to nobody - "

"You askin' me to be be-spoke secret-like?"

"Let's not tell nobody 'til I git back."

"And you'll be a-comin' back next spring?"

"Yes. I'll come in February or March."

"Certain and shore?"

"I hope I may die if I don't."

"Well, then, I reckon I'll wait for you."

Robert moved over and laid his hand on her arm. She looked into his face with a shy coquettishness. Across the hill there came a hail.

"Liz-beth! Come on here with the cows."

"I'm comin', Ma!" the girl sang out in answer. Throwing a bright look over her shoulder, she caught up the ropes of the cows and ran off, calling back, "Goodbye, Robert, I'll be waitin'."

"Goodbye, Elizabeth." Cupping his mouth with his hands he called after her. "I'll write you a letter."

She stopped and looked back at him. "If you was to, I'd have to git somebody else to read it and I couldn't answer it."

Homeward bound on the chestnut horse, Robert spent two days in thinking bitterly about Frederick. On several things he was determined in his mind. He would return to Concord; not under any circumstances would he give up the one hundred dollars. He knocked at a farmhouse door at early dusk of the first evening and received permission to pass the night there. On the second evening he rode into the yard at Fredericksburg after night had fallen. He noticed a light in the store. Tying the reins to the hitching post, he went up to the door and pushed it open. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he saw Frederick leaning over the counter peering at a ledger by the flickering light of a candle. His shirt collar was open; suspenders dangled around his hip; he was damp with perspiration. He did not notice Robert until the latter spoke.

"Why did you send for me, Papa?"

Frederick whirled at the sound, then came forward eagerly, as if with great relief, and wrung his hand.

"Howdy, son. I'm real pleased to see you. I declare you growed a foot. Your Ma will be glad you back."

It was amazing to Robert to be greeted thus by his father and treated like company.

"T-thank you, sir! I'm g-glad to see you. I was wonderin' why you sent for me."

"It was time for you to come back. You remember we agreed you'd have a try at farmin' for one season. I meant all along for you to come back to talk things over."

"You said you needed me."

"I do. But we won't talk about it tonight. You must be tired and hungry. Go tell your Ma to git you something to eat and I'll put your horse up. Then we'll all go to bed and git a good night's sleep. And tomorrow we'll talk."

"But, Papa, give me some idee what you need me for." He followed Frederick pleadingly as he shut the book and locked it away in a strong box which he put over the door.

"Business, Robert. I need a little help with my business. Your schoolin' is gonna show whether it's any good or not."

Robert began to get angry. "Papa, you know I don't care nothing about the store - "

"This time," Frederick answered firmly, "you're gonna half to care somethin' about it whether you want to or not. And we'll not talk no more about it tonight. Let's go. Your Ma will be wantin'to see you. I'll outen the light."

Robert followed sullenly. Frederick locked the door and went toward the horse. Robert entered his mother's room with the sullen look still on his face. She had had her worries, too, of late. The three youngest children were just recovering from measles and Fred was still coughing and fretting. She was at that moment trying to get him to go to sleep, but she had heard the voices outside and guessed that Robert had come home. She spoke tartly.

"You might at least come home with a smile 'stead of a frown, when you been gone half a year!"

He stood there without speaking. He could not have said what he had expected from his mother, but, after the warmth of Frederick's welcome, he had not thought to be greeted so harshly by her.

"Well, don't stand there in the door. Come on in. The children's had the measles and Fred's been awful sick. He's better now, though. I was trying to git him to sleep. I spose you're hungry. There's some milk and bread covered up on the table in the kitchen. You can help yourself. I spose your Pa'll be in directly."

Still without speaking, Robert set his bag down on the floor, laid his hat on the bureau and started for the kitchen. He left Cynthia wondering why her oldest son acted so queer. He was supposed to be bright, everyone said he was, but he had not spoken to her. Fred whimpered and she turned her attention back to him.

With determination born of his interest in Elizabeth Schmitt, Robert followed his father into the store the next morning. Frederick was opening the shutters and fastening back the door.

"Well, Robert, I suppose you're wanting to talk now."

"Yes, sir."

"It's a sorry tale. Maybe we better git at it 'fore somebody comes in." There was dread in his heart. "Here, let's set down." A bench was pulled up to the counter. "I'm afeard I made a mistake. I been going over and over my accounts and I don't see no way out less'n Jack Black will carry me."

"What does Mr. Black have to do with your business?"

"It's the store. I buy my goods from him. Last winter, just after you left, I went up to Lancaster to see about laying in a new supply. He had a bunch a fine cloth, come from England. I don't know how come him to have it. He wanted me to take it. I told him I couldn't pay for it. He said that was all right, go ahead and take it anyhow, and pay for it next fall. I feard I couldn't sell it, but he said the planters'd jump at the chance to buy it. But when I went to git it, he had a paper for me to sign; said it was just a thing to protect him in case somethin' happened to me, in case I died or somethin'."

"You didn't sign it, did you?"

"I kinda had to. I already agreed to take the goods. I spoke to some of the folks around here and they wanted to buy 'em, so I had to have 'em."

"What did the paper say?"

Frederick hesitated, squirmed, then went on. "It said somethin' 'bout my land bein' security for the money."

"Papa! It was a mortgage!"

"Yes. It was. I didn't want to sign it, but he said it wouldn't amount to nothing; nothing was gonna happen to me; he'd take care of me."

"Do you reckon he would?"

"I think so. I don't have no reason to think ill of him. Well, about the cloth, it was so pretty and rich looking and I had promised to pay so much for it, that I had to sell it pretty steep. So the country folks couldn't pay cash for it. I had to sell it on a credit. I'm to collect this fall when the cotton is sold."

"That ought to be all right. You always have done business that way."

"But not this time. I never sold as much on credit before. And this time it looks like the cotton crop's gonna fail. It aint rained more'n a few drops here in nigh on to two months. The cotton's drying up and dying. Some great big plantations won't git more'n a bale or two."

"Dog bite it!" Robert exclaimed. "It aint been that bad in North Carolina."

"In some parts, maybe. I hear tell the drought's been pretty nigh all over this part of the country."

"If the cotton crop fails, then you can't collect your money, and - "

"And I can't pay Jack Black."

"And we'll lose our place?"

"Unless he'll wait for me."

"Did you ask him?"

"Well, I wanted to sort of go over my records; see how much is owed me and what chance there is of collecting part of it. That's why I sent for you. You got a good schoolin' and I thought you could do that for me. Then I'd go out and see the ones that owe me and find out what they think they can pay. The cotton's beginning to open some now, what there is, and they'll soon know how much they're gonna make. If they can't pay me with their cotton money, maybe they'll have some other way of raising it."

"Then when you have some idee of how much you can collect you can go see Mr. Black."

"Yes. That's why I wanted you to bring the hundred dollars Christopher had for me. I can put that with whatever I can git from the country people and maybe I can stave him off 'til another crop can be made."

Robert said resolutely, "I want that money."

"What!" Frederick turned to look at him sharply.

There was movement at the door, and Cynthia came in, followed by Mr. Caston who wanted to make some purchases. As Frederick waited on him he questioned him about the prospects for the cotton crop.

"I won't make two bales off my whole place," he stated with conviction. The drought is the worst I've ever seen in my life. It has ruined me."

"But you'll have some money comin' in, won't you?"

The planter stared. "Where from? I tell you I've not got a thing to fall back on. I oughtn't to a got into debt to you for that cloth, Fred. I not only won't be able to pay you; I'll have to git you to carry me next year."

"You'll be able to pay me something, won't you, Mr. Caston? You know I owe for the cloth, too."

"That's too bad. I can't do a thing 'til another crop's made. This one's worthless."

Cynthia was all ears, and she stared accusingly at Frederick when the little planter had gone.

"Frederick Klemminger! You gone and got into debt without telling me about it. You gonna ruin us!"

Frederick sighed and did not answer.

Cynthia stamped her foot. "Tell me what you done."

"Tell your Ma, Robert," Frederick commanded tiredly.

Robert acquainted his mother with the facts, omitting to mention the one hundred dollars. Frederick noted this.

"Robert's got the hundred dollars," he told her, "that Christopher had for me from Father's farm out from Concord. If Jack Black will wait for me 'til next fall I can use it to git in some new goods to keep goin' another year. Then we'll be all right."

"Spose he won't wait?" Cynthia interrogated.

"Then you can't need the hundred dollars," Robert suggested hopefully.

"I'll need it more'n ever," Frederick mourned.

"Why?" from Cynthia.

"We'll have to move to Concord and start over."

"No!" Robert cried.

Cynthia closed her lips on an angry retort as she and Frederick both turned to stare at the young fellow.

"I'm going to git married," he blurted out recklessly, "and I'm gonna have that hundred dollars to help me git started farming."

Cynthia spoke in great wonder, "Who you gonna marry?"

Robert got up and walked to the door; he stood looking out without seeing and without answering. There was a heavy silence behind him. Both of his parents were remembering with apprehension other times when each had tried to talk to him with a view of changing his mind and had come off with - to say the least - parental dignity ruffled.

"Robert," Frederick began gently, "don't you see, we're all in this together and we got to figger out what to do that's good for all of us."

"I didn't have no part in it," he rejoined as he turned and faced them. 'You done it without me knowing anything about it."

Cynthia started to make an angry retort, but Frederick stopped her with a gesture. "You wasn't here. You was in Concord where I let you go to try your hand at farming. If you liked it I meant to let you stay. I'd a give you land 'stead of the store. I didn't want to put you into a business you didn't like. I used my own judgment about the store. It's always been good, but this time I was wrong. I'm all mixed up now and I dunno what to do. I need another person's help and you the only one for me to turn to. You my son and you sixteen years old, almost a man. You can help me. We can git through this mess somehow, but we got to look out for the whole family. I don't want to stand in the way of what you want to do, but I got a duty to the rest of the family as well as you. Let's put off for a while what you want to do 'til we git the family straightened out. Then you can do what you want to. Robert, son, you can see this, can't you, and help me?"

The appeal struck through the layers of stubbornness to the boy's sense of fairness. He looked at his parents attentively, felt a little sorry for them because they were facing failure at a time when success had seemed sure. He knew a hint of pride that they were calling on him for help; at least he would be important to them.

"All right, Papa and Mama," he spoke with a lightness that astonished them. "We'll git through it together. I'll help all I can. Maybe it won't be so bad after all. Mr. Black maybe won't make you pay it all this fall. And when we do git things straightened out, I expect you to remember I want to go back to Concord."

He put his hand in his pocket, brought out the money and handed it to his father.

"Yes, Robert, course I will." Frederick was so pleased that he put his arm around Cynthia and squeezed her shoulders.

"There's one thing I want to know," she said, turning in his arms, "is all our land mortgaged?"

"What's on the other side of the road."

"But that's all of it!"

"Yes, all but this store and about three acres along the road on this side. I been thinkin' 'bout buildin' a church on it."

The small Catherine now came to the door. "Mama, here's a darkey."

Jim stood behind her, his hat held respectfully in his hand. Cynthia went forward.

"What is it, Jim? I hope it aint bad news."

"Yes, maam, Miss Cynthy, Miss Jane, she be mighty sick. She been bleedin' two, free day now. Missus say let you all know. I gotta go tell Massa Billy an' Miss Anne now."

XXVIX

Following Susannah's advice, George had made his plans to go back to Tennessee early in the fall of 1836. He had found that Jane turned a deaf ear to all his pleas and he could see that she was daily growing weaker, paler and more listless. He talked with Katherine. She agreed that she would manage, with Jim's help, and he need not worry about her, since Jane's health and possibly her life depended on their going away. He went upstairs to get Jane's lunch tray on this late August day after he had the talk with Katherine.

"Come back and stay with me a while, George," Jane urged.

"After you've had your nap," he promised.

And he was as good as his word. About the middle of the afternoon he slipped back up the stairs. He found her wide awake and watching for him.

"Hello," he said. "Feeling better?"

She smiled wanly at him. "You still like me, George, after all these years?"

"More than ever, after all these years," he smiled back at her. "And I want to see you git well so we can do things together again."

"You think I'm ever gonna git well, George?"

"Of course, dear. But you'll git well quicker when we go to a different climate."

She looked at him instantly in alarm. "I don't want to leave here."

"But you'll have to, hon. Your health depends on it."

"If I do, I'll die."

He forebore to voice the obvious answer to that. Instead he said with a gentle steadiness. "I've talked with Mother Love. She's agreed for us to go and we're going in about a month."

"I don't want to go, George. I won't do it."

"You will have to, Jane."

"No! No! You shan't take me away from my home! If I'm gonna die I want to die here."

"You're not going to die, dear. You're going to git well and strong. Then we'll come back here to see everybody. It will be like it was when we first got married. You'll feel good and we'll be happy."

"If I leave here, I'll never come back alive. Oh, George, please don't take me away."

"But, dear, I thought you liked it in Tennessee."

"I did like it, but it wasn't home. I want to be where my folks is. George, please say we don't have to go!" And she began to weep.

"Jane, you mustn't cry. Please, don't."

"I don't - want - to go - to - Tenn - essee!"

"Don't cry, Jane, don't! Don't!" He urged to no avail. "You'll make yourself worse. Listen, dear, we won't go to Tennessee. I promise; not 'til you say you want to go. Now, please, don't cry no more."

She groped for a handkerchief and he placed one in her hand. "I know - I'm - a great big baby, but I just can't help it. I can't bear the idee of dyin' away from home."

She dried her eyes and sniffed into the handkerchief. She tried to clear her throat, but started coughing. She coughed so violently that when she took the handkerchief away it was stained red. George jumped as if a cannon had exploded near him.

"Oh, God!" he cried involuntarily, then tried to choke it back because of the effect on Jane. She stared at the stain, wide-eyed.

"It's nothing," he tried to reassure her, but his voice was hoarse. "It will pass in a minute."

"George," she whispered, "I'm s-scared."

He sat down on the bed and passed his arm around her. "Don't worry. It'll be all right, I know. But I'll send for the doctor if you want me to."

"Do you suppose you oughta?"

"I don't believe there's any more need than usual, but I will if it will make you feel better. Maybe I ought to anyhow."

He got up and rearranged her pillow tenderly. He was anxious to have the doctor come to ease his own madly aroused heart.

"I'll send Jim. I'll be back in a minute. Don't be afraid."

Dr. Bland was very kind and gentle when he arrived the next afternoon from Camden. He shot one accusing look at George when he first came in, then devoted himself to examining and reassuring Jane. George moved to follow him from the room as he made ready to go.

"No, George, don't come with me," he ordered. "Stay with your wife. I can find my way down. Is Mrs. Love in the kitchen? I'd like to have a drink of water."

He found Katherine and asked for the water. "Why in the name of all that is high and holy has your son-in-law kept your daughter here?" he asked bluntly.

"Don't blame George," Katherine answered sorrowfully. "He tried to git Jane to go, but she wouldn't."

"Tried to get her? Why in the - uh - beg your pardon, maam. Why didn't he just take her?"

"He was going to. He had already told me he was leaving and I'd agreed to it, but when he told her she started crying and brought on a coughing spell and that's when she started bleedin'."

"Hemorrhaging, dear lady, not bleeding."

"Is she in any danger, doctor?"

George entered in time to hear Katherine's question. He had caught the censure in the doctor's eyes and it had given him a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. He could not rest until he had talked with him. He had petted and quieted Jane and then slipped away.

Deliberately, looking from Katherine to George, Dr. Bland answered, "She is in as great danger as she has ever been in her life. All you can do now is to keep her quiet and contented. Don't let her worry about a thing. Give her whatever she wants. And bring her child up to see her."

"But, doctor, that's not what you said before."

The man looked at George pityingly. "It's different this time. Your mother-in-law explained to me why you stayed here. Well, it's too late now. Just make her as comfortable as you can so you can keep her with you as long as possible - "

"You mean - " both George and Katherine stared at him as if in a trance.

He nodded. "After all, it shouldn't be a surprise to you. I told you years ago this climate wasn't good for her."

"I know. I couldn't get her to come away with me."

"I know, too. What is to happen will happen. And don't go blaming yourself. After all, if you had taken her against her will, it might not have done her any good."

"How long - " He let his voice trail away.

"Can't say. All depends on the care she gets and how contented you keep her. Can't let her know about what I've said, of course. May be a month, may be several. Keep her happy."

"I'll devote my life to it," George promised brokenly.

"Can't you stay all night, doctor?" Katherine invited.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Love. Crowder hailed me as I came by. Asked me to stay there. Guess he wants to see me about something. Let me know how your daughter gets along. You can send a letter by the post."

"You come back," George invited.

"Maybe I will. I'd like to keep an eye on the little lady upstairs."

George went with him to his buggy and settled the bill. Then he went off alone and was violently sick. When he had composed himself, he returned to Jane. The hemorrhaging continued at intervals for three days. That was when Katherine sent word to Cynthia and Anne. They came on different days to see Jane. So did Frederick, Billy and Adeline. Jim was sent to bring Mary Jane and Susannah. Jane was happy with all her company, though she often grew very tired and asked to be allowed to rest. Seeing this, no one ever stayed very long except Mary Jane. Katherine and Susannah contrived to have the child spend as much time as was wise with her mother. After cautioning Mary Jane to come away if Jane began to cough or seemed tired, they left them alone quite often so they had time for many good talks.

Once Jane placed her hand over Mary Jane's and asked, "Wouldn't you rather be outside in the sunshine than settin' in this dark room with your poor old sick Ma?"

The child answered candidly, "I like being outside, cause there's a lot out there to see; but I like settin' here with you, too. Papa had something to do and he asked me to stay here in case you'd want somethin'."

"He's a good man and you're a good girl. I hate leavin' you."

Mary Jane was surprised. "You goin' somewheres, Mama? I don't believe you well enough. You better wait 'til you feel better."

"No, I can't wait. I 'spect I'll be goin' pretty soon now."

"Is Papa goin', too? Can I go with you? And Grandma Susie? Don't go off and leave me again, Mama."

Jane gave her hand a little squeeze. "I got somethin' to tell you, honey. You're my baby and I love you so much I wish I never had to leave you again. I wanted a baby so bad and God was good to me and sent you to me. Don't ever fergit that I love you. You won't, will you?"

"I know you love me, Mama, and I love you, but why we got to talk about it?"

"Cause I want you to be ready for what's going to happen. I'm sick and I'm not gonna git well. And I don't want you to grieve and worry when I'm gone. You like it here, don't you?"

"Yes, maam, I like it here. But I don't want you to go away, unless you gonna come back."

"No, I can't come back. But I want to tell you about it, so you won't feel bad about me bein' gone. I'm sick now and I don't never feel good. Pretty soon I'll be so sick can't nobody bear to be around me and I won't be no more good to nobody. Then I'll leave and go to Heaven to be with Jesus. He'll make me well. I won't be sick no more and I won't feel bad no more. And I'll be in such a pretty place; not hot like it is here now, and not cold like it is in the winter time, but nice and pretty, with birds singing and pretty flowers blooming. And nice people. Nobody'll be bad ever and ever'body'll be well and happy, laughin' and singin'. All the nice things we had in Tennessee and in Camden and here will be there only nicer. I won't cough no more. It's goin' to be better'n anything you can think of."

Mary Jane clasped her hands, and her eyes glowed. She gazed at her mother whose face had a sort of glory in it. "Can't I go with you, Mama?"

"You have to stay with Papa. He'll need you. But later on, when Papa is old, and you're all grown up and gittin' old, you can both come and we'll be together again. And we'll have more fun than ever we had when we was travelin' in the covered wagon."

"Mama, I'll miss you."

"Yes, I know, honey. But when you say your prayers ever night, first you say 'em to Jesus and then you talk to me. I'll be watchin' and listenin' for you."

"Where is Heaven, Mama?"

"I'm not right shore, honey, but I believe it's a place where all the prettiest things we ever seen and all the nicest people that has ever lived in the world will be gathered there together."

"What will you do?"

"I've always been told we'll play harps and sing, but somehow I don't believe that's all. If a body's worked all their life I can't see how'd they'd be satisfied to just set around and play a harp and sing all the time. I think maybe there'll be something else for us to do and maybe we'll spend our time learnin' how to be better and maybe some day we'll come back and have another chance to live and be a better person and do more good."

"That'll be nice, Mama. If I talk to you can you answer me?"

"No, honey, but that won't be bad. You can do all the talkin'. Won't be nobody to say, 'Hush, Mary Jane, let somebody else talk a while.' And you can tell me all the funny little things that happen ever day and laugh about them and even though you can't hear me you'll know I'll be laughin' with you." And she and Mary Jane both smiled happily at each other as if they shared a joke.

George came in just then. His heavy countenance lightened when he saw how pleasant they looked.

"I'll stay with Mama now, honey," he said. "You can go see if Grandma needs you."

The days passed. George's attentions to Jane were so assiduous that she grew quite gay and said she felt like a bride again. She insisted on sitting up a little while each day. She seemed so much better that George took heart and dared to hope a little. Fall dwindled into winter and Christmas went by almost unnoticed. Cele brought some holly for Jane's room, but there was no gayety; the household seemed to be waiting for something. The first week of the new year was a rainy one.

"If this is a sample of the weather this year," Katherine remarked at breakfast, "it will more than make up for the drought last summer."

"How's that?" George asked absently.

"Well, you know the old sayin', that the first twelve days of the year tell what the weather will be for the whole year. January's weather will be like the weather on the first day, February like the second day, and so on. If that's the case, we'll have a mighty wet year, cause it's rained ever' day for a powerful long time."

The next day the rain ceased and the sky cleared. There followed weeks of flawless weather. Jane could see the bright afternoon sun from her window when the shutters were open. When George came in to spend his customary hour with her after her nap, she spoke of it.

"I'm feelin' so much better, George, I think I could go downstairs. I'd like to set in the sun for a while. I believe it'd help me."

"Do you think you better go out, Jane?"

"No, I don't mean go out. I could set in the south door in the sun. It looks like it's mighty warm."

"'Tis warm. I don't think it'd hurt you. I could wrap you in a quilt and carry you down; you can set in the rocker in the doorway. I'll ask Mother Love what she thinks."

Katherine said, "If Jane wants to, we'll let her. I'll put some pillows in this rocker and set it in the door. The sun's real warm and there's some fire in the fireplace."

George wrapped his wife in a quilt, brought her downstairs and deposited her in the chair as carefully and as easily as if she were a doll. His heart skipped a beat when he noticed how light she was. Katherine brought a coverlet and spread it over her knees; she stood and talked a minute, then, "I got Cele to set out some cabbage plants in the garden. I better go see about her."

"Let me do it, Mother Love, and you stay with Jane," George suggested.

"No. Jim may need you; he's fixin' that fence down by the lot."

"All right. I'll go down there in a little bit." He pulled a chair over and sat down beside Jane.

Her eyes were sparkling and she was giddy with the pleasure of being able to see outdoors again. It all seemed so fresh and new. A bluebird sat on one of the posts to which the clothes line was fastened and sang briefly, then was off to join his mate who whistled in the orchard. There, a gaunt old apple tree, circled with many alveoli made by hungry woodpeckers and looking as if it had weathered many cold winters, raised its gnarled branches to the warm kiss of the sun. A dried up apple hung upon a twig, and a cedar waxwing came to peck at it. Finding it a crabapple and not to his liking, he winged away to a cedar whose bright blue berries seemed specially ordered for him. At the edge of the clearing a holly flaunted its flaming berries against the long line of pines marching unevenly across the horizon.

"Honey, I do believe you're better," George exclaimed, watching the color come and go in Jane's cheeks.

"Course I am," she laughed merrily. "And now that I am I can tell you something I've been afraid to, all along."

"What, dear?"

She was thoughtful now. "I wanted to talk to you about dying."

"Jane, don't - "

"I want to. I have to. I was afraid because I felt like it was so near. Now I feel better and I'm stronger. I don't care if it does come, for I'm not afraid no more."

"Jane - "

"Please let me talk, George. I feel like I got to. And it's not gonna hurt. I mean I'm not gonna hurt you."

He ceased to protest, but took her hand and held it firmly.

"The reason I didn't want to go to Tennessee was because this time I had a feelin' that it wouldn't do no good. I knowed I'd die out there if I went. You'd not be able to bring me back here to be buried and I didn't want to lie out there away from all my folks. I felt like it was better for me to stay here. Don't you think, George, that we are sometimes led by a power, bigger than we are, to do the things we do?"

"Yes, I spose so."

"And there must a been some reason for me feelin' so strong that we oughtn't to go. We don't know what the reason is now, but some day we'll be able to see it. You. understand?"

"Yes, dear."

"Looking at the earth now, how pretty and clean and fresh and warm it is, I don't think I'll mind being laid to rest in it."

"Dearest!"

"You'll be nearby; and Mama'll be here. And I won't be lonesome. I can see and hear you all, even if you can't see me. But you'll know I'm there, because I'll watch over you. George, I want you to get married again and be happy cause you've always been so unhappy."

"Jane, I won't let you talk this way. You're looking so much better, I know you must be feeling better. You're not gonna die."

"Another thing, George. If our little girl asks why I was willin' to leave her in Camden, tell her it was because I didn't want her to catch what I got. I know she must think it's funny for me to not want her up here with me; she might even think I don't love her, but, George, make her see that it's been a grief to me to be separated from her. She's so young it'd be easy for her to git what I got."

He squeezed her hand. "You can tell her yourself as soon as you're well enough to go home."

"Yes. I wanted to tell you these things while I was feeling strong. I wanted you to know that I'm not afraid."

"All right. Now you've told me and let's talk about something else."

"Tell me if you love me."

He looked at her with his heart in his eyes. "Do you need to ask?"

She seemed content with his answer. "I've loved you ever since I was a little bitty girl and you saved my doll for me. Remember?"

"Yes, I remember."

"You was my hero. I always hoped you'd ask me to marry you. I'm sorry I've not been a better wife."

"You've been perfect. I wouldn't wish you any different except to be well."

She smiled thinly. "I think I'm a little bit tired now."

"I'll take you back upstairs."

"No. Let me stay here a little longer. It's so pretty here and the sunshine feels so good on my face and hands. I couldn't sleep a while ago, but I feel like I can sleep now."

"All right. You take a nap and I'll go see about Jim and the fence. I won't be gone but a few minutes."

He stooped and pressed a kiss on her forehead. They smiled tenderly at each other, then he was gone. Half an hour later he returned. She lay as if asleep with the smile still upon her lips, but the inert position of her body brought his heart into his throat. He called her name, but got no response. He caught up her hand. It was cold and already growing rigid. He put his ear to her heart and heard no beat. In wild alarm he called,

"Mother Love!"

But in his heart was a certainty that that which he had dreaded for nine years was at last upon him. Jane was dead!

XXX

It would have been merciful if a curtain could have been drawn around George and set him apart to grieve alone. It seemed that he would have been prepared, but how can one prepare for the aching void that is left by the passing of a beloved person. He wept bitterly at first; then went through the burial rites, the condolences of friends, the fraternizing of relatives, with a desperate calm. He even returned Mary Jane to her sanctuary with Susannah, and came back to The Orchards, to hear Katherine say, "Well, George, it seems to be me and you now."

This remark, which brought him to a sense of reality with a jerk, was made at supper after he had returned from Camden. He excused himself abruptly and went upstairs to Jane's bed which had been fumigated according to the doctor's instructions. There he laid himself down and gave up to grief. He wept, as he had not done but once before in his life, until the fount of his tears was dried up. He arose then and slipped out into the cold darkness of the late winter night. He picked his way across the very landscape Jane had last gazed upon and came to the road. Then he tramped until dawn was blushing in the east. Katherine noticed his disheveled, sleepless appearance, but made no comment when he paused at the breakfast table to drink a cup of scalding hot coffee. Thinking in her own aching heart that activity would be good for him, she pointed out, "Jim has never finished that fence down by the orchard."

"I'll see that he gits at it today," he answered her as he went out.

He went down to the slave quarters and talked over the state of the plantation with Jim. He found that the good darkie knew all the tasks needing to be done and was awaiting only his master's word to go to them.

"See about 'em, Jim. Git ever'thing done."

"Yes, masa," the faithful Negro answered while, his heart ached, too, in sympathy with the white man. "Jim git it done, massa. Doan you weary none 'bout it."

George wandered aimlessly until at length he found himself approaching the family burying ground. Here under a new long scar upon the earth Jane lay in company with her father, her small brothers and sisters and her grandparents on her father's side. George looked at the old graves, but the new one drew his eyes like a magnet. He went eventually and pulled a stone up to the mound of earth where he sat down. With his mind in unending chaos, he forbore to think, but sat, looking at the grave, and filled his mind with images of Jane.

He saw her as a small girl with her hair in brown ringlets all over her head, placing her hand confidingly in his to show him something. He recalled the demure young lady veiling her eyes coquettishly at the men and always popular with them. He remembered the day they were married and how lovely she had been. And through it all ran, he now saw, the thread of her frailty. There were so many things Jane had never been allowed to do because she wasn't strong.

"She wasn't meant to live long," he whispered to himself at last. "I was lucky to keep her as long as I did. It was the babies we tried to have that pulled her down so fast. If it hadn't been for them she might still be living."

He thought of Mary Jane with a sharp pang. She had been so sweet and precious, and such a treasure! How they had both loved her! Yet, when it came to a choice of whom he should have with him, he had known it must be Jane. She had meant more to him than any other person. She had brought him out of his insecurity and given him a sense of belonging. Her loving presence had been the lodestar of his essence; now without it, he was like a rudderless ship.

Suddenly he knew that he could stay here no longer. Everything around him was a reminder of his loss. If he were to keep his sanity he must make a new life, a life without Jane, without everything that belonged to the old life. He had given up everything for the plantation at The Orchards and for its mistress, even his most treasured possession. Now he would stay no longer; nothing they could say would influence him. He was through giving to them. Some arrangement would have to be made, for he was leaving. He would go tell them at once.

He saw that his Mother Love was watching him from the open window of the kitchen as he approached with grim determination written all over his face.

"You don't have to tell me, George," she said quietly as he came in. "You've made up your mind to leave."

"Yes, Mother Love," he answered, taken aback by her clairvoyance. "I can't stand it here no longer."

"I don't know as I blame you. You been patienter than most men. But now you done your duty by your mother-in-law. You got my permission to go wherever you haf to and my blessin'."

In two days' time he was back at The Orchards. He reported to Katherine that Mary Jane would stay with Susannah until he was established in Tennessee. Then if Susannah were no longer alive, he would either come or send for her.

"All that's left now is to git somebody to stay with me," she reminded him. "I'll haf to git you to see about that for me."

"I'll go see Frederick tomorrow," he promised.

XXXI

The family at Fredericksburg was in dire straits. The cotton crop had, as Frederick expected, failed completely. No one was able to pay a cent on what he owed at the store. Frederick visited each one of his debtors and was assured by each that he would pay next year if he made half a crop, but it would be impossible to pay any this year. Frederick accumulated more and more discouragement as he went, until finally he came home with the conviction that he was ruined unless Jack Black would be lenient with him.

Day after day he put off going to Lancaster. The note was due on January first. He knew that if he did not go soon, Jack Black would come to Fredericksburg. He could not decide which would be less desirable. Cynthia was hopeful.

"Mr. Black will wait on you. He knows you good for it and he'll be much better off with the store in your hands than in his."

"I hope to goodness you right," he commented gloomily.

Just before the time was up on the note, Frederick screwed up his courage to the point of departing for Lancaster. Black grinned at him amicably from his great height as he came in the door of his store.

"Well! Howdy, Fred. How you gittin' long?" And he held out his hand.

Frederick grasped it in relief; one who was that friendly could not be planning to turn him out of his home.

"Tol'able, Jack, just tol'able. I hope I see you well."

"I keep my health; and how is Mis' Klemminger?"

"She manages to keep goin'; how's your wife?"

"She's tol'able at present. How's business?"

Frederick puckered his lips and whistled; the exchange of civilities had given him courage. "It's done went bad. I guess you know what happened to the cotton."

Black nodded, with that gleam in his dark eyes that had been there when he urged Frederick to buy the cloth.

Frederick continued. "We had just about the worst drought that anybody can remember us ever having. The cotton never made a thing. Aint nobody got no money, so they can't pay their debts. The people I sold my goods to aint gonna be able to pay me 'til they raise another crop. That means I not only won't git no money 'til next fall, but I'll have to carry some of them next summer. So I'll have to git you to save my note for another year. I won't be able to pay it when it comes due."

Black put his long, tapering fingers together over the beginnings of a paunch. He arched his heavy dark brows reflectively. "Well, now, Fred, much as I'd like to 'commodate you, I just don't see how I can. I happen to a bought my goods on credit, too, and I was countin' on what you owed me to pay my debts. The people I owe don't pay no attention to cotton crops. They expect me to pay, no matter whether we have dry weather or wet weather. And that's what I expect of you."

Fear sharpened Frederick's voice. "My goodness, Jack, how can I pay when I can't collect what's owin' me? I just don't have it and I can't git it."

"You forget, Fred, that I have a mortgage on your place," Black smirked hypocritically. "Much as I'd hate to do it, I'll have to take your land if you don't pay me."

Frederick looked at him with loathing, his hands clenching and unclenching. "No, I aint forgot. But you can't treat me that-a-way. What'll I do? Where'll I take my family?"

"Well, let's look at the note, Let's see how much of your land you put up as security. Black got a wooden box from a curtained recess, unlocked it and took out a folded paper. "It says here, '989 acres extending north of the pike to the Thompson Place and approximately to within five miles of Lancaster township, including all buildings.' That leaves you your store and the place where you live, don't it?"

"That place is all store now. I built a house across the big road on the part you got papers on. You aint gonna take that is you?"

"I only want what's in the note."

"Listen, Jack, carry me a year. All I need is some place for my family to stay. I think I can borry money to stock my store if I can stay on down there. It'd be to your good to do that."

"I hate to say this, my friend, but I don't see it that way. What can I do, with my creditors dunnin' me? I have to collect, don't I?" He shrugged his well-clad shoulders.

"Don't call me friend," Frederick answered bitterly. "You wouldn't turn a friend out of his home with no place to take his wife and young'uns. I just believe you meant all the time to do this."

"My dear Mr. Klemminger, how could I know it wasn't gonna rain?"

"You knowed you'd git me sometime. You tried to git me to take more'n I wanted to take ever' time I bought a bill of goods from you. You didn't say nothing about no mortgage when we first talked about that cloth. You sprung it on me when I come back to git it. You said it didn't mean nothing, it was just for your protection in case something happened to me."

"Well, something did happen to you, didn't it? But come on now, Fred, don't be mad. You should a got some security for the goods you sold on credit, just like I did; then you could foreclose, and you'd still have land. But, since you didn't, I tell you what I'll do. I'll rent you the land your house is on and a few other acres to plant a little crop. You stay on in your store and I'll furnish you with goods that you can pay for next fall. Course I'll have to take papers on the rest of your land for security, but, I know you'll be able to pay next fall."

Frederick reached for his hat. At the door he paused long enough to say furiously, "I aint no share-cropper and no white trash, and I aint aimin' to let you walk on me. I started with not one dime and I can do it again. Come and git my land any time you want to. I can make my way."

"I'll give you 'til spring," Black shouted after him as he slammed the door.

Cynthia had gone over to the store to wait with Robert. They were watching from the door, and could read defeat in the way Frederick approached. Robert had been of endless help since they had made a confidante of him. He seemed to have changed and matured with his sense of importance and responsibility. Now he went to meet his father and took the reins to fasten them to the hitching post. All three of them went into the store and shut the door. There was very little business these days; people had no money, and besides the stock was low. Cynthia and Robert looked at Frederick, who dropped heavily on the bench along the front of the store.

"He won't wait on you," Cynthia stated with conviction.

Frederick shook his head. "He'll give me 'til spring, but no longer."

"That's no help," Robert argued. "If you can't collect now, you can't then."

"I know. He made me an offer. He wants me to have time to think it over."

"What?" Cynthia and Robert spoke in the same breath.

"He offered to rent the part the house and garden patch is on to me and let me have good for this year, but I'd have to give him papers on ever'thing else, the store and the land on this side of the big road."

"You'll not do it!" Cynthia exclaimed. "I'll never live in a house rented from him."

"I knowed you'd not want to do it."

"What did you tell him, Papa?"

"I told him to foreclose whenever he gits ready."

"But that means we won't have no home! What'll we do?" Cynthia asked anxiously.

"Go to Concord," Robert asserted eagerly.

"I don't want to go to Concord. We'd not be no more than poor white trash there. You'd not have no slaves and you'd not have no land. You'd have to rent and you and the young'uns'd have to work it yourselves. I'm not used to living that-a-way."

"What do you think we oughta do than?" Frederick asked gently.

Cynthia looked at him a moment harshly, then burst into tears. He drew her down on the bench beside him and put his arm around her.

"Would you like to go back to your mother's?"

She pulled away from him violently. "No! Everybody'd know then that I'd married somebody who couldn't support me."

"That makes me feel bad," sadly. "I know I aint lived up to what you spected of me, but I done the best I could."

"You're not fair, Mama," Robert protested. "Papa didn't have nothing to do with the rain."

"Tend to your own business," she snapped.

Robert flushed to the roots of his hair, but bit his lips and knew enough to hold his tongue.

"I know you got a heap o' pride," Frederick said humbly. "I'm glad of it and I'd not want to see you brought down in front of your family and friends. That's why I believe we oughta go to Concord. I can put the hundred dollars on a piece a land and we can make a living. The boys can help me and it won't be so hard. I know they'll help me to keep their Ma and sisters from going hungry. It won't be like it is down here. Don't nobody know you a tall up there and I doubt they'll remember me. Anybody that does will just say what a pretty wife and what fine chaps Fred Klemminger brought back with him from South Carolina and they'll think I done mighty well."

"It'll be all right, Mama," Robert encouraged. "Don't hardly nobody have any slaves around where Uncle Christopher lives. Ever'body works in the fields, even the girls and women. But I wouldn't want you to work," he hastened to add. He had been impressed with Frederick's tact and the consideration he had shown for Cynthia's feelings. He noted how she had crept back into his father's arms, sobbed on his shoulder for a bit, and promised that she would do whatever he thought best.

It was shortly after this, while the Klemmingers were trying to get accustomed to the idea of changing their way of living, that word came of the death of Jane. No one at The Orchards had any inkling of the state of affairs at Fredericksburg and the family forbore to intrude their problems upon the grieving ones. Only Cynthia and Frederick went to the home, for Martha and Robert must stay with the smaller children. When they came back Cynthia was stricken with grief for Jane. Her conscience hurt her when she thought that Jane might yet be alive if some way had been provided for George to take her away. However, she thought, all that is over now; there is no longer any reason for George to want to leave.

And the sorrow sat lightly upon her when she remembered that soon she was to leave her large home, the enormous estate of which she had been mistress, and the luxurious way of living that had brought her so much satisfaction since she had quit having babies. She knew genuine grief over the change that the vagaries of the weather had brought in her fortune. She could not dwell too greatly upon the loneliness and heartache that George or her mother might be suffering while she pondered the keen disappointment that life was dealing out to her.

Into the midst of these reflections came George with his set face and haunted eyes. He rode up to the house instead of the store. Cynthia invited him to a seat by the fire and tried to make conversation, which was difficult because he offered so little help. The children stood around and stared until Cynthia was embarrassed; then they began to whisper. Finally she sent them to the kitchen with Martha to help prepare for dinner.

"You will stay for dinner, won't you, George?" she invited.

"Thank you, I'll be glad to if it won't put you to too much trouble. I wanted to talk to Fred. I reckon I can do that after dinner. Is he very busy?"

"Not so very. I can send for him if you want me to."

"Don't bother. I'll just walk over to the store."

She was relieved at the departure of this singularly quiet man. When he came back at twelve o'clock with Frederick and Robert, she could tell by a look at her husband's face that he, too, had found it difficult to entertain their visitor.

George had an old-fashioned sense of the courtesy due a man under whose roof one has shared bread and meat, and therefore forbore to mention what he knew would be unpleasant business until after they had eaten. He had a feeling he might not be welcome to food after they had talked.

As they pushed back their chairs Frederick said expansively, "Come in the house, George, where we can talk. Robert, you better go back to the store. Somebody might want something."

Robert went away with a feeling of disquiet at George's unexpected visit. Cynthia gave the children orders to clean up the kitchen and stay there until Papa went back to the store. Then she removed her apron and followed the men. George got up and brought a chair for her when she came in. Frederick's disapproving look glanced off her determined face as George went on with what he was saying.

"Jane would be living today if I had been able to take her back to Tennessee as I should have done right after Father Carpenter died. If I'd a had any idee that Mother Carpenter and Mary Jane could a made out as good as they have I wouldn't a waited. Then the responsibility for Mother Love would never a fell on me."

"But," Cynthia interrupted, "Jane didn't want to go back to Tennessee; she said she didn't."

"That wasn't so at first. She seen all the reasons why we ought to stay here and she didn't want me to feel like I had to try to stay with two people in two different places at the same time. But that's all over with now, and I didn't come here to talk about blaming anybody for what's done finished. I come to tell you that I'm going back to Tennessee."

"You don't mean that!" Cynthia exclaimed, while Frederick looked at him in amazement.

George turned toward Cynthia belligerently. "And why not, I'd like to know. Aint I never gonna be let do the things I want to do?"

"But there aint no need for you to go now," she blurted out thoughtlessly.

"You do admit, though, that there was a need for me to go one time, and nobody lifted their little finger to clear the way so I could go."

Cynthia and Frederick were astounded. This was a new George. He brought out words, not with the kindness and tact once so characteristic of him, but with force and remorseless logic. Neither of them spoke, so he continued.

"I can't help but feel that I was called on to put up with more than flesh and blood can bear. I had to find the answer to a question that didn't have no answer. And nobody'd help me; to tell the truth nobody else even thought it was anything to worry about. And there was people who had as much of a responsibility to find the answer as I did, maybe even more when you consider everything else I already had to do."

"There wasn't nothing we could do," Frederick began defensively. "We had little chaps and I had my work here - "

"I had one child and a foster mother. I give up my child, and I rather think I love her as much as you love all yours put together; I give her up so I could stay with my mother-in-law, who is also your mother-in-law and Billy Thompson's, too. I had my work, too, and another person to take care of in Camden. I give it all up and took over my mother-in-law's farm. And now my wife's dead; my only child would rather stay with somebody else than go with me; and I'm all alone in the world, with no family, no house or land and no job. I stood all this as long as I did for my wife's sake. Now I'm not gonna stand it no longer. I'm going to do what I want to do." His voice was gathering volume and power. "If I don't git away from here I'll do something real terrible. I aint been treated right and I'll not stand no more. I'm gonna leave."

Cynthia stood, trembling, and Ceorge rose mechanically with her. "You're - you're - insulting!" she cried.

Frederick pulled her back into her chair. His new humility served him in good stead at this moment. He spoke calmly. "Set down, George. No use in gittin' upset. I guess you don't know what's happened to us. Maybe the drought didn't hit you as hard as it did us. It has ruined us. I lost ever'thing I own and three acres of land on this side of the road. I can't even stay on here. Even if I had a house to put my family in, I aint got enough money to stock my store. So you see we're in just as bad a fix as you."

"You? Frederick? Broke?"

"Uh-huh. Been so long now since it happened we 'bout got used to it."

"What you gonna do?"

Cynthia snorted, but neither of the men paid any attention to her.

"I'm gonna go back to Cabarrus County and take my family. My Ma's up there and my brother that I can stay with 'til I git a place. Guess I'll be a farmer after all, which is what I oughta been all along, maybe."

"What'll you do with your store?"

"Guess you noticed there's not much in it, and I don't have no trade to speak of. So I'll just leave it for now. Been thinkin' 'bout giving some land for a church and I 'spect what I got left would be about right for that."

"So you see," Cynthia said maliciously, "we can't take care of Mama and you'll just have to stay on."

George placed his hands on the top of his chair and looked at her coldly. "I don't want to bemean your hospitality by quarreling with you, but you got to understand. I won't stay at The Orchards any longer. I'm leaving for Tennessee just as soon as I can get my things in order."

"You mean you'll go and leave Mama by herself?"

"I'm going. There'll be somebody to stay with her, because either you'll move down there yourself, or you'll send Robert down to stay with her. He knows as much about farming as I did when I went there. Me and her have agreed that he can stay with her."

Frederick and Cynthia looked at each other with chill forboding. Each could imagine the scene Robert would create when told of this.

"We can't leave Robert here," Frederick protested. "He's already been to Concord and he's countin' on going back."

"I've already been to Tennessee and I been countin' on going back for three years. Now I'm going."

"But Robert's got a sweeting up there," Cynthia pleaded. "He wants to go back and marry her."

"I'd a had a wife in Tennessee, but thanks to all of you keeping us here, she's dead. I can't stay around here no longer; too many things make me think of her." He picked up his hat and walked toward the door. "I got to be going now. Thank you for the dinner, Cynthia. You're as good a cook as your mother. I hate not to be at your command any more. I've done my duty by my in-laws and now I'm off to see if I can't do something for myself. If you don't want to send Robert down to The Orchards, think of somebody else. I expect to be ready to leave in a week. I wish you good fortune and a good afternoon."

And with that he bowed himself politely out. For once Frederick did not go to the hitching post with his guest. He and Cynthia stood staring at each other in mute dismay.

"What will we say to Robert?" Cynthia whispered.

"I - don't know," Frederick answered slowly. "I - just - don't know."

But Robert was not to be left long in suspense as to what had happened. As soon as he saw George ride away he went to the store door and whistled for his father. The children in the kitchen heard, and, seeing that George had gone, started into the house.

"Send the chaps back," Frederick told Cynthia, "and I'll call Robert. We might as well git this settled now." Stepping outside he shouted to his son, "Lock the store door and come here."

The young man came almost at a run. "What is it, Papa? What did Uncle George want? He looked almost like a drunk man when he walked out of here."

"What do you know about drunk men?" Cynthia asked.

"Uncle Christopher keeps whiskey all the time. He didn't git drunk, but I
seen Paul drunk one time. He was staggerin' around a sight, like this," and Robert began weaving across the room.

"Stop that!" Cynthia commanded sharply.

"Come here, Robert." Frederick indicated the chair where George had sat. "You mustn't be too hard on your Uncle George. He's had a bad time. Your Aunt Jane dying's changed him a heap."

"I thought there was something wrong with him," Robert said sympathetically. "I don't blame him. Aunt Jane was mighty sweet on him. I seen 'em together; they was crazy about each other."

"Well, he's about crazy with grievin' now, so crazy that he don't know what he's sayin' or doin' half the time. He come up here to tell us that he aint gonna stay with your Grandma no longer."

"What's he gonna do?" Robert was mildly interested.

"He's going back to Tennessee."

"Who's gonna stay with Grandma?"

"He says we got to git somebody."

"Well, who'll it be? We're all going to Concord."

They were silent, but with a quality that presently drew his eyes questioningly to theirs. Reading sorrow and pity there, he burst out, "I'm not! I'm going to Concord!"

When they were still silent, he went on desperately, "You needn't think I will, cause I won't. You didn't tell him I would, did you?"

"We didn't tell him nothing. He told us."

"You mean he decided I'd stay with Grandma?"

"Him and your Grandma had already talked it over before he come up here. They decided on it."

"But, Papa, they can't do that. They don't have nothing to do with me. You won't let them make me stay, will you, Mama? They can't make me stay, can they?"

He was beside himself. Frederick tried to calm him, to get him to see George's side, but could scarcely talk for rabid interruptions from the boy. At length he began to weep. Cynthia tried to pull him into her arms to soothe him, but he jerked away and lay down on the floor, sobbing bitter little boy tears from the depths of his aching man's heart.

"Son, don't do that," Frederick urged. "I wouldn't ask you to stay if there was any way out of it. But I can't see nothing else to do. Stop crying and help me think if there's any other way."

"I've always been bossed around," Robert sniveled, "told what to do, never been let decide things for myself. When I tried to mind you, you said I was big enough to figger out things for myself without being told all the time. Then when I tried do what I thought was right, you got on me for not doing what I was told. I never will be able to amount to nothing. I reckon I never will have a farm and a wife and family of my own because somebody else will say I can't."

"Don't take on that way, boy. You know it's not so. Pa's and Ma's is older'n their chaps and is supposed to tell them what to do 'til they git old enough to decide for theirselves."

"How old do you have to be before you can decide for yourself? I'm going on seventeen."

"I let you decide about a heap of things lately. I let you go to Concord to start learning to be a farmer."

"Yeah, and let me git to like it and then take it away from me."

Cynthia interposed, "Fred, are you gonna set there and let him talk to you like that?"

Instantly Robert sprang to his feet. "If he lays a hand on me, I'll run away and you'll never see me again."

"Shut up, both of you," Frederick said sternly. "I'm not gonna whoop you, boy. If you aint learned no respect for your Pa by now, then it's too late for you to learn it. I'm not going to whoop you but I am gonna tell you that you'll have to stay with your Grandma, for a year anyhow."

"Why can't William stay?"

"He aint old enough. But you stay this year, and I'll try to come back next fall and make some other arrangements so that you can go to Concord. By that time William may be big enough to be of some help to his Grandma."

Robert tried to speak, but, seeing the inevitability of further resistance, he put his hands over his face and cried aloud. Frederick's own voice thickened as he rose and laid his hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Don't take on so, son. I know you disappointed, but people's always being disappointed. You got to stand up to it like a man. Hardly anything ever turns out the way we want it to. You crying like this shows you still aint old enough to know what's got to be and what can't be helped. You stay on down here this year. It seems like a long time now, but it'll be gone afore you know it. If that girl in Concord is worth having she'll wait for you. Then come next fall I'll bring William dawn here and you can go back with me and git married if you want to."

Robert turned and went out slowly, but he did not go to the store. He took the path to the spring. Cynthia and Frederick watched him silently until he passed from their view.

Cynthia sighed gustily. "I'm glad that's over with. He's a case if ever I seen one."

Frederick echoed her sigh, but with melancholy. "Poor feller! I feel sorry for him. He always goes off like that when something's botherin' him."

And Cynthia could not know that he was remembering how he had walked away from everyone on a Thanksgiving Day when for him a bright dream had been shattered.

XXXII

George made one last trip to Camden to see Susannah and Mary Jane. The parting with his thirteen-year-old daughter filled him with despair. He was sure he loved her dearly and being separated from her was going to leave an aching void in his life. But he suffered from a complete absence of feeling; he no longer even grieved for Jane. He was burned out and now incapable of a deep emotion. He thought of how close they had always been from the time she first turned her blue eyes on him and smiled until he was forced to leave her. Leaving her in Camden had been a mistake. She had grown away from him and now preferred Susannah's guardianship to his own. She looked at him solemnly with the corners of her mouth turned down as he kissed her goodbye.

"I'll leave you here as long as Grandma Carpenter needs you," he told her, "and when you want me send me word and I'll come git you. I'll write you where I'll be."

Back at The Orchards he found that Frederick had come and gone, leaving Robert in his absence. The boy was sullen and aloof. He seemed to feel that both George and Katherine were responsible for his being left behind by his parents and he resented it greatly. Immediately George prepared to leave. He told the two a brief and unemotional goodbye and rode away on the horse that was the last of his tangible property. Everything else he had converted into cash, part of which had gone to pay Jane's doctor. Part had been left with Susannah for Mary Jane, and the small amount that remained rested in the pocket of his trousers.

Katherine stood in the south door and watched him as he paused to wave just before the woods hid him from view. Robert was in the yard. He turned to walk away, but Katherine called him back.

"I want to talk to you, Robert."

He came in reluctantly and took a seat.

"Since me and you're gonna be here by ourselves and we got to work together, maybe we better come to some understanding with each other. I don't spose you wanted to come down here, did you?"

He looked up in surprise. "Did Papa - "

"Your Pa didn't tell me nothing. I just guessed from the way you been acting. But he did tell me that you only gonna be here for a little while. Says he's gonna come back next fail and git you. I spose I'll have to try and find somebody else between now and then. Me, oh, my! It's been a long time since my Sam died and left me and it seems like I been a heap o' trouble and bother to a big lot of people ever since. First it was Frank and Lina; then it was George; and now it's you. And it don't seem like none of 'em wanted to stay with me. Why couldn't I just a went on with him? Robert, it's bad to be old and be a burden on them you love. I hope that don't never happen to you."

Katherine was lonely for someone with whom she could share her thoughts and afraid for the future with no one but this unhappy lad to stand between her and solitary helplessness. Robert was surprised and a bit confused at thus being made a confidante of his grandmother.

"I'm gonna try to learn how to be a good farmer, Grandma. But don't you worry; I won't let nothing happen to you. I'll see that you are took care of."

"How can you, child, if you're only gonna stay with me this summer?"

"I - I'll take you with me."

"No. I can't go away. It'd be better for you to stay here on my farm. Don't you think you can learn how to farm right here? I been running it ever since your Grandpa died and I could learn you."

"I already know some things about it. I like it and things will grow for me. Uncle Christopher said he believed I was a natural born farmer."

"Well - " Katherine seemed undecided about something. "I need a good farmer mighty bad. George done the best he could. He'd a been a better manager if he hadn't been so worried about Jane. He couldn't keep his mind on the work. The drought hurt me pretty bad. I didn't make half a crop of cotton and I aint gonna have enough corn to last 'til the new crop comes in. I didn't pay George nothing as long as Jane was living. We all just had ever'thing together. But when he decided to leave I thought he ought to have something to show for all the time he spent here working for me. I didn't have no money to give him, so I mortgaged a piece of land."

"Did Uncle George tell you to do that?" Robert asked indignantly.

"No, he didn't know nothing about it. He was so took up with grieving he never even knowed what he was eating half the time. I just sent Will Plemmons word to bring me some money and he come and brought the papers for me to sign."

"How long did he give you to pay it back?"

"A year. You - you don't think I done wrong, do you?"

Robert felt himself growing taller at being thus deferred to. "No. But I don't believe in going into debt and specially in giving mortgages. That's what caused all Papa's trouble. If he hadn't bought things on credit he'd still have his land."

"What would you a done if you'd a been me?"

"I'd a sold some of the darkies."

"But, Robert! We have to have somebody to do the work!"

"What good did it do? They worked, and you still didn't make nothing, but you got to feed them. If you'd a sold one you'd a saved his food, and had money to buy more food and you wouldn't a been in debt."

"I reckon one darkey, more or less, wouldn't make much difference," Katherine said thoughtfully.

"I'd git shed of ever' one of 'em if they's mine. I could do all the work myself," Robert said positively.

"Well, Robert, I didn't know and I didn't have nobody to ask about it. If I could a talked with you - well, glad you gonna be here with me. I feel like you'll be a big help. Why don't you just stay with me? And when I'm gone you can have the plantation. I'll will it to you. Then you won't have to buy land."

He stammered and blushed so that Katherine wisely said no more, but waited for time to get in its work. She was wise, too, in the way she had approached the boy, telling him of her troubles, laying her responsibilities on him and asking his advice. It made him feel valuable and aroused his interest in spite of his determination to remain on the sidelines; besides he really liked his Grandmother.

He soon became absorbed in the problems of the plantation. With Jim he went over the land, learned what crops were planted and where. He found that certain fields were not yielding fair returns for the labor put upon them. He also noticed the rank growth of Jamestown and careless weeds near the stables and hog pens, as compared to the crops in the fields. Keeping his own counsel, he set the Negroes to cleaning out the stables, scattering the refuse generously over the faulty fields, and refilling the homes of the cattle with fresh straw from the pine woods. Pastures which had been pastures since he could remember were plowed and planted in corn, and new forage ground was found for the cattle.

Jim was good help and his steady obedience set a good example for the other darkies, who might have been inclined to resent this boy giving them orders had it not been for Robert's quiet air of authority, as if expecting unquestioned obedience.

The crops were planted and grew without delay; cultivation proceeded along well-planned lines; the darkies did their work creditably. Billy Thompson felt that he should go down and see if Robert needed any advice. He and Anne came down one Sunday to spend the day. Katherine was at home alone, having prevailed upon Robert to go to Laurel Hill church where they were having what was known as a basket meeting. The people took dinner and spent the day. Katherine had ample opportunity to report on Robert, which she did with great relish, enlarging on his ability and industry. She told how he went into the fields and worked with his own hands when the darkies were "pushed."

Billy rode his horse over the fields and inspected the crops. "Looks like the boy knows what he's doing," he reported to Anne and Katherine. "He's got ever' whit as good a crop as I've got. I've never seen nothing like the corn that's growing on them fields you was gonna throw out."

And Billy was quite cordial to Robert when he came in a few minutes before he and Anne were ready to leave. He spoke to him with the respect of one successful planter for another. When he was ready to go he said, "Come to see us, Robert. Bring your Grandma and spend the day with us one Sunday soon."

"The horses have to work pretty hard through the week. I spect they oughta rest on Sunday," Robert objected mildly.

"It wouldn't be very hard work walking up to our house," Billy answered somewhat sharply, as if his judgment had been called in question.

"Certainly we'll come," Katherine said calmly. "Robert is just talking. He knows it'll do the horses good to git away from home and git something different to eat, same as us. We'll come one Sunday soon."

And they did go, early in June. It was Robert's first visit there since he returned from Concord. He found that in his absence his cousin, Selina, had grown into a young lady. She was not very pretty, having a pimply complexion, straight hair and light blue eyes, but had filled out interestingly. She had a piquant, turned-up nose and was a great talker.

From the time she was eleven she had been enormously interested in boys, a fact which sometimes worried her mother. She was about the size of Elizabeth Schmitt, and, although there was nothing else about her to remind him of his love, the sight of her brought a lump into Robert's throat and caused him to answer the greetings of his relatives ungraciously. He had written Elizabeth, but had had no reply. He had told no one who she was, so no word of her had come through letters from his parents.

Selina was hind to him and evinced a liking for his company, which flattered him considerably. Anne sent them to the spring to get water.

"La, Robert, you sure have growed," Selina trilled as she walked behind him down the hill to the spring. "You near bout a man now."

"I'll soon be seventeen," he boasted.

"You been to Concord, aint you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did you like it?"

"I liked it all right."

"You going back?"

"Yeah. Next fall."

"Who's gonna stay with Grandma?"

"I reckon Papa'll let William, or somebody else'll have to stay."

"Why don't you just stay on?"

"I don't want to," shortly.

Selina was silent for a moment, then offered tentatively, "I bet we could have a good time."

Robert grunted noncommittally.

They came to the spring which was at the base of a hill with the path running to one side of it and a cleared place beside it. Two young sweet gum trees sheltered it and dropped their leaves upon the surface of the fresh cool water. Robert filled their buckets and carried Selina's part of the way up the hill. Half-way home they sat down to rest. By the time they got back to the house they were well acquainted, having talked more together than they had ever done before in all the time they had been together.

When Robert went out to hitch the horse to the buggy, preparatory to going home, Selina went with him.

"Can't you come back again, Robert?"

"I'll ask Grandma if we can."

"Grandma don't have to come. I mean you. Come Sunday week."

"I'll see abont it. I spect I can."

And he did come; and again soon. Eventually it became a habit, and he found himself going to the Thompsons regularly every two weeks. He did not think of himself as "courting" Selina. She was his cousin! He was too well wrapped in his memories of Elizabeth to entertain such a notion. He only knew that she kept him from being lonely. She had innumerable things to talk about and was rather entertaining. They always sat on the front porch with Billy and Anne until bedtime. Usually then Robert went home.

One Sunday night he did not go for his horse as soon as Anne and Billy said goodnight, but sat on, listening as Selina talked. Presently she got up and sat on the steps.

"Come, set by me, Robert," she invited.

He came. She talked on, and moved closer to him. Then she placed her hand on his knee. Billy came to the door.

"It's time to go to bed, Selina. Can't you spend the night, Robert?"

"Much obliged, Uncle Billy, but I got to be going."

And he went. But he was back again the next Sunday. This time he did not want Selina to be sent to bed while he was still there, so he said goodnight at dusk.

"I'll go with you to git your horse, Robert," she offered.

Anne was busy in the kitchen. Billy had gone to see about some cows the darkies could not find. The smaller children had gotten so used to Robert's presence they scarcely noticed his going. At the hitching post Robert loosened his horse and slipped the reins over his arm.

"I'll walk a little piece with you," the girl ventured. And they went as far as the cotton house which stood between the house and the road. Here they paused.

"You don't like me, do you, Robert?" Selina sighed.

"Course I do. What makes you say that?"

"Not the way I like you."

Robert was silent. He didn't know what answer to make. This was opening up a different side of Selina.

"I'd do anything for you, Robert."

There was urgency in her voice. She had sensed the friendliness in him, and also the reserve. She had guessed at the cause of his lack of interest in her because of his unwillingness to talk about Concord. She had spent too much time in the company of the Negro women and was guilty of an insatiable curiosity. This male cousin aroused strange thoughts in her. But he was merely puzzled.

"Much obliged, Selina. You're a sweeting. I don't reckon I need to have nothing done for me. Grandma takes pretty good care of me."

"Aw, Robert!" She sighed gustily and laid her head against his arm. Awkwardly he patted her head. Impulsively she put her arms around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. He tensed for a moment, then released himself.

"I ought to go now. Uncle Billy'll miss you."

"Don't go. Wait out here somewhere and I'll come back soon as I can."

He waited for half an hour. He heard Selina come to the door once, but Billy called her back and told her to go to bed. So Robert got on his horse and went home.

He was restless and dissatisfied all that week. He kept thinking of Selina, strange thoughts. He felt he could not wait until Sunday to see her. Yet as Sunday approached, he realized he should not go back. Saturday night he went over to see Watts whose small farm was not far away. Watts was good company, being full of a fund of homely wit and wisdom. Robert thought the talk must mean knowledge and that Watts could help him; yet he could not raise courage enough to ask questions. He kept coming back to see Watts during the following weeks, hoping for help, but not knowing how to get it. This was new behavior on his part and Watts noticed it.

"What's a matter, Robert? Lonesome? What you need is a girl."

The boy flushed painfully. It was as if Watts had read his mind. To relieve his feelings he answered quickly, "I got a girl. In Concord."

"She aint doing you no good up there. What you need is one down here. I know just how you feel, boy. You don't have to say another word."

Robert's face burned. He strove to speak, but the words would not come. Watts put his arm across the boy's shoulders and led him into the house. He brought out a jug and two cups and they sat down at the kitchen table. Thus a would-be friend set the lad's feet upon twin paths that would make thorny going for him in a grievous future.

XXXIII

After his evening under the tutelage of Watts, Robert was queasy for a week. It was laying-by time and he could avoid most human contact. He roamed aimlessly through the woods. He did not think; he merely brooded. One moment he was overcome with shame, the next he tingled with remembrance. The thought of Selina no longer appealed to. The image of Elizabeth filled him with remorse. He longed for his father, yet knew within his heart that, were Frederick here, he could not tell him of what filled his mind. Nevertheless, he wrote to his father, stressing the fact that fall would soon be here and that he was looking forward to being able to return to Concord. He urged him to come as soon as possible after the crops were gathered. Having his letter finished and ready to have the sealing wax dropped on it, he suddenly remembered another letter he had premised to write long ago. He brought another piece of paper forward, dipped his pen in the bottle of red ink and began: "Dear Cousin Mary Jane:-"

It is to be supposed that both letters brought pleasure to the recipients. Yet Frederick did not get the thrill from his that overwhelmed Mary Jane when she saw the shapely, flowing handwriting. She had never forgotten how well Robert could write, nor the promise he had made to write her a letter. Susannah was curious when Mr. Blaney brought the message from town. Mary Jane met him at the door and flew to Susannah.

"Grandma Susie, look! A letter for me."

"Who's it from, child?"

"It's from Robert," shyly.

"Well, make haste and open it. It may be that somebody's sick."

"No," Mary Jane answered positively, "it's not got bad news in it. He's just writing cause he promised he would."

"Promised he would, huh? When?"

"When he was down here with Papa."

"How long's that been?"

"Two years ."

"Took him long enough in all conscience. Go ahead and read your letter. You don't have to tell ma what it says."

"I'll read it to you." In a softly pitched, clear voice, she read:

Dear Cousin Mary Jane:

I thought I would write you a few lines to let you hear from me. I am well and hope you are the sane. Grandma is well. I hope Mrs. Carpenter is well, too. I have been a long time keeping my promise to you. I have been to Concord. I guess you know Papa lost his land and has gone back to Concord. I am staying with Grandma now. I am learning to be a farmer. I have a good crop. The drought didn't hurt my crop this year. I am going back to Concord in the fall. I will try to come down to see you before I go. If you will answer this I will have somebody from up here to go by and get your letter and bring it to me. Well, I will close for this time.

Your Cousin,

             Robert Klemminger."

Mary Jane's blue eyes sparkled with delight. Susannah forbore making any remark except to say that it was a nice letter. The girl slipped away to reread her letter in solitude. She tucked her feet up under her skirts and sat on a chest under the window in what had been her parents' room and gazed dreamily into the side yard, not seeing the stately hollyhocks nodding sedately to each other in the hot August sunshine. Could her grandfather have seen her he would have recognized the wistful light that had been wont to come into her mother's eyes when George had been especially nice to her.

Susannah and Mary Jane were getting along remarkably well. Mr. Blaney still looked in on them twice each day, early morning and at night. He was one of those godly souls who take seriously the behest of the good book to look after the widows and orphans. To look in on them had grown to be as much a part of his daily life as winding the clock and going down to Bullard's Tavern to get the mail and hear the news. The old lady and the young girl made a good enough living with their sewing of shrouds, though it kept them busy most of their waking moments. Susannah did a great deal of spinning and weaving, for she now furnished most of the cloth for her sewing. She used cotton, an abundance of which George had brought to her before he left for Tennessee. Mary Jane was able to cut the material and sew up the garments with small, neat, well-placed stitches, making very presentable shrouds. Her education had been neglected since the departure of her father. At that time she already knew more than Susannah. She had attained to about fourth grade standard under George's tutelage in arithmetic, spelling and grammar. She was much further advanced in reading, and this she had not neglected. She read all the books which her father had been able to accumulate, and borrowed from the minister.

The latter was a firm friend of Mary Jane, finding her pew filled each meeting day and her fair face turned on him with a steadfast faith which gave him inspiration. He took many occasions to visit in the Carpenter home and talk with her. He talked casually at first, but found that she invariably brought the conversation around to the Bible and usually had some question of doctrine or interpretation to put to him; so that she became well informed on Bible teachings. The minister was a Baptist, so she naturally inclined in that direction.

One Saturday morning they were aroused early by a loud knocking at the front door. Susannah and Mary Jane both threw coats over their night clothes and went to the door. There stood a small boy who thrust a note at them and departed hastily. Susannah let Mary Jane read the note which told of the death of a woman whom they did not know and for whom a shroud was desired. Measurements were given and it was stated that the garment would be called for Sunday morning as the funeral was to be on Sunday afternoon.

"Sunday morning!" Susannah exclaimed. "That means we'll have to do it all today!"

"We can do it, Grandma. You can leave off spinning and weaving and help me with the sewing."

They measured and found there was not enough for the sleeves.

"I'll have to make that much," Susannah decided.

They did not go back to bed, but got their breakfast, tidied the house and set to work. Another order was brought in for a Sunday morning delivery, for which the material was furnished. By late afternoon the first order was finished and they were ready to start on the second one. They took time out for a brief supper and then began again, sewing for dear life. The clock remorselessly ticked away the hours and midnight was approaching.

"I'tll scion be Sunday, Grandma," Mary Jane worried, "and we'll have to quit."

"We can't quit 'tit we git through. We got to have this ready by morning."

"We can't work on Sunday, Grandma."

"I'll stop the clock," Susannah volunteered, and did so.

"That won't make no difference," Mary Jane cried. "The time will pass and it'll be Sunday just the same."

"Then I'll close the shutters and pull the curtains together. That'll keep out the light of Sunday and it'll still be Saturday in the house."

Mary Jane laughed merrily at this, but soon began to look serious as she saw that Susannah meant to go on with the sewing even if it were Sunday.

"Grandma, the Bible says 'Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy'."

Susannah answered, unperturbed, "It also says that if an ox falls in the ditch on Sunday his owner should take him out on Sunday. Wouldn't it be mean to let the poor thing lie there and suffer 'til Monday?"

"But that's not the same thing."

"Yes, it is, May Jane. You wouldn't think it was proper to bury a dead person without her shroud, would you? It'd be better for us to sew on Sunday than to have that happen, wouldn't it?"

"I reckon so." The girl had stopped her own work and was very thoughtful.

"Come on, child. Git to your sewing. We got to git through before morning."

"Grandma, you sure it's right?"

"Yes, honey, I'm sure. I'm just as sure God means for me to do what I'm doing as I can be. But if you feel like it's wrong you needn't help me. You go to bed and git some sleep and I'll finish."

"No, I'll help you. If doing this makes you a sinner, I'll be one, too."

"You aint no sinner, Mary Jane. If you don't go to Heaven there aint no hope for the rest of us."

By two o'clock the shroud was finished. It was folded and placed on a chair by the front doer ready to be delivered when it should be called for. The floor was swept, the scraps put away and everything was in readiness for the new day. Then the curtains were pushed aside and the shutters opened to let in the fresh sweet air of the Sabbath.

XXXIV

Rebert's life continued to be a battle between his former existence and the new experiences that had been opened up to him by Watts. But the approach of the harvest season gave him less time to brood. He had constantly to supervise picking the cotton, gathering the corn and harvesting the field peas. The rain sometimes made this a problem, for damp cotton would mildew and thus lessen its market value, while wet cotton would actually spoil. He did not hesitate to go into the fields and work when his help was needed. For one thing, he did not tell a darkey to do a thing he could not do himself. He was up at dawn and did not come in at night until the stars were dotting the sky. Certainly it helped him to slough off some of his unease. He did not visit Watts' farm so often now. He had a letter from Mary Jane, and was glad he had written to her. They now began to communicate with each other whenever there was passing.

The nearer the end of harvest came, the more feverishly Robert worked. He began to think of his father's coming as release from a great burden. He had started several times to write, but recalled that his last letter had gone only in August and wagered that Frederick would come instead of writing. The last lock of cotton was picked clean from the bur and the bales had been hauled to Camden. The corn was gathered and safely stored in the cribs. Wheat and oats were being put into the ground. Time for butchering was at hand and still Frederick did not come. Robert was visibly uneasy. Katherine knew what was worrying him and tried to console him.

"Fred just wants to be sure ever'thing is done before he comes. No doubt he is behind in his work, hisself, it being this is the first time he's farmed in many a year. Why I warrant you a better farmer right now than he is. I. don't spect you'll see him 'til after Christmas."

This was small consolation to Robert's impatient spirit, but it did serve to ease the fear that waiting brought. For the boy sometimes awoke from a nightmare in which he dreamed that his father did not come at all. When Christmas had come and gone and there was no longer enough work on the plantation to occupy his time, Robert again wrote to his father. He tried to make his letter sound dignified and man-to-man-ish, but could not entirely keep out a note of desperation. After weeks a letter came, not from Frederick, but from Cynthia.

She said that everyone was well except William. He had got wet while very hot last fall and had had a terrible cough and cold ever since. That was why Papa had not come as he promised because he had no one to bring to take Robert's place. Robert would have to stay another year, and that he could look for his father and William the next fall. In the meantime she hoped he was being a good boy and doing a good part by his grandma. And she was his devoted mother.

Katherine sat by the fire in the west end of the house. Through the open window beside the fireplace she saw a rare exhibition of temper. She had seen the horseman draw rein at the path that led to the house and halloo. She had watched Robert go down to the road, receive the letter chat a moment with the neighbor and then open and read the message. Even at this distance her dim old eyes could see the black scowl that spread over his face, making him look like a caricature of his handsome self. He crushed the letter in his hand and kicked savagely at a stone that lay in his path. He clenched his hands and unconsciously held them up. Then he stripped a switch from a nearby bush and whipped savagely at the weeds by the path as he strode to the house. He stumbled blindly and stooped to grasp the thing that was in his way. He straightened up with an old shoe in his hand and flung it furiously as far as his strength could hurl it, uttering an oath as he did so.

As a child, when thwarted, he had been wont to kick and scream. Now he could not do that. These outward signs were the expressions of the inward perturbation, the realization that nothing he could do would get him his way this time. He no longer wept. He had not done that in more than a year now. He paused on the outside of the door long enough to get his muscles under control and to smooth out Cynthia's letter. Then he went in, laid the letter in Katherine's lap and went on out to the stables without a word. He passed through the orchard and went down the well-worn path to the bridge across the creek. Below was the log which had been replaced by the bridge and pushed into the water at the time his namesake was drowned. He crashed his way through the bushes and stood on the log. It wavered a little, but held his feet above the water as he squatted down on it.

The quiet seeped into his soul, stilling a little the spirit of rebellion that seethed and boiled there as he thought bitterly of how his life was always arranged for him by someone else. Plans were no good. He never got to carry them out. For the first time doubt entered his mind, doubt if he would ever be able to achieve any of the things he planned. He had not heard from Elizabeth Schmitt; but then she had said she could not write. As he thought of what could happen, with him powerless to do even one thing to prevent it, he burst into a stream of profanity. It did not relieve his feelings. He buried his face in his hands for a long moment of shuddering regret that he could not find relief as Mary Jane found in religion. Then he got carefully to his feet and reached for a sapling to pull him to the bank. There he straightened his shoulders and looked resolutely at the westering sun.

Since he could not at present have his own way, he would do his best for the one more year allotted to him; when that time was up he would like to see anyone under Heaven or above keep him from doing what he wanted to do. And since the avenues of peace which others found were not open to him, he would choose such means as he found available for bringing surcease to the loneliness that ate at his vitals. Elizabeth would be his girl - his future wife - in his secret heart; Mary Jane would be his dear little cousin and friend; Selina - he would not think of her - she was his cousin, too, but goodness knows his family owed him something. When things got too unbearable he could find relief from both thought and desire in what could be obtained at the Watts' home.

All winter Robert was so taken up with his private problems that he let the matter of the mortgage which Will Plemmons held slip from his mind, and did nothing about paying it off. Katherine, seeing that he was often distracted and moody, hesitated to mention it. Then came a note from Mary Jane telling of a slight illness on the part of Susannah. This upset both of them, and Katherine insisted that Robert should go to Camden.

"Why that old woman could die and that child there by herself with her, and nobody'd know nothing about it!" she asserted.

While Robert was away, as if clairvoyant, Will Plemmons came to talk to Katherine about the note. After greetings he settled to business immediately.

"How you fixed for money, Mis' Love?"

"I rather you talked to my grandson about that, Mr. Plemmons. He's my overseer now, and a mighty good one he is, too."

"Where is he?"

"He's not here right now. He went down to Camden to see about his cousin, my granddaughter. The woman she lives with is sick."

"Do you expect him back today?"

"No, he just went today. He won't be back before tomorrow night."

"I'm sorry, Mis' Love, but I can't stay that long. And I'm afraid I won't have time to come back at a later time. But we can just as well settle this now as any time. After all, my business is with you since you own the place. Your note was due February 15, and this is March. Understand, I'm not pushing you. I know if you'd been able to pay me you'd have sent for me. I just thought we ought to have another understanding about it."

"Yes, I reckon we ought to. I should a sent for you, but Robert that's my grandson that's staying with me, he's been sort of down in the mouth and I hated to bother him."

"Mis' Love, this is between me and you. There's no reason why we can't settle it right here and to your satisfaction. Now you don't have to pay the note. In fact, I'll be glad to carry you as long as you need it. I brought your old note and I brought another one I made out. See here?"

He brought out a piece of paper from his inner coat pocket, unfolded it and held it up for her inspection, talking rapidly as he explained it. "This is to protect you and keep you from being bothered in case you can't pay when it comes due every year. It provides that if it isn't paid on the date due every year, it is automatically renewed for another year and a few more acres of land are added to take care of the interest. In that way you won't need to be bothered about it 'til you're ready to pay it."

"Well," Katherine said uncertainly, "I just don't know what I ought to do. I suppose I could pay it now, but it would leave me sort of pushed to run the place for another year."

"Mis' Love, you don't need to feel pushed. Just sign this note and everything will be taken care of 'til you can pay. I got a feller waiting in my buggy for me and he can witness your signature."

The man was called in and the note duly signed and witnessed. Will Plemmons pocketed it with satisfaction and drove away to pay another visit to a hapless farmer.

XXXV

When Robert came back from Camden he brought a letter to Katherine from George. It had been enclosed in one to Mary Jane.

My dear Mother Love:

I am sorry I did not write before this. It took me all this time to get used to being without my wife and daughter. I was very bitter and feeling sorry for myself when I left you more than a year ago. I hope you do not think I am not grateful for all you have meant to me during the years I have known you. You made up for the mother I never could remember. I think you know once I remembered that my mother's name was Mary and my daughter is named for her. What I didn't say at the same time was that I also remembered my father's name was George, and my dear friends in Camden must have been divinely guided to choose his name for mine. Mother Love, I'm sure you must have done many good things for many people, but if you never did anything for anybody else, what you did for me was enough to get you into Heaven. Not only were you the mother of my dear wife, but also my dearest friend and represent to me the nature of mother love. I have bought a small farm. All the neighbors helped me build a little house and I have found a widow woman who has promised to marry me. She knows all about you and my lost wife and Mary Jane, but she will take her chances with me anyway. We're fond of each other and I believe we can have a good life together. I may never come back to South Carolina, but my dear ones over there will always be close to my heart. I am trying to make a new life and I am a different person now. It would be too unsettling to try to change back to the one you used to know. So until we meet in Heaven I remain

Your loving friend and son-in-law,

George Cato

Katherine cried painfully when she had finished reading the letter. She went to a small trunk which sat at the foot of her bed and searched until she found a finely woven handkerchief which had been made by her mother and, wrapping the letter in it, put it in a corner of the trunk underneath all the other treasures there.

Robert's despair did not prevent his making a good crop that summer. In fact, he turned to his work all the more earnestly. Everyone was astonished at his remarkable success as a farmer. Katherine was not quite as active as she had been, so that more and more of the management of the farm devolved on him. More of the slaves had died. The younger ones had found mates on other plantations and had beer sold to be with them. Lije and Rachel had been taken by what appeared to be a particularly vicious form of cold. Their children were sold. Coot and Pos were still there, with their wives, Reen and Heppy, purchased shortly after Samuel's death. Sim had lost his wife, found another on a neighboring farm, and had been sold to be with her. There remained then Jim whose wife belonged to Jonas, and the four others, making five in all. There were several children who were large enough to help with the hoeing and some large enough to plow. So with Robert's help the work went along smoothly. He did not mind making a regular hand in the field. He kept his fields clean and did not plant more than could be well cultivated. Those fields which could not be cultivated were turned over to cattle, so that there was always an abundance of fresh meat, milk and butter, as well as some to be marketed, bringing in money in the off season when that commodity was scarce for farmers.

As fall came on again, Robert worked zealously with the harvest, but did not keep so busy that he could not find time to wonder when Frederick would come. He had not heard one word of Elizabeth Schmitt since he had seen her last, yet his intention held as firm as ever. Toward the latter part of November he began to keep his clothes in order, ready to depart at a moment's notice. He wrote Mary Jane a goodbye note. He talked with Katherine.

"Grandma, do I git any money for the work I've done for you since I been here?"

Katherine was a bit startled. "What do you charge me?" she countered.

"I don't charge you nothing, but I had a hundred dollars that Uncle Christopher made selling Grandpa Klemminger's land. I was going to use it to git started on a farm of my own, but Papa had to have it. Now I aint got none at all. . . "

Katherine had to smile at his seriousness, but her face became instantly grave when she thought of the effect on him if Frederick should fail him again. "I can't pay you what you've been worth to me, Robert. That'd take more'n I'd make in five or ten years. But I'll shorely give you whatever you think is right. Suppose we wait 'til your Pa comes, then we'll decide on something."

But a few days of December had gone when Frederick came. He had come all the way on horseback and it had taken him part of three days. He came in shortly before sundown on an unusually cold Wednesday of the first week in December. Robert had been to the spring for Katherine and was just coming out of the kitchen door when he saw his father passing the reins over the hitching post. Robert stared rapidly toward him, calling out, "Grandma, here's Papa."

He paused suddenly when he absorbed the fact that Frederick was alone. After a moment he went on. He shook hands soberly, picked up his father's satchel and led the way to the house where Katherine stood waiting. His spirits were as low as his boots as he wondered wildly why William did not come and what he was expected to do.

"Did you come by Uncle Billy's, Papa?" he asked when they had explored the state of everyone's health.

"No, I didn't. why?" Frederick answered from his seat by the fire where he toasted his cold feet and held his red, aching hands out to the welcome blaze.

Katherine moved toward the door. "I'll get some supper ready," she said. "A little hot food will do you a world of good, Fred, warm up your insides."

"That's just what I need," he answered heartily. "I'm pretty nigh froze inside and out, but don't go to no trouble." He turned back to Robert as Katherine disappeared. "Why did you ask if I come by your Uncle Billy's?"

Robert answered slowly, as if unwilling to hear what was coming next, "I was just wondering if you left William there."

Frederick was silent for a time, looking into the fire. Then, "You got anything to do outside, Robert, any night work?"

"No, sir. There's nothing to do but feed the stock. Jim always does that, less I tell him I already done it."

"Well, I reckon I may as well tell you now as any time. It's as good a chance as I'll git. I didn't bring William with me."

He watched Robert's face slowly darken in anger and the old familiar rebellious look come into his eyes. He had dreaded this trip and had put it off as long as he could. But he had hoped against hope that the boy had changed in some way. Now his heart sank as he saw that he had only been deceiving himself and now had on his hands another terrible argument, one with no apparent solution.

Robert spoke thickly, "What did you 'low for me to do?"

"Why, I thought maybe, now that you'd had two years of farming down here, you'd changed your mind about going back to Concord."

"I wrote and told you that I wanted to go back, and I was expecting you to bring William. Why didn't you do it? You said you would."

Frederick shuddered a little at the accusation in his voice. He tried to placate him. "It's just as easy to make a living here as it is up there, and you already started here. Your. Grandma told me nearly two years ago if you'd stay here with her she'd will you the farm."

Robert spoke with cold fury. "Papa, you know why I want to go back."

"You mean that foolishness about gittin' married?"

"It's not foolishness. I got a girl waiting for me."

"That's why I thought you wouldn't want to go back. You see - well, what was that girl's name that's waiting for you?"

"Elizabeth Schmitt."

"Well, she - I guess I got some bad news for you. She got married."

Frederick turned his face away to avoid seeing the look of shocked incredulity that slowly turned his son's face white.

He continued, "She married last September. You never did tell me her name, so I didn't know 'til this girl got married. Then Christopher's chaps was saying how cut up you'd be about your girl gittin' married and I asked and found out from Christopher's Fred that she was the only one you paid any tention to up there. So I figgered she must be the one you was plannin' to marry. I thought I better find out before I come down here, cause I didn't want you to go up there and be made to feel bad."

Robert spoke incredulously, "She said she'd wait for me."

"Yeah? Well, I guess she got tired o' waitin'."

"I wrote her both times when I couldn't go and told her why. I thought she'd understand."

"Son, they aint no way o' understanding the doings o' women folks. I thought if it was the girl 'stead of Concord you was wanting, you wouldn't be apt to want to go if you knowed she was married. And that's why I didn't bring William."

Abruptly Robert turned and strode from the room. He did not turn toward his old retreat down by the creek in this cold weather, but headed for the stables. They were built in two sections with a covered walkway between. He passed into this and leaned against the farther side. He could hear the animals rattling oats and munching corn as he stood there. One thought was uppermost in his mind, that all the plans he had made were now useless, since the one who was at the center of them was false. He did not stop to think that she had promised to wait only if he came back in six months. He was too miserable at the collapse of his house of dreams to find any excuse for her. He began to walk aimlessly while his thoughts went round like a whirligig. His steps carried him unerringly to Watts' house. He was there before he realized it, and became aware of his surroundings only when a number of hounds rushed out from under the house, announcing his presence to the world in general. Watts appeared at the door.

"Who's out there?" he called.

"Robert."

"Robert, is it? Why, come on in. What you doing out on such a cold night? Come on up to the fire. Man, you look like a ghost. What's the matter? Aint nothing wrong, is they? Anybody sick?"

He kept asking questions, but got no answers from Robert. The boy's teeth chattered as he held out his hands before the blazing logs, eventually answering simply, "No."

"Let me put on another log." Watts moved briskly. "Pretty cold out there. I took the dogs and went out 'bout an hour by the sun to see if I could scare up a rabbit. Cot two. Thought I might go 'possum huntin' tonight, but it's most too cold. Here, sat a spell and git your feet warm."

Instead of sitting down Robert glanced toward the door.

"My old woman's cleanin' up the kitchen. We just finished supper. She won't be in here for a spell. Was they something you wanted, Robert?"

"Yeah. A drink."

"Sho. I'll git you some. I got a jug under my bed." He brought the whiskey. "Let's go out to the barn. Old lady don't like for me to drink in here; it smells up the place so. It's not very cold out there. You git warm?"

At The Orchards Frederick and Katherine waited supper half an hour for Robert. Frederick went out and called him, even went down to the quarters to ask Jim about him, but of course learned nothing, since none of the darkies had seen him. Afterwards they sat by the fire in the house until considerably past Katherine's bedtime. They talked desultorily. Frederick told of his family's experiences at farming and Katherine talked of Billy and Anne. They skirted the subject of Robert, his abilities and his defections. Finally, when Katherine was yawning, Frederick insisted that she go on to bed and let him wait up for Robert. He himself was worn out with waiting by twelve o'clock and fell asleep in his chair. He aroused at two and found himself cramped and cold, in the last feeble flames of the dying fire. He covered the coals with hot ashes and went creaking upstairs. He looked in all the beds and saw that his son had not come home. He was just sitting down wearily to unlace his shoes when he heard champing and pawing outside. With a grateful leap of his heart he crossed the room and pushed open the shutter, thinking to see the boy riding into the yard; but there stood his own horse where he had hitched him when he came that afternoon. He was stamping his hoofs to keep warm and pulling impatiently at his bridle. Frederick retied his shoe string and went down to stable the neglected animal, pausing to let him drink from the rain barrel that stood under the eaves near the kitchen.

Katherine and Frederick had eaten a late breakfast and were again by the fire in the house when the door opened and Robert half walked, half stumbled into the room. They both stared at him unbelievingly. His clothes were wrinkled and had wisps of hay on them, here and there, betraying where he had spent the night. His eyes were red and swollen and his face flushed. He came over to the fire and leaned his head against the mantle. The odor exuding from his whiskey-soaked body caused them both to recoil involuntarily.

Frederick began sternly, "Robert, what in the world do you mean?"

But Katherine spoke imperiously, "Hush!" Then kindly to the boy, "Robert, go upstairs and git in bed. I'll bring you up some coffee."

Without a word the young man obeyed her. A few minutes later she followed him with a pot of coffee and a cup. When she came back she seated herself and turned to Frederick sternly.

"Now tell me what you've done to that boy."

"Does he do - that - very much?"

"No. He aint never done it before. Oh, he's had a drink. I smelled it around, but it's never been enough to bother him. He's a good, sober boy. You told him somethin' last night to upset him or he never would a done this. I knowed somethin' bad was gonna happen when you didn't bring William. Now you better tell me about it."

Frederick told of the conversation with Robert the previous afternoon, and ended with, "And so you see, Mis' Love, I couldn't help myself. That's just that boy's way takin' things."

"It's the way you learnt him to take things."

"Why I never learnt him to do nothin' like that. I tried to keep him from it."

"You spoiled him to death when he was first born. You let him have ever'thin' in the world he waned. Then later, when you tried to break him of the habit, he'd cry and you'd give in to him. He's learnt to give way to temper ever' time things don't go to suit him."

Frederick sighed. "I reckon you right. When he was little I was so proud of him I wanted him to have ever'thing I could give him. I was so disappointed in what happened to Martha and so afraid something would happen to him, it just broke me all up to hear him cry. I reckon I am to blame. But I don't know what I can do about it now."

"There aint nothing you can do. He has to work things out for hisself. There's been enough messing in his life. Let him do whatever he wants to do."

"Spose he wants to leave you?"

"Let him go, though I'd hate to see it happen."

"But what would you do?"

"I'd manage. My darkies can be depended on."

"But you can't stay here by yourself!"

"I'll cross that bridge when I git to it. Don't you go a-pesterin' him. When he comes to hisself he'll act different. You wait for him to talk to you, and don't you fuss at him none, you hear?"

Robert did not come down at all that day. Katherine took him some milk and bread after she and Frederick had eaten supper. He was dozing, but awoke instantly when she came to his bed.

"Grandma, you oughtn't a done that. I could a come downstairs."

"I didn't call you," she said calmly, "cause I knowed you didn't feel like coming downstairs."

He sat up and turned impatiently away. "Aw, I'm all right."

"Turn back here, Robert, and drink this milk. Don't you be a acting up with me. I'll turn you across my apron. I'm not blaming you for nothing that's happened. You only doing what you always done when you couldn't git your own way. You'll feel bad enough about it when it's over, without me adding to your misery by shaming you for it. Your Grandma's for you ever' time and don't you fergit it, neither."

Robert drew in his breath sharply and strangled a little on the milk. Katherine took the glass and held it, gazing equably out the window until he had recovered.

"If you feel like sleeping any more, you better take your clothes off and git in bed proper."

"I reckon I ought a straighten up and go downstairs where Papa is."

"You don't have to 'less you want to. If you want to stay in bed 'til tomorrow morning you can. I 'spect you need some time to think anyhow."

"Papa will think - "

"Don't you worry none about what he thinks; Grandma will take care of him. You just git yourself back in bed and I'll call you in time for breakfast."

He looked up into her wise old eyes with his own swimming in tears. "Grandma," he said thickly, "you're - you're - "

She stooped and put her lips to his forehead in the first caress she had given him since he was a baby. "Go to sleep, honey, and don't worry none. Grandma's in charge now."

Robert came down at Katherine's breakfast call, clear-eyed and rested. He went to the pan on the side table in the kitchen and scrubbed at his face and hands. His head was buried in the rough towel when his father came in.

"Good mornin', Papa," he called out cheerfully.

"Good mornin'," the surprised Frederick answered somewhat gruffly. "Good mornin', Mis' Love."

"Good mornin', Fred," Katherine answered with pointed cheerfulness. "You sound as if you didn't sleep very good last night."

"I slept good enough, I reckon," he answered a bit more cheerfully, taking his cue from her.

"Well, wash your face and hands and come on and les eat. The hominy's already dished up and the eggs is fried. Ham and biscuits on the table and the coffee's ready. Set down, folks." They pulled up chairs. "Fred, you ask the blessing."

Frederick intoned a grace, and for a few moments there was silence, punctuated now and then by the clatter of knives on plates and gusty sipping of hot coffee. When the sharp edge had been taken off their appetites, Katherine spoke.

"Robert, you ought a take your Pa over the farm today. It's not so cold now. Maybe he'd like to see the new ground you cleared, and you could tell him about them old wore-out fields you put back into use and how much cotton you made off of them. He's right peart as a farm manager, Fred."

"Good," Frederick replied heartily. "Good! He's always said he wanted to be a farmer. Reckon he knowed What he could do."

So Friday morning was spent in riding over the plantation. The pair kept carefully to subjects dealing with the work, and Frederick was amazed at his son's ability to handle the problems he had encountered. That afternoon Frederick rode up to see Billy, but Robert refused to go. He gave as his reason that there was some work to be done on the place and he ought to put the darkies on it.

Frederick was troubled as he rode alone. Katherine had warned him not to force Robert's confidence, and he was endeavoring to wait for the young man to speak of his own accord. But the delay was trying his patience sorely. He stayed for supper at the Thompson's and came back after the others had gone to bed. But his patience was rewarded next morning.

After breakfast Robert said, "Papa, you go in the house and make yourself at home. I'll be in there in a little while. I got to take out the slop for Grandma."

Frederick went ahead and Robert started out with two huge wooden pails filled with water and table scraps.

"Wait a minute, Robert," Katherine stopped him outside the door, "and let me clean out the breakfast plates."

She came with the scraps in a bowl and he took it from her to empty into one of the pails. He reached behind her and pulled the kitchen door shut. Coot's wife was in there preparing to wash the dishes.

"Grandma," he began, his voice low and directed into the pail over which he was stooping. "What am I gonna do?"

"About next year?"

"Yes'm."

"Don't you want to stay with me?"

"I didn't know whether you'd want me or not, after - after - I - "

"You're welcome to stay, Robert, and what I told you when you first come still holds good. If you'll stay with me as long as I live, you can have the plantation."

"All right, Grandma, I'll stay. I just wanted to know before I talk to Papa."

And without another word the two parted, understanding each other perfectly.

When Robert went into the house Frederick was pacing the floor. They pulled chairs up to the fire and sat down.

"When do you have to go back, Papa?"

"I thought I'd start Monday."

"That aint a very long visit."

"No, it aint, but you know how it is on the farm, always something to be looked after. I hate to leave it all up to your Ma for so long."

"You want me to go with you?"

Both men looked carefully into the fire. Frederick was understanding this son of his less all the time.

"You do whatever you want to, Robert."

"Then I believe I'll stay with Grandma, if it's all the same to you, sir."

"Well, all right, if that's what you want. I don't know who else we'd git to stay with her if you don't, but I want you to be satisfied."

A hard look came into Robert's face which his father did not immediately see. He thought to himself, now that it don't make no difference, he lets me have my way; he's to blame for it turning out this a way; if he'd a let me go when I wanted to Elizabeth Schmitt would be married to me now. He locked up to find his father's worried eyes fixed on him.

"I hate the way things turned out, Robert. I would a give anything to a kept it from happening, but there wasn't nothing I could do."

"You could a took me back to Concord when you went, or even come last fall when you said you would."

"Boy, I couldn't. You got to see that. Your Grandma had to have somebody and it was shorely up to us to do something this time. It aint fair for one person to have all the trouble of caring for they parents when they's other children. Christopher has had our mother all the time I was down here, but now she's stayin' with me. Ever'body has to do his part."

"Yes, sir, but what about last year? You promised you'd come and didn't."

"Your Ma wrote you about that," Frederick answered shortly, his patience growing thin. "She told you William was sick. He nearly died. He had something like a awful bad cold and he stayed weak and puny until it got warm in May. He liked to a coughed his head off. He wouldn't a been a bit of help to his Grandma."

Silence fell. Frederick felt that he must get this strong-willed, rebellious, fine-looking son on his side at the price of whatever humility.

"Robert," he began almost pleadingly, "you mustn't hold this against me. I always tried to do everything I could for you. It was hard on me that you always seemed to want things I couldn't git for you. You won't hold that against me, will you?"

Robert's face was still hard, but a knife turned in his heart at his father's words. For a moment he had a glimpse into what the man might be suffering from his knowledge of his own grief and despair, the tortures of which were no whit lessened by the bold front he assumed.

"All right, Papa, I won't hold it against you, but I won't never be able to fergit it happened."

And Frederick's yearning parenthood had to be content with that. Abruptly he changed the subject. "I still got a few acres of land on the left side of the big road, there next to my store. It's not doing nobody no good, fer as I know."

"Why don't you give it for a church? You always said you wanted to."

"I thought I'd do that. You can ride as fer as Lancaster with me Monday and help me make out the deed. Then you can bring it back. I don't know who you'd give it to."

"How about Dr. Morrison? He used to say he wanted to git a church closer to his house."

"Yeah. I reckon Dr. Morrison'd be a good one to give it to. We could go by and git him to ride up with us."

The three drew rein at the Court House on Monday morning and made their way among the elderly whittlers to the office of the Clerk, who made out a form for the deed and gave it to Frederick to sign. Frederick passed it to Robert. In a spirit of perversity that young man changed the spelling of the name to Clemminger.

"You spelled the name wrong," Frederick protested as he prepared to make his mark.

"I know," Robert answered carelessly. "They spell it with a K in Cabarrus County, but I'm gonna spell it with a C in Lancaster County."

XXXVI

Mary Jane at sixteen was sweet and lovely. Her beautiful long brown hair was put up now, making her look like a tiny lady. She was below the average in height and was very neat and dainty. She was wonderfully good to Susannah, who was now getting feeble, though not bed-ridden. She was still able to help some with the work. Her eyes were dim, but she managed the carding and a. great deal of the weaving. The remainder of the work Mary Jane did alone, expertly.

She spun the cotton bats into thread, cut out the garments from the cloth which Susannah wove, and sewed them up. Often, when orders were given ahead of time, she delivered the completed work herself. One afternoon in the spring of 1840 she went all the way through town to the northern edge where houses were widely scattered. Here lived the family of an old lady who had long been confined to her bed and lay now in a coma from which it was not expected that she would arise. Her shroud had been ordered several weeks before to be ready on call. Mary Jane had finished it and thought she would take advantage of the fine weather to deliver it. On her way she noticed that a tribe of gypsies were camped in a field across the road. She stared at them so long that one old crone shook her earrings at her and wheedled.

"Come, have your fortune told, little missie."

The girl turned quickly away and hurried on to deliver her parcel. She came back slowly on the opposite side of the street and began to look her fill. There were several covered wagons and a few tents. Something was cooking in a pot which hung from crossed sticks above a fire. Men, women, and children, swarthy and dark-eyed, sat around aimlessly, or sprawled on the ground and sang songs, accompanied intermittently by a laughing, bearded man with a zither. Mary Jane thought, he's fatter than Uncle Fred and taller than anybody I ever seen. The woman who had spoken to her previously now came toward her.

"Little missie git fortune told," she coaxed.

Mary Jane's heart beat fast. In her pocket, pinned fast to her dress under her apron, was the money for the shroud. She wondered if she dared to spend a piece of it.

"Only a penny, just a penny, pretty fortune for the pretty lady," whined the woman.

"I'm afeard I can't spare a penny." Mary Jane halted.

"For the pretty shawl I tell your fortune." The gypsy leaned forward and touched the knitted red wool shawl which had been Jane's and had covered her hair when she left home, but now lay in flattering folds across her shoulders.

"All right," Mary Jane agreed, after hesitating momentarily.

"Let me take your hand, missie."

Mary Jane's flesh rebelled somewhat at contact with the dirty, claw-like hand of the gypsy woman, but her attention was instantly claimed by the words of her fortune.

"Missie have good fortune, work hard, cry much, laugh some. Missie live long time. She be much in love with nice man. She marry him and he make good living. Missie never need for nothing. Have plenty children."

Her black eyes, almost sunk in yellow folds of withered flesh, searched Mary Jane's face sharply. "You like to ask question, missie? Hedda answer."

"Tell me more about the man I will marry. What does he look like?"

Again the gypsy studied the small hand in her grasp. "He dark and look good. He good, make plenty to eat. Missie know him. Missie like him now."

She smiled shrewdly and reached for the shawl. Mary Jane handed it to her and hurried home. She burst into the house.

"Grandma! Grandma Susie! Where you at?" She passed through the room which had formerly been the shop of Wesley and George, and which was now used for the work necessary in connection with their calling. There stood the loom with half a yard of cloth woven on it. There lay the cards with a roll of cotton partly made into a hat on one of them. Susannah was not there. Mary Jane went on into the kitchen. It was deserted. She began to call urgently, "Grandma, where you at?"

She paused and heard a faint reply. "Here, child."

She went into the bedroom which they now shared so that her own young blood might help keep the woman's old flesh and bones warm. There Susannah sat in a rocker, looking up at her with wide, dark blue eyes.

"What's the matter, Grandma? You look scared."

Susannah veilel her eyes and answered calmly, "Nothing, child. I just got tired of working and decided I'd rest a spell. You been gone a long time. What kept you?"

"Oh, Grandma, I saw some gypsies and I had my fortune told."

"You did?" Susannah spoke sharply. "Did she take hold o' your hand?"

"Yes'm."

"Go wash 'em, quick. Use plenty o' soap. You don't know how dirty they git."

When the girl returned she sat on a stool by Susannah's rocker, rested her head against the old lady's apron-covered knee and told about her fortune.

"And do you know who it is?" Susannah queried.

Mary Jane raised hopeful eyes. "I think so. It sounds like Robert. Don't you think it does?"

"And you hope it is?"

She had the grace to blush and look down. She would keep nothing from Susannah, but she had never talked to her about boys and marriage. Susannah raised her hand and laid it on the brown head.

"Whoever he is, child, I hope he'll be good to you." Then she noticed the absence of her shawl. "Mary Jane, where is your shawl? You had it on when you went out, but you come back bare-headed."

"I wanted to have my fortune told and I didn't want to spend none of the money I got for the shroud. She asked me for my shawl, so I give it to her for telling my fortune."

"Mary Jane!" Susannah was scandalized, but watching the eager light die out of the sweet young face at the thought of some wrong she might have done, changed her tone. "It's all right, honey. I don't blame you. I always wanted to have my fortune told, too."

"And you never did?'

"No, I never did."

"Would you like to today? I'll go bring the gypsy woman here and let her tell it for you."

"No, child. I aint got no more fortune. My time's about up."

"What you mean, Grandma?"

"Well, you know I got to go sometime, Mary Jane. And I'm a gittin' mighty tird. Ever' night I seem to hear Wes calling me in my dreams. I'm just thankful I been spared to be with you this long. But I don't want you to be here by yourself when I do go."

Mary Jane's eyes had been growing wider and darker as Susannah talked. Now they filled with tears and she broke into uncontrollable sobs. Susannah patted the head that leaned against her knee.

"It's all right, honey. I'm ready to go. You don't need to be spending all your life taking care of a old lady. You young and pretty and you ought a be with young folks. How you ever gonna meet that good lookin' young man who's gonna make a good livin' for you if you don't git out some?"

"But, Grandma, I wouldn't know what to do without you."

"Dry your eyes and less talk about it. First, I got to have something ready for me to wear. We ought to git that done, and no bad thoughts or crying about it. Then, if we know ahead of time, we'll send for your other Grandma. If we don't, then you can just turn ever'thing over to Mr. Blaney. I already talked with him about it when you was first left with me. I left a will with him, too. It says he is to sell ever'thing here 'cept what you want to keep, and give the money to you, and you are to go stay with your Grandma Love till your Pa can git you."

All these new thoughts had dried Mary Jane's tears in wonder. Under Susannah's direction she got the shroud ready in the days that followed, pressed and folded it away in the cheat that sat under the window in their room. Weeks went by and, though Susannah continued tired and able to help only a little with the work, she failed so gradually that only she noticed it. Mary Jane, apparently, had forgotten the conversation. But Susannah did not know how often tears dropped upon her work as she thought of the day when Grandma Susie would wear one of the garments she had made. But gradually these thoughts too, passed away as summer wore into August and the hot, breathless days made them all suffer in common.

One morning an unusually happy mocking bird sang so persistently in the mulberry tree outside the window that Mary Jane awoke early. She thought she would get up and surprise Susannah by having breakfast ready when she awoke. She uncovered the coals in the fireplace, laid some lightwood on them and blew them into a flame. She built up the fire and put some water on to boil, then went about mixing bread, getting mash ready to cook, setting the table and getting the coffee ready to grind as soon as the water should boil. Presently breakfast was ready and she went to call Susannah.

"Grandma," she called softly, expecting to see the old lady turn over and look at her with bright, astonished eyes. But there was no response. She went over and patted her, then shook her gently. She called again, "Wake up, Grandma. It's time to git up. Breakfast is ready."

She pulled the sheet away, then recoiled, choking back a scream. Carefully she replaced the sheet, trying to recall what she had been told to do if something should happen. With rapidly beating heart, she hurried from the room, out the front door and over to the Blaney's house next door. She beat on the door with her fists.

Mr. Blaney was just getting dressed and Mrs. Blaney was cooking breakfast. They both heard the knocking and hurried to the door, Mr. Blaney barefoot and in the act of slipping his suspenders over his shoulders.

"Mary Jane! What's the matter?"

"Mr. Blaney, come quick. Something's the matter with Grandma!"

"Go with her, Will," motherly Mrs. Blaney said. "I get my bread on the fire. I'll see about it and come right on myself."

"I got to put my shoes on."

"Go on 'thout 'em."

Mr. Blaney took Mary Jane by the hand and went with her back into her home and into the room where the remains of Susannah Carpenter lay. He took one look at her, then put his arm around the girl and turned her head away.

"She's gone, child. You come on over to my house and stay. Mis' Carpenter told me what to do in case this happened. My wife'll take charge here and I'll go git your Grandma Love. Don't you worry none. Ever'thing will be took care of proper."

Mrs. Blaney was just ready to come out the door. She took charge of the distracted girl, leaving her husband free to notify the neighbors and find one who could stay at the house. Mrs. Blaney took complete charge while Mr. Blaney went for Katherine. By hard riding he made the trip to The Orchards before night, Katherine and Robert started back with him in the middle of the night. Jim was left in charge of the plantation. The funeral was held the next afternoon. Robert then rode back to The Orchards, but returned to Camden in three days, bringing the wagon with a horse hitched behind it.

By now Mary Jane had decided what she wanted to keep of Susannah's property. Most of the furniture she elected to take with her, for Katherine had said she might need it, since the house at The Orchards had never been completely finished, nor had all the furniture been replaced since the other house had burned. One thing she made sure of taking with her was the little black pot which, she had been told, her father brought with him when he ran away from Quinby Bigin in Charleston. According to Susannah's instructions, everything else was left in the hands of Mr. Blaney to be sold and the money transmitted to Mary Jane. One week after Susannah's death, the bereaved girl was installed at The Orchards in a bed down-stairs, curtained off near where Katherine slept.

XXXVII

Mary Jane was so quiet, so unobtrusive, and talked so little that Robert and Katherine dropped bank into their daily routine effortlessly, scarcely realizing that she was there. She did not feel free to talk with Katherine, having seen her only a few times in thirteen years. Robert began to be busy with the cotton picking. So the girl was left to her own devices. By night her pillow was often wet with tears of loneliness; by day she contrived to stay wherever Katherine was, watching what she did with big, purplish-blue eyes, through fringed lashes. She did not offer to help with the work for fear of doing something wrong and she was not invited to participate.

When she had been there about a week she timidly asked one night if she shouldn't write to her father.

"Why, shore," Katherine assured her. "It ought to a already been done."

"He said he'd come and git me when - when Grandma Susie died."

"He don't have to come and git you less you want to go. You welcome to stay here. But he ought to be told she's dead."

"Has he ever wrote to you?" Robert asked.

"Oh, yes. I had two letters from him."

"Two. And how long's he been gone?"

"Three years, three and a half."

"Humph! He don't write much, does he?"

Mary Jane's eyes filled with tears, and Robert felt like kicking himself, but he said nothing more.

At twelve o'clock every day the laborers were called from the field by a bell which hung from an arm at the top of a tall pole in the back yard near the kitchen. This summoned them to their dinner. At two o'clock it rang again to tell them it was time to go back to work. Robert usually stayed with the darkies at their work, coming and going as they did, weighing the cotton when they brought it in their huge sacks to the sheets that were spread out on the ground ready to receive it. He kept account of how much each one picked each day. There was a bonus of a penny for the children who reached two hundred and a nickel for the adults who reached four hundred in a day.

Robert usually napped during the mid-day rest period. On a particularly warm September afternoon he sat in the yard on the north side of the house with his chair tipped back against the wall and his straw hat down over his face. He slept briefly and awoke when Katherine came by from the kitchen.

"Where's Mary Jane, Grandma?"

"I reckon she's in the house."

He got up and sauntered carelessly through the house, going out the south door and around to the orchard. As he entered the path that ran through toward the spring, he spied a glint of Mary Jane's blue dress. He picked his way carefully toward it, but stopped short of betraying his presence when he heard a sob and noticed that her shoulders were heaving. He walked on noisily then, picked an apple from the Ben Davis tree and bit into it.

"What's the matter, Mary Jane? I didn't know you was a cry-baby."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, startled, then angry. "I'm not - not a cry-baby. I spose you think I don't have nothing to cry about?"

"You don't."

"Why, Robert Clemminger! I just lost my Grandma Susie, the one who took the place of my Mama."

"But you got Grandma Love in her place."

"I had to leave my home."

"You got a home here now."

"I'm separated from my Papa."

"Me, too."

"And I aint got nothing to do and nobody cares whether I'm living or dead."

"You could find plenty to do if you wanted to do anything. You could take over the house work. Grandma aint hardly able to do it. Then Reen could help with the cotton picking, and we need help mighty bad. We got to git it out before it rains. As for nobody caring about you, you just feeling sorry fer yourself. The trouble with you, you been petted all your life. Well, aint nobody here got time to pet you. Ever'body's too busy making a living. If you want people to like you you gotta act likable. Quit pouting around and acting like you was making pickles."

She turned a horrified look on him. The tears stood on her lashes like dew drops, hiding the redness of her eyes. He was startled at the look of utter misery on her face, as of one who tries desperately to do no wrong and is fearfully hurt when blamed. She turned to run from him, crying out, "I hate you and I wish I was dead!"

He grasped her by the arm and held her. "Don't run away, Mary Jane, and don't talk like that. I reckon I hadn't oughta said what I did. I thought it was gonna be fun having you here, but you been so sad-like and pouting around, it aint been a bit o' fun. I thought you just needed a little jolt to git you out of your rut. I didn't mean to make you feel bad. Here."

He passed her his bandanna. It smelled strongly of perspiration, but she mopped at her eyes and returned it. After a moment of tense quiet, she spoke.

"What do you think I oughta do?"

"Whatever you want to," gently, for him. "There's plenty o' darkies to do the work, of course, but I believe you'd feel better doing something."

"I would. I'm used to working. It's been awful hard having nothing to do and nobody saying a word to me."

"You stayed so still we thought you didn't want to be bothered."

"Can - can I help you with the cotton?"

"Course, if you want to. But you better wait till a little later in the evening. Sun's mighty hot now. You might git sick." The bell clanged. "There goes the bell. Grandma must a sent somebody to ring it."

They started toward the house. "You stay in a while. About middle of the evening come and bring us some water. We'll be in the new ground over here," pointing to a north-east field. "You take the path that goes down by the cabins."

When Mary Jane came in about sundown, Katherine asked whore she had been.

"I been helping Robert pick cotton."

Katherine said nothing more until they were at supper. Then she spoke decisively, "It has never been a custom in our family to make the white women work in the field. We always had darkies to do that."

"What do you mean, Grandma?" Robert asked.

"You had Mary Jane picking cotton this evening."

"I didn't make her do it; she done it cause she wanted to."

"That's right, Grandma," Mary Jane said, "I asked him to let me help."

"It's not the place of a woman to work in the fields."

"I should think she could if she wanted to. Plenty of them do," Robert defended himself.

"Not our people."

"Mary Jane told me she wanted something to do."

"There's plenty to do in the house if she wants to turn her hands to something."

Mary Jane was distressed. She felt they were quarreling over her. "Please don't quarrel. I only wanted to help and I didn't know what to do. I was afraid I'd do something wrong, or be in the way."

"We aint quarreling, child. Robert thinks he knows ever'thing, but he don't, not quite. I have to tell him how things oughta be ever now and then."

Robert flushed angrily, but met Katherine's amused, affectionate glance, and kept quiet.

"I'll be glad to help you, Grandma," Mary Jane was saying, "if you will tell me what to do, but I like to help pick cotton, too."

"Never mind about the cotton. The darkies can pick that. You can take over the cooking. Then Reen can help in the field."

"I - I might not be able to cook to suit you."

"You can learn."

"All right, Grandma."

After supper Robert contrived a moment to whisper in her ear, "You can still help me with the cotton late in the evenings if you want to. Grandma don't need to know."

She gave him a startled look. "I wouldn't want to do something Grandma didn't want me to."

"Suit yourself," he retorted carelessly, leaving her a bit piqued and failing to understand him.

And that was the secret of all the trouble between Mary Jane and Robert, she didn't understand him. Knowing nothing of how he had spent his childhood, so vastly different from her own, she couldn't realize that he craved understanding and sympathy and approval without too much outward display of emotion. Her childhood experience of the tender affection and mutual consideration between her parents did not condition her to understand the compulsion in his nature to get his way at whatever cost, or else disrupt all normal activity with his irascibility.

Their new-found companionship was a source of great satisfaction to the girl. They spent their evenings together after supper, chatting under the great oak trees that shaded the house. They found endless things to talk about. Nearly every night Katherine retired and left them swapping experiences. This is not to say that she went to sleep before they came in. She was not entirely ignorant of the bad habits of her grandson, and, while she loved both the boy and the girl in her care, she was determined that neither should harm the other.

She remarked once while Mary Jane was washing the dinner dishes, "We must take good care of Mary Jane, Robert. She is too sweet to let anything happen to her."

"Why, course we'll take good care of her Grandma. What could happen to her?"

"Well, you know - boys - " she answered vaguely.

He misunderstood her. "I want you to know I'm going to keep an eye on any boys that come around here. The one that gits her has got to be a good 'un. If I catch some good-for-nothing rascal around here I'll send him packing."

Katherine looked pleased; with that attitude he would be likely to forestall any misadventure.

Spending all their evenings together thus, Mary Jane was dismayed when, on Saturday afternoon, Robert bathed, dressed, ate an early supper and disappeared. He did the same thing on Sunday afternoon. And on Monday morning she would not speak to him. Neither did she go that afternoon to help him with the cotton. When the dishes were finished after supper she flounced by him where he was waiting with Katherine in the yard, and went to bed.

"What's the matter with Mary Jane?" Robert asked of his grandmother.

Out of her wisdom she answered, "Why don't you ask her?"

He went to the house door and called, "Mary Jane, why don't you come out here where it's cool?"

"I've gone to bed," he heard her reply faintly.

He went back to where the curtains were drawn and stood on the outside. "What's the matter? You sick?"

"No."

"What you going to bed so early for? Why don't you stay up a while?"

"I don't want to."

"What's wrong with you, girl? You didn't come out and help me pick cotton this evening, neither."

"I didn't think you'd miss me."

"Course I didn't miss you. I didn't need you neither. I just wondered why you didn't come."

"Oh, go away and let me alone."

"All right!" He stalked angrily away, and gave the door a slam as he went out.

"Wouldn't she come?" Katherine asked.

"No. She's gone to bed. Grandma, what in the world is the matter with her? She acts funny."

Katherine had noticed the girl's restlessness during the weekend. She thought to enlighten Robert a bit. "I wouldn't be surprised if she aint gittin' even with you for goin' off and leavin' her yesterday and Saturday."

Robert was dumfounded. "My goodness, she can't expect me to stay here all the time."

"You could take her with you. You know she is used to going to church."

"I never thought of that. You spose she can ride?"

"I'm pretty shore she can't, but you could learn her how."

The next afternoon Katherine came into the kitchen just before sundown and said to Mary Jane, "I'll watch the supper. Robert wants you to help him water the mules."

Obediently the girl took off her apron and went out. Robert was out by the stables. He had a side saddle on his own horse and had the bridles of three other animals in his other hand. He flung them over a pole when he saw Mary Jane approaching.

Without looking at her he asked, "Can you ride?"

"I used to, when we lived in Tennessee, but I aint tried since we left there. I don't know whether I can or not."

"Come on and try. I'll help you up." He looked at her now, his eyes eager and apologetic.

"I'm afeard he'll throw me."

"No, he won't. He's gentle as an old milk cow. Come on and git up on him. If you learn to ride this week, I'll take you to preaching next Sunday."

The riding lessons were a success. Mary Jane enjoyed them thoroughly, but she was even more pleased over Robert's capitulation. She construed it as a desire to accede to her wishes. By Sunday she had sufficiently overcome soreness of her muslces to be able to ride to Fredericksburg. She proudly thought of herself as going to preaching with her beau, as she had seen young ladies in Camden do. But she was destined to be disillusioned.

After hitching their horses, Robert said, "The women go in at this door and the men at the one on the other side. After preaching the young folks go down to Mr. Williams' place. He lives in our house. If anybody asks you, you go on down there and I'll come, too. I'll bring your horse. We won't go home till sundown."

Mary Jane took in these instructions with some misgivings. She had gone to preaching with Susannah; they had stood around outside or inside after the services were over and exchanged news with other worshipers, then had gone home. She had always stayed with Susannah and did not know what the young people did.

Robert walked over and joined a group of young men about his own age who greeted him with remarks and laughter. Mary Jane started across the smooth, springy ground to the church. She was watched surreptitiously by groups of young men, young ladies and older people as she went by, yet no one spoke to her.

She went through the first door of the log church into a large, almost empty room. The seats consisted of rough slabs sawed from pine logs. These were held up by short square sticks, rounded on one end and stuck into augur holes, two at each end of the slab. She noticed a row of posts on three sides of the room, about two or three yards from the wall and some five feet apart. She locked up and saw that they served to support a gallery which was gradually filled with darkies. At the front of the church was a small, raised pulpit which supported a home-made Bible stand. In front of it was the mourners' bench, a slab like the other seats, but put there for those who were confessing their sins, so they could kneel upon it. The seats were arranged in three rows. The one on the extreme left was occupied solely by males, the one on the right by females, while the center section was occupied by both, but an empty space zigzagging down the middle of it separated them.

There was some singing of familiar hymns led by a man who prided himself on being able to "hist the tune." The preacher talked for an hour, then exhorted for half an hour, at the end of which time the mourners' bench was fairly well occupied. The mourners knelt on the floor and buried their faces in their arms on the bench. Some wept audibly, some occasionally groaned, "Oh, Lordy," while cries of "Amen" came from the floor and "Bress de Laud" from the gallery.

Eventually the service was over and the worshipers filed out, to stop in the yard and talk endlessly. Anne came to Mary Jane and took her into the group of young girls of whom Selina was a part. They were cordial to her, and when Ellen Williams asked them all to go home with her for a while, Mary Jane went along. They were on the back porch getting a drink from the fresh bucket of water Mr. Williams had just brought from the spring when the young men rode up on their horses. Mary Jane smiled eagerly at Robert, but saw that he was looking at Ellen Williams. A strange, not very interesting, red-headed young man was riding her horse. She learned that his name was Miller Johnson. And he kept looking at her.

She tried to join in the gaiety of the young people and went with them to the muscadine vines, listening to the laughing and good-natured bantering. She saw that Robert was talking animatedly to the vivacious black-eyed Ellen, and that, judging by the way the color came and went in her fair cheeks and how she shook her pretty curls at him, his conversation was pleasing.

"Let me git you some muscadines, Miss Mary Jane," said a voice at her elbow. She turned and looked into the freckled face of Miller Johnson. His blue eyes were anxious to be friendly, but his smile showed unsightly, yellow teeth. She smiled distastefully and turned her back.

"No. Much obliged, but I got enough."

When the other girls began to leave, most of them were walking with young men who led their horses. Mary Jane went to her horse and waited. Miller came up and said, "Let me help you on your horse."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Robert was still talking to Ellen on the porch, so she accepted the tall young man's hand and was assisted on her horse where she sat and chatted with him until Robert mounted his own animal and rode up. He talked jubilantly all the way home, ignoring her disappointed silence. She listened to him, but at home in her bed she took counsel with herself.

Living here is different; my life is going to be different from anything I ever knowed. Nothing that has happened to me up to now has got me ready for this kind of life. I got to learn fast. I can't show my feelings about God like I could in Camden; they just don't do it here. I'll be just the same inside, but I'll have to keep it to myself. And I got to learn to talk like the other girls. Today Robert left me by myself while he talked to Ellen Williams. Last Saturday and Sunday he left me here while he went off. Monday I left him by hisself. Tuesday he found a way to make it up to me. Next time I'll do just like him. I'll talk to that red-headed feller even if I don't like him. I'll see how Robert likes that.

The next preaching Sunday was a repetition of the previous one with the exception that the weather was a bit cooler and they did not tarry as long. Mary Jane did not reject Miller Johnson's advances, but talked animatedly with him and gave him permission to call. This seemed to raise her in the estimation of the others, for two of the other girls remarked about her conquest and several of the boys laughingly called her "Red."

Robert scowled at this and lectured her on the way home. "What did you want to talk to that red-head for?"

"I had to have somebody to talk to," she countered.

"You could be a little more particular."

"What's wrong with him?" Mary Jane flared. "He looks as good as Ellen Williams."

"You know that's not so. Ellen's a nice girl."

"Miller's nice, too."

"You don't know him like I do."

"What do you know against him?"

Robert held his peace with an aggravating air of knowing more than he cared to tell. He was ashamed to admit that he really knew nothing against the young man, but would be equally prejudiced against anyone who paid attention to his pretty cousin. He took refuge.

"You don't know these fellows like I do. You better go by what I tell you till you git to know them yourself."

"And who would I talk to then?" she challenged.

"I'll find somebody for you," he evaded. "I'll take care of you."

"Yeah. Like you done the last two times, talking to Ellen Williams all the time."

"My goodness, Mary Jane, you can't expect me to spend all my time with you."

"No, course not. I don't 'spect you to spend any of it with me," with emphasis on "any" and "me."

"All right, what are you fussing about then?"

"I'm not fussing! And you can leave me completely alone, if you want to."

They rode the rest of the way in angry silence. They remained polite strangers all the week. On Saturday night Robert went his usual way, and shortly after dark Miller Johnson rode up. Mary Jane entertained him by candlelight in the room where Katherine lay asleep in a curtained recess. Robert came in before Miller left, and was barely civil to him. He turned a furious countenance on Mary Jane when she returned from seeing Miller to the door.

"I thought I told you to keep him away from you."

"I don't have to do what you tell me to do. I can back my own judgment."

"Well, I shore don't think much of your judgment."

"Oh, Robert Clemminger, you make me so mad, I could - I could - o-o-oh!" She sounded as if she were grinding her teeth.

"You better not let that red-head come around here again. If you do, I'll run him off."

Surprisingly enough, they went to church together the next day. After services Mary Jane went straight to her horse. She had no lack of masculine help to get into her saddle. She rode quickly away. About a mile from the church she heard a horse rapidly approaching. She turned, saw that it was Robert, and rode on. When he came up with her he reined in his horse to a walk.

"How come you to leave, Mary Jane? Ever'body's out at Ellen's. They wondered where you went. I didn't miss you till I got there and couldn't find you."

She didn't answer, but bit her lip and turned her head away. He felt suddenly ashamed of himself for bullying her.

"Come on back, Mary Jane. It's no use to go home; aint nothing to do there."

"You go back. I can go home by myself."

"I can't let you do that, It aint safe."

"I aint scared."

They rode on in silence for a moment, she with her face averted. He was afraid she was crying. Determinedly he checked his horse and rode around on the other side to see. He met her eyes, clear, haughty, and stubborn.

"Come on and let's go back. The folks won't know what to think."

"Miller will try to talk to me if I go back - and I'll let him. I won't be able to help myself."

"I'll git somebody else to talk to you."

"I can git somebody for myself."

"I know you can, but I'll help keep Miller away. I'll sic Selina on him so somebody else'll have a chance."

They turned their mounts and galloped back to the house in the oaks. Robert was spared the trouble of getting Selina to snare Miller. She was already sitting beside him. He made a move to leave her when he saw Mary Jane, but she detained him with a remark while Robert seated Mary Jane between two other young men. She enjoyed the attention of both. And when one of them called the following Saturday night, Robert was on hand to help entertain him.

The cousins seemed to have signed a truce now. Robert stayed at home on Saturday night, and the young men no longer called at that time. But both of them found other entertainment after the weekly gatherings at church. There was preaching only about once a month, when the circuit rider could come. On all other Sundays classes were held.

One Sunday Mary Jane's horse was lame and she and Robert went to church in a buggy. Robert used his own horse to pull the buggy and hitched it near the church building to be out of the way of the other horses. There was an unusually large crowd that day, especially in the gallery. Near the end of the sermon, when the preacher was exhorting in earnest, the darkies in the gallery were very moved and began to moan and shout, swaying their bodies in ecstasy. Suddenly the gallery gave way. It began to crack and sink coward the floor below. There   was scrambling and screaming, and a rush to get out of the church from both floors. The gallery did not fall completely down, but hung precariously, swaying. The darkies had difficulty getting out. One man, badly frightened and unable to reach the stairs, jumped out the. window and landed on top of Robert's buggy. The unusual noise coupled with this sudden crash near him so frightened the horse that he bucked and reared, breaking the reins with which he was hitched. He tore across the church yard with the buggy roiling and pitching behind him. The Negro on top lay flat down and held on for dear life, moaning, "Oh, Lawdy, save mah soul, save mah life; oh, Lawdy mek dat hoss stop!" Gradually he became a little calmer and began to talk to the horse, which had, in turn, a calming effect on the animal, so that eventually he was able to get him to stop. He climbed down from the buggy, got inside, turned the horse around and drove back to the church. By that time everyone had escaped from the building and there were no other ill effects.

When the harvest season was over and the weather began to be too cold for meetings in the poorly constructed, unheated church building, the young people began to hold sociables. They would gather once or twice a month in the home kitchens to make molasses candy and pop corn. To these gatherings Mary Jane and Robert always went in the buggy.

It was almost year's end when a letter came from George. It said that he was deeply grieved to hear of Susannah's death and terribly sorry that he could not have come back to see her again; that he was well and had married Belle Barstow and could not at this time come for Mary Jane. He was glad she had found a home with her grandmother and he was sure she was being well taken care of. It would be of no use for him to send her money to come to him because she could not come alone. Therefore, it was best that she stay where she was at present. As soon as he could he would either come or send someone for her. He sent much love to her and her benevolent protectors.

Mary Jane was appalled by the deep sadness that crept over her after reading this letter. She could remember how close she had been to her father at one time, and the gay times she had had with both of her parents. Those were the times when she had no problems that could not instantly be solved by her beloved papa. Tears came to her eyes when she thought how, gradually, things had become more and more difficult for her, until now, at times, she felt as if she were alone in the world with no one to ask for a word of counsel.

Robert had brought the letter to her from Fredericksburg, where the store was now run in a modest way by Joel Morrison, son of the green-faced doctor. It still carried its old name. Mary Jane had been busy with supper and Robert had gone to put up his horse, leaving her to read her letter in privacy, which she did while the bread was cooking. He came back and surprised her with tears in her eyes.

Teasingly, he pulled her hair and said, "You always crying about something. What is it now, baby?"

She whisked the tears away and sighed, "Nothing."

Robert squatted down before the fire and spread out his large hands to the blaze. "Uncle George aint sick, is he?"

"No."

"When's he coming for you?"

"He aint coming."

"Well, for goodness sake, what you crying for? Did you want him to come?"

His tone was so harsh that she made a move away and said, "You don't understand."

"How can I if you don't tell me?"

She was silent.

"Do you want to go to Tennessee, Mary Jane?"

"It aint that, Robert. He's married again. He don't even want me."

"Did he tell you that in the letter?"

"No, course not. Here it is, you can see what it says for yourself."

She got up to put supper on the table, then called her grandmother. Robert stayed in the kitchen after supper while Mary Jane washed the dishes. When she stood by the door with the candle in her hand, ready to join Katherine in the house, he said, "Don't go yet. Come and set down. I want to tell you somethin."

"You can tell me after Grandma's gone to bed. I hate to leave her by herself so long."

He looked at her levelly. "You the stubbornnest girl I ever seen." But he went with her. She was so very quiet that Katherine commented on it. Kindly Robert explained.

"She got a letter from Uncle George."

"What did it say? Is he coming for you?"

Mary Jane misinterpreted the interest in Katherine's voice to mean a desire to be rid of her. In a muffled voice she said to Robert, "You still got the letter. Read it to Grandma."

Katherine made no comment when he finished, and the girl got abruptly to her feet.

"Where you going, Mary Jane?" Robert called.

"To git a drink of water."

She went to the kitchen. Instead of getting water she sat down on the hearth and buried her face in her arms. She tried to think through her problem. Always, in the old days, she could ask herself, what would Papa want me to do; now she could get no direction from that source. She thought of Susannah, Grandma Susie never wanted to be beholden to nobody; I was able to make my own way when I stayed with her. Maybe I could still do it if I went back to Camden; if Mr. Blaney aint sold my house I could live there and I know I could git enough sewing to do.

Robert pushed open the door and came in. He shoved a chair forward and lifted her into it by the arms. Then he slipped into another.

"You still worried about not belonging to nobody and having nowhere to go?"

She was silent.

"Cause if you are you don't have to be no more. You belong here and you can stay here as long as you live if you want to."

"I can't just stay here on Grandma. It aint right."

"Why not? You got just as much right to stay here as me."

"You run the farm for her."

"And you do all the house work. It's just like you was the cook and me the overseer. She couldn't git along without us."

"She got along without me before I come."

"But she likes it a lot better now that you here. We been talking. She was scared you thought she didn't want you, so she sent me out here to tell you that you can stay here always. Now, don't that make you feel better?"

"I'm glad Grandma wants me. I. didn't know if she even liked me; she never says nothing."

Robert laughed. "You used to being made over, aint you?"

"Well," defensively, "I always knowed Grandma Susie liked me."

"Grandma Love likes you, too. You know if she could like anybody as mean as me, she'd be bound to like you."

The implied compliment brought color to Mary Jane's cheeks and she felt consoled. She said, "I was thinking if Mr. Blaney aint sold my house, I could go back to Camden and stay. I could make a living sewing like I done when Grandma Susie was alive."

"Stay by yourself? You'll not do it. I won't let you."

"I wouldn't be scared."

"You not got sense enough to be scared."

She bridled instantly. "I reckon I got as much sense as you, Robert Clemminger."

He laughed. "You always call me Robert Clemminger when you git mad. I didn't mean you didn't have no sense at all. I meant you don't know what there is to be scared about. It wouldn't be safe for a girl to stay in a house all by herself. You in my care and I can't let you do it. I'm the head of this house and the people in it have to do what I say."

"I didn't really want to do it nohow," she confessed.

"I tell you what," Robert went on eagerly, "this place is going to be mine some day. You stay on here and help me take care cf Grandma as long as she lives and I'll give you half of it."

"Why, Robert!" she breathed in astonishment.

Afraid of appearing soft, he turned gruff. "It'd only be right. You're as much of a grand child as I am. And if you help take care of her, well?"

Mary Jane wanted to throw her arms around his neck, as she was used to doing all her young life with her parents and with Susannah, but she had the feeling it would not be the thing to do with a young male cousin. So she only looked her delight.

She was learning Robert rather thoroughly. She knew he was quick-tempered when opposed, and that he used bad language. She could not get him interested in religion; he had no patience with her when she tried to talk to him about it. She had always talked openly about it with her parents and with Susannah, and could not understand why he flouted her every effort to bring it up as a subject for discussion. She knew he liked many girls, but she did not know the extent of his bad habits until spring came and he began again to be away on Saturday nights.

Seeing him elsewhere, the young men, who had stopped calling on Mary Jane when Robert started spending Saturday nights at home, began to come again. This went on for several weeks without his knowledge until one Saturday night he came home earlier than usual and found two there. He did not realize she had company until he was already in the house. He spoke gruffly and went on through the room and out the door on the opposite side. He went into the kitchen and lighted a torch from the coals buried in the fireplace. With this light he found his way to the row of hen nests under the roof of the wagon shed. Several hens were already worrying over broods that would hatch in a few days, and clucked angrily at him. He did not molest them, but went on until he came to an unoccupied nest. He looked at it carefully to make sure it was not a small, rounded gourd which was sometimes put there to make the hens think the nest was in constant use. He collected several eggs, so discolored that he was sure they were spoiled. He slipped back to the house, put out his torch and broke the eggs directly under the window which was open to let in the warm spring air. It was just inside near this window where Mary Jane sat with her callers. He went boldly through the room and up the stairs to his bed. Presently he heard the callers leaving and Mary Jane going to bed.

The next day was one on which the circuit rider was to preach in the afternoon. Neither of the young people spoke to each other. Robert disappeared after dinner. Mary Jane hurried through the dishes and went to persuade Katherine to go to preaching with her.

"It's a pretty day, Grandma, nice and sunshiny. You've not been to preaching in a long time. Why don't you go with me? We'll go in the buggy."

"It'll be so crowded in the buggy with three of us," Katherine protested, not really wanting to go.

"No, it won't. Robert can ride his horse."

Jim hitched Mary Jane's horse to the buggy for them and they started.

"Where's Robert?" Katherine wanted to know.

"I reckon he'll be on directly," Mary Jane answered briefly. She didn't want Katherine to know that she had no idea where Robert was, or even if he intended going to the church.

He came to meet them as they returned shortly before dusk, turned his horse and rode back beside them. He did not go out again, but stayed to talk to Mary Jane after Katherine had retired.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted to go to preaching this evening?"

"Don't I always go?"

"I told you it's not safe for women to go around by theirselves."

"I thought it'd be all right if I had Grandma with me. Besides we both thought you'd catch up with us any minute."

"How was I gonna know where you went? I got home about a hour by sun and couldn't find neither one of you nowhere, so I went to the quarters. Jim told me you and Grandma went to preaching. If you'd a told me at dinner time you wanted to go, I'd a took you myself."

"Yeah! You'd a just loved for me to ask you to take me. Nothing would a give you more pleasure than to laugh right in my face and say no." She spoke vehemently, looking him directly in the eyes.

He flushed angrily. "You wouldn't even speak to me this morning."

"How could you spect me to after what you done last night?"

"W-what did I do?"

"You know good and well what you done."

He tried to look innocent, but remembered the eggs and the awful odor which still lingered in the morning, and did not succeed. "Them boys had no business here," he defended himself weakly.

"They had just as much business here as you have at the Williamses or Uncle Billy's or wherever it is you go. How would you like it if somebody done that to you where you go?"

"I wouldn't go back no more," he answered, grinning cheerfully.

"And that's just what you want, aint it? To keep me from having anybody come to see me. It's all right for you to go to see as many girls as you want to but I mustn't have nobody come to see me."

"It'd be all right if they was nice fellers."

"What's the matter with 'em? I'd like to know."

"I can't tell you that. You'll just have to take my word for it, and believe me, I know, for I hear them talk."

"I reckon they as nice as you. I don't remember hearing anybody saying you was airy angel."

This struck home. For the first time Robert completely lost his temper with her. His face turned dark and ugly. He drew his brows together in a fierce look which he bent on her.

"Damn it to hell, woman, I'm gittin' mighty tired of you fussing at me and trying to boss me around. I'm blamed able to take care of myself and I'll thank you to keep your damn mouth out of my business. I tried to be good to you cause you didn't have nobody, but, by God, you done gone too fer this time. You just as well learn one time as another I mean to do whatever I want to and nobody's gonna boss me!"

She stared at him in consternation and the color slowly drained from her face. In one second's time he realized that he had displayed before her two serious faults of which, up to that time, she had had no knowledge. He would have given his right arm to recall the words. In despair he slammed out of the house.

When he returned, the sun was up and the darkies were getting ready to start the week's work. Katherine had already breakfasted, and Mary Jane was clearing up in the kitchen. He pushed the door open, staggered in, shut it and leaned unsteadily against it, looking at the girl out of swollen blood-shot eyes. He brought in with him an odor which she did not recognize. Mary Jane had not eaten anything herself and her eyes were red and swollen, a fact which he did not fail to notice. They stood and stared at each other in shocked surprise. Then he lurched into a chair and buried his head in his arms.

"Robert!" she cried. "You're sick!"

"No," he muttered, "not sick; drunk!"

She recoiled from him as if he had struck her. All her training had taught her to look upon drunkenness with loathing. But he was going on with his muttering, and she listened.

"Now you know all there is to know about me. You know I'm mean; and I'm jealous; and I run after women; I quarrel and cuss and git drunk; and I got a rotten temper. I reckon you're disgusted with me. You'll see I'm not worth fooling with; you'll let me alone and go off and marry somebody else."

She began to cry.

"What you sniveling for?"

"Oh, Robert, I'm sorry for you!"

"You sorry for me? That's funny!" And he began to laugh, a dry cackling sound with no mirth in it. "You said last night nobody ever told you I was a angel. Well, now you know aint no angel. You said them boys was as good as I was. Well, let me tell you, they're a damn sight better'n me. And I reckon you're satisfied, now that you know it."

"Hush, Robert!" she whispered.

"What you want me to hush for? Grandma coming?"

"No, Grandma's in the house."

Mary Jane was bewildered. She tried to sort out the things he had said. He was jealous; he said something about her marrying somebedy else. The implications accelerated her heart beat. What did he mean by that? Could she, maybe, induce him to talk some more, so that she might learn where this was leading?

He groaned, "Oh, my head."

"Can I git you something, Robert? You had any breakfast? How about a cup a coffee?"

She filled two cups and brought one to him, pushing over a chair for herself. "I aint had no breakfast neither," she smiled wanly. "I was so worried about you I couldn't eat. I never did hear you come in."

He drank the coffee without lowering the cup. Then set it down slowly and looked at her. She returned his gaze steadily.

"You want to do something for me?"

"I - yes, I'll do anything I can for you."

"Stand by me; believe in me. Help me keep from doing this ever again. I don't want to do it. I just go off and do it when I git so upset I don't know what to do, and I don't want to think."

"You was - upset - last night?"

"You know I was. I tried to keep you from knowing about me, how mean I am and all. Ever'body else knows. I wanted to have at least one person to believe in me. I tried to keep from showing how mad I git. When you said them other boys was as good as me I thought you knowed about me, and I just let go. Then when I hushed I could tell by your face that you didn't know, and I felt like I'd just ruined ever'thing. Mary Jane, if I could have just one person that believed in me, I know I could do a heap better."

"I believe in you, Robert. They's a lot of good things about you."

"You mean that? You not gonna hold this against me?"

"I won't hold it against you if you don't git this way no more."

"I won't, I promise. All I need to know is that you on my side."

"Robert?"

"Uh?"

"Did you mean what you said about being good to me just 'cause I don't have nobody?"

"No, I didn't. I was just hitting back at you 'cause you hurt me. Don't ever think about it again."

"And, Robert, please don't do like this no more. You don't have to go off and git drunk; and we don't have to quarrel, neither. There's better things to do."

"You don't need to worry about that. I'm not gonna drink no more."

XXXVIII

 Four years went by in much the same way as had the first one which the cousins spent their grandmother, with the exception that eventually they were able to get along better with each other. Mr. Blaney sold Mary Jane's house and gave her the money, which she put carefully away in her Mother's little trunk along with a few keepsakes of her childhood. One of her treasures, though not kept in the trunk, was the little black pot which her father had left with her when he went back to Tennessee. She remembered well what he had told her about how he came to have that little pot. The memory of that experience of his, and other things he had told her of his tragic early childhood, coupled with her failure to understand why he had left her, brought often to her eyes the same look of sadness that had been so often seen in his eyes when, as a boy, he had visited at The Orchards.

On the whole, though, Mary Jane was content. She and Robert worked steadily, but still had fun together. They had disagreements, but never very serious ones, and Robert kept his preoise not to drink any more. He also kept his interest in the other girls, but not to the exclusion of Mary Jane. He always looked after her interest.

On one occasion, when they were at a candy pulling, three young men from Chesterfield County rode by, saw the horses hitched outside and decided to stop. The hostess knew one of them and thus they were accepted into the crowd. Mary Jane had her plate of candy, and she and her partner, Gene Hough, were working with it, trying to get it cool enough to pull. The art was to get started pulling before the syrup got cold, so to get it in the long ropes, thin enough to break easily when hardened. One of the newcomers was attracted to Mary Jane and thought to take her away from her partner. He came over.

"Hey, you not doing it right. Let me show you." And he attempted to take the candy from Gene.

"Go on, bud, we can manage," Gene said good-naturedly.

"Aw, lemme show you, you gonna git it all over the pretty girl's hands."

"We doing all right; you just let us alone," Gene insisted.

Mary Jane caught a whiff of an odor she hadn't encountered lately. A scuffle ensued, the candy strung to the floor, and everyone stopped to watch. Robert left his partner and came over.

"Hey, what's the matter?" he asked.

"None a your business, buddy. You just keep out of it," the stranger answered.

"I'm gonna make it my business. This girl is my cousin. What you trying to do?"

"If you wanta make it your business, let's go outside and settle it."

"All right." And Robert was by the door in an instant, holding it open. All the young men went out.

"Boys," the hostess implored, "let's don't have no trouble."

"Don't worry," Robert assured her, "there won't be no trouble."

The girls huddled together and waited silently to try to hear what was going on outside. In a very few minutes the young men came back in. The one who had started the altercation went first to Mary Jane, then to the hostess.

"I'm sorry, Miss. Please excuse me, ma'am, I was having such a good time I got carried away. I'm real sorry. Come on, men, I guess we better go."

And the newcomers took their leave. But the candy was ruined; it was too cold to pull and too thick and heavy to cut.

But there were fun times, too. Often the three of them sat at the table after the evening meal and talked, discussing many subjects and recalling humorous happenings. Sometimes Katherine lectured Robert about eating too fast. He had acquired this habit after coming to stay with her because he had such a strong sense of responsibility he felt he had to hurry in order to get everything taken care of.

She would conclude her remarks by saying, "Now listen at me and chew each bit good."

Robert put an end to this admonition. "You hear what Grandma said, Mary Jane? She's gittin' in some double licks. She said for me to chew eat your bit good."

Mary Jane found this extremely funny and laughed so hard that she choked on a piece of bread.

"Bend over and cough," Katherine advised her.

She obeyed, and dislodged the bread with no difficulty. But they continued to laugh, and teased Katherine for weeks about the incident.

Robert managed the farm well. He saw to it that all operations took place at the proper time. Making the molasses for winter use was done in October, when the cane was ripe. Samuel's old cane mill was brought out of storage and set up in a meadow near the house. The cane was cut, stripped of tops and leaves, hauled to the meadow and piled near the mill. One mule was hitched to the big, long pole which was fastened to an attachment on the two rollers that turned toward each other. The evaporator was put in place and a fire built under it. One man brought the cane and piled it beside the mill. Another fed it stalk by stalk between the rollers which crushed the juice out of it. The juice was caught in a large tub beneath the rollers. A third man dipped the juice out into a bucket and carried it to the evaporator. Here it soon began boiling. As the water evaporated from it, an attendant moved it slowly along from one section to another by means of a small door which he opened and shut at will. By the time the juice reached the last section of the evaporator it was thick enough to be syrup. Here the impurities were skimmed off and poured into a hole in the ground. The syrup was impelled into a sack which strained it into a large jug.

Children, both black and white, liked to play around the cane mill, being careful not to get in the way of the workers, or they would be in trouble. Sometimes they played tricks by luring one of their number near the skimming hole, and then pushed him in. They enjoyed chewing the cane, and would drink as much of the cane juice as they could menage to steal when the men were not looking.

Robert was ever on the alert around the cane mill, to see that each job was being done right and to be on the watch for danger. He glanced regularly at the rollers, for someone had been known to let his finger get caught between them. Once he saw that one of the little darkies had wandered into the path of the mule. If he stood where he was the pole would hit him on the back of the head and would do untold damage. There was not time to get him out, cr to tell him to move. Robert did the only thing possible.

"Whoa!" he shouted to the mule.

The animal obediently stopped. Robert grabbed a stalk of cane, grasped the little boy by the arm and administered a flogging which the child would not be likely to forget.

"Now, all of you young'uns git out of here, and don't let me catch you back here no more!"

Every child fled. Robert turned and went toward the house. He strode into the kitchen, where Mary Jane was working, with his countenance like a storm cloud. He sat down in a chair and said not a word. She waited for him to speak. When he didn't she concluded it was best to leave him alone, which she did. After a few minutes he stood up, and went to get a drink of water. He came over to her and patted her on the cheek.

"You a good 'un," he said and went back to the cane mill with his temper spent and his thoughts calmed.

Katherine watched with interest the changes in the cousins, and her eyes were speculative. She told herself that something would have to happen before they came to themselves, and she was sure she knew what it would be. For Katherine was getting old, and lived much more in her memories of the past than she did in the present. It was spring again and her strength was failing. She no longer did anything about the house, but sat in her chair in the sunshine that flooded the south doorway, and talked of her girlhood when there was anyone to listen.

"Yes," she was saying to Mary Jane one afternoon, "I had a good time when I was a young girl. I didn't have plenty of fellers like some of the girls did, but I always managed to have at least one. I was told I was pretty, but I never did believe it. Sam was the first sweetheart I had, but I had right smart more before he got around to poppin' the question."

Robert came in from work, but she did not notice him. She continued her monologue placidly. Robert whispered to Mary Jane.

"What's she talking about?"

"About when she was a girl. She talks about it all the time now."

"What you two whispering about?" Katherine asked sharply. They jumped. "You talking about me," she accused. "You trying to git shed a me. Well, you can't do it. Sam won't let you. You trying to starve me to death. Haint brought me nothing to eat all day. If Sam was here he wouldn't let you treat me this a way." And she began to cry.

They both went to her and tried to soothe her.

"Why don't you fix me some dinner?" she asked pettishly.

"You had dinner, Grandma," Robert assured her. "You et at the table with me and Mary Jane. Don't you remember?"

"I did?"

"It's nearly supper time now," Mary Jane added. "I'll have it ready in a little while. I'll call you soon's I git it on the table."

"Well." She appeared mollified.

"Let me put your shawl around you, Grandma. It's gittin' chilly," And Robert draped her shawl over her shoulders. She looked up at him and smiled tenderly.

"You a good boy, Robert. You're my baby. They said you got drownded, but I knowed better than that. They couldn't fool me."

Mary Jane and Robert went out toward the kitchen. They stopped in the covered way and looked at each ether in consternation.

"How long's she been like that?" Robert whispered.

"This is the first time, but she's been talking about when she was a girl all week."

"She thought I was her little boy that got drownded."

"Did she have a little boy that got drownded?"

"Yes. His name was Robert. I was named after him."

"I never thought Grandma Love would git like this," Mary Jane sighed incredulously.

"You know what I think we better do, Mary Jane?"

"What?"

"We better let our folks know. Suppose she was to die; what in the world would we do?"

"Maybe we ought a git a doctor to come and see her."

"Yeah. I could ride up and git Dr. Morrison tomorrow."

Dr. Morrison found Katherine in good condition for her age. "She won't get any better," he said. "Rather she will gradually get worse. One of these mornings you'll find she won't want to get up. When that happens you better send for your folks. She won't last more than a week or two after that."

"How - how much longer do you think - she will - last?" Robert managed to ask.

"Can't say," the doctor answered. "She's lived a long, full life. Natural for folks to wear out when they get old. She'll be with you for several months yet, I expect. But don't feel too bad about her going. She's tired and deserves a rest. Don't begrudge it to her just to keep her with you a few weeks longer. You're both young and life's before you. Her's is behind her. And don't let anything she says worry you. Half the time she doesn't know what she's talking about. If she gets any worse, let me know, though I don't know as there's anything I can do for her."

Robert and Mary Jane quit going anywhere. One of them contrived to be near Katherine all the time. When errands had to be run, Robert sent Jim because he did not want Mary Jane to be left long alone at the house for fear of what might happen. Robert wrote his parents that they should come home if they wanted to see Grandma alive again. Mary Jane sent an urgent letter to George, telling him exactly what Dr. Morrison had said about Katherine and asking what she should do if her grandmother died. She pleaded with him to answer at once or come to see her.

Katherine continued all summer in practically the same condition. Mostly she was gentle and child-like, and never resorted to tears unless she was crossed. Both her grand children quickly learned how to manage her and did so with tenderness toward her and consideration for each other. The shared burden drew them closer together and helped them to understand each other. It mitigated greatly the misunderstandings and brief quarrels to which they were still sometimes subject.

Jim became a tower of strength to Robert. All the darkies were concerned that 'Ole Missus' was sick, and showed new respect for the 'young Missie.' They came often to enquire if they could do anything, and proved their affection for the household by obeying Jim implicitly.

Cynthia wrote that she could not come to see her mother until laying-by time. By then Katherine had taken to her bed, as the doctor had said she would, and was seldom in her right mind any more. Another letter went on its way to Cynthia. Billy and Anne came often. Mary Jane and Robert grew gaunt and nervous from watchful waiting and dread. Seldom did they get more than an hour's sleep at any one time. They took turns sitting in the old green rocker by her bed at night, half asleep, half awake. After a week of this, Cynthia and Frederick came. Katherine knew them. The beatific smile that spread over her face when she saw Cynthia and opened her arms to welcome her child was beautiful to see.

"Where is little Jane?"

They all looked blank for a moment, then Robert said, "She can't come right now."

"Why not? is she so busy she can't take time to come and see her old Ma? Tell Jane to put down her work and come right on in here." Katherine for a moment sounded like her old authoritative self.

Robert, fearing the consequences of thwarting her, said soothingly, "You'll soon be seeing her, Grandma."

At that, Cynthia turned away weeping, broken-hearted at seeing her mother like this. Anne came, too, and stayed. There was no lack of help now. The neighbors brought in plenty of food and many visitors came. Katherine began to sink rapidly. She lived for another week, paying no attention to anyone or anything. On the morning of the last day she awoke with a clear mind. Mary Jane fed her breakfast, and Katherine talked to her in halting whispers.

"I'm - going - to leave - you, Mary Jane."

"Don't say that, Grandma. You're better this morning."

"No. Won't - ever - be well - again. You - and Robert - be good - to each other."

"We will, Grandma."

"You - stop - quarreling. You both - been good - to me. I want - you - both - to have - this - place. Will's made - to - Robert."

Robert had come in, and was listening. "I'll divide with Mary Jane, Grandma," he interrupted.

"Yes - must. What - will - you do - Mary Jane?"

They looked at each other.

"She'll stay on here, of course, Grandma," Robert answered.

"You - can't - stay here - like - you - been doing - less one - of you - gits - married."

They stared at Katherine. Both swallowed painfully, and kept silent. Katherine went on. "If - you - don't, Mary Jane - will - have - to go to George. You - better - send - him - word."

The two young people were so upset they heard no more that Katherine said. Cynthia came in, and they escaped to the kitchen where Frederick was finishing breakfast. He addressed himself to Mary Jane.

"Me and your aunt was just talking about you, about what you'll do when your Grandma goes. You can't stay on here with Robert. We think you oughta go to your Pa. We can take you back home with us till you have time to hear from him."

"But what about me, Papa?" Robert interrupted anxiously. "I don't wanta stay here by myself."

"You shore can't expect your cousin to stay on here with you. T'wouldn't be proper. You con sell the place if you want to and come to Concord."

Robert answered shortly, "I think we better wait till Grandma's gone before we start talking about selling her place."

"Robert," Mary Jane put in hastily, "couldn't we send Jim to Fredericksburg to see if there's any mail? I'm anxious to hear from Papa."

"Shore, Mary Jane. I'll git him started right now."

She followed him outside. "Don't you think he better go by Uncle Billy's, too? Grandma's so - different this morning. I got a quare feeling about her."

"Me, too." They looked worriedly at each other.

Jim came back from Fredericksburg about noon and truly had a letter from George. He was very apologetic about not being able to come to see about his daughter. The crops were pushing him, and his wife was expecting in a very few weeks. But if the worst came, then obviously she could not stay on at The Orchards. There was nothing else for her to do but come to him. He had not the money to spare to send her at that time. If Frederick and Cynthia could come and bring her, doubtless he would at that time have the money to reimburse them for any expense to which they had been put.

It was a bitter moment for Mary Jane when she read this letter. Everyone except Anne was at the dinner table when it came and all watched her while she read it. She get up to leave the table.

"Don't go away, Mary Jane," Robert begged.

Obediently she sat down again and cried silently. She handed the letter to Robert to read. Everyone sat silently, making no comment when he had finished, to spare Mary Jane further hurt, but their thoughts were busy. They could not reconcile this George with the one they had known.

Not one of them could know the torment, the anguish of soul he had gone through in South Carolina, the desperate need he had felt to get away, the peace that had come to his wretched spirit in the hills of Tennessee; nor the dread with which he thought of coming back, or seeing anyone who would remind him of that period of his life. Those who live on the surface of their minds and only skim the lower reaches of human emotion can never fathom the deep feelings that come to those who plumb the depths of despair or reach the heights of ecstasy; the exquisite loneliness of a soul that has lost its true mate and must forever after grope in a twilight of half-living, experiencing only the obvious things-- hunger, cold, pain of rheumatism or a stomachache, pleasure in human intercourse, the satisfaction of being warm and well-fed; never daring to go again into despair, because of the knowledge one has of the utter desolation to be found there.

Mary Jane thought she could know no greater bitterness than that her father should not want her. But a frightened call from Anne summoned them to Katherine's bedside. She was breathing in a slow, shuddering way.

"Send for Dr. Morrison," Mary Jane cried quickly.

"It's no use," Billy objected. "He can't do her no good."

"I'll send anyhow," and Robert went hurriedly out.

Before the hoofbeats of the horse Jim was riding on his second errand sounded outside, Robert was back. In that short time he could see that a change had come over Katherine. He went and stood by Mary Jane, and shortly their Grandmother had gasped her last.

Neighbors were already there. They took charge and the family gathered in the large room downstairs. They talked in low voices. Among other things, they discussed what was to be done with Mary Jane. The girl herself was unhappily silent. Robert sat with a stern look, offering no opinion whatever. Finally it was decided that Billy could spare the time and money better than anyone else, and that he and Selina should go with her to Tennessee.

Mary Jane started to speak about the money of her own in her trunk, but Robert nudged her, and presently surreptitiously handed her a note. When she had opportunity to read it she saw that he was asking her to go to the Ben Davis apple tree in the farthest corner of the orchard as soon as she could; he wanted to talk to her. She had no opportunity because Anne, full of sympathy, stayed close by her; also someone was continually calling to ask her where something they needed could be found. After the funeral, when they were all gathered in the house once again, to read the will, Mary Jane slipped silently away. Only Robert observed her going and he soon followed. He found her in the kitchen crying. He took her by the hand and led her out the back door to the Ben Davis apple tree. As she continued to weep, he put his arm protectingly across her shoulders.

"Don't cry, Mary Jane. There's no use in worrying about Grandma now. She's all right."

"I know. I'm - not worrying about her. It's me. I - aint got no place - to go. Papa don't want me to go - to Tennessee."

"I don't neither."

"I don't want to go, but I got to. There aint nowhere else for me to go. Nobody wants me."

"I do. You can stay here. I'll take care of you."

"No, Robert, I can't. Ever'body says it aint proper."

"We could git married."

She gave so great a start that it took her out of his arms. Her eyes searched his face. It was innocent of cynicism, of hardness, of even the usual teasing. His eyes met hers steadily. She faltered.

"You don't want to be saddled with me. You had me on your hands long enough. You oughta be glad to git shed of me."

"I'm glad you was here. I never did feel like I was saddled with you. I don't know what I'll do if you go away."

"But all them other girls - "

"They was just girls. I felt like I had to keep on going to see them so you wouldn't think you was bossing me. What a time I had with you, trying to keep the fellers away from you and me going with other girls so you wouldn't catch on." He smiled tenderly at her.

But her eyes still searched his face. "I don't think I understand, Robert."

He took her gently by the shoulders. "You understand that I'm asking you to marry me, don't you?"

"But, why?"

He looked at her closely, read the question, the fear to trust, in her eyes, and dropped his hands. "If you think I'm asking you just so I won't have to stay here by myself and to have somebody to keep house for me if that's what you think of me, well, just forget I ever said anything about it."

"I wasn't thinking about that, Robert. I was thinking, I been staying here for five years and you never acted like you cared anything about me. I thought sometimes you almost hated me; you talked mean to me. If you felt that way about me, how come you want to marry me?"

He leaned against the tree, folded his arms, and looked far away. "I guess you don't understand me very well, Mary Jane. I got a awful high temper, and I'm sassy and awful mean talking when I git mad. And I'm mighty quick to git that way when somebody tries to make me do something I don't want to do. Ever since I can remember people have bossed me around and made me do things I didn't want to do. They never asked me if I wanted to, or even if I would, but just told me I had to. That'd made me mad and I'd say some pretty awful things. All the mean things I've done since I been with Grandma was cause somebody was keeping me from doing what I wanted to do. When you come, I was sorry for you. Then I got to liking you, but I was afraid to let anybody know it. Ever time I set my heart on anything something happened to keep me from gittin it. I had to keep how I felt about you hid. But that's why I'm asking you to marry me."

He turned now to look at her, and there was a mixture of defiance and entreaty on his face. There were tears on her eyelashes as she smiled tremulously at him.

"Oh, I will, Robert, I will."

They came together hungrily, as if it were something they had both wanted to do for a long time.

"I'm crazy about you," Robert said gruffly. "I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving."

"Me, too," Mary Jane whispered.

"When will you marry me?"

"I don't know." Mary Jane looked troubled. "Uncle Billy is gonna want to go right on to Tennessee before cotton picking time."

"Then let's git married right now - tomorrow."

"We-el, let's see what they decided at the house first."

"All right. After that we can meet back here and make our plans."

She started to move out of his arms, but he held her and whispered, "Let me kiss you."

She was a little frightened, but obediently lifted her face. He kissed her so gently, so tenderly, that her eyes misted and she stroked his cheek.

"You're so little and so sweet and I'm crazy about you," he whispered. "It's no wonder Uncle George went crazy when Aunt Jane died if she was as sweet as you." And they clung to each other a moment longer, then moved away through the orchard toward the house.

Billy held the iron box which Robert had placed in his hands. From it he had removed Katherine's will and read it. Everything had been left unconditionally to Robert except the slaves which were Mary Jane's. Billy was named executor. He was inclined to find fault with the will, but Anne spoke firmly to him.

"It's only fair, Billy. Look how long Robert has stayed with Mama. He give up everything to do it; he even lost his girl. Besides we got all the land we can work, and Cynthia don't need none down here. As for Mary Jane gittin' the darkies, she's due something for keeping house for Mama all these years."

Cynthia and Frederick agreed and Billy had the grace to look ashamed.

"Well," he said, "if I'm to take her to Tennessee I want to go ahead, so I can git back before laying by time is over."

"What about the darkies?" Cynthia asked. "She's supposed to have them."

Frederick spoke up. "I think Mis' Love meant for them to be sold and for her to have the money. Robert don't want them."

Billy was eager. "That means she'll have the money to pay me for taking her to Tennessee."

Cynthia and Anne spoke at the same time, "I think you'll git your money all right."

"I can go ahead and take her now, and Robert can sell the slaves after the crop is gathered and pay me and send the rest of the money to her in the mail."

"Yes, you just as well do that," Cynthia decided, "for we got to be gittin' back."

"You think we could be ready to leave in the morning, Anne?"

"Yes, I think so."

"All right, then. I'll be down here in the morning. Cynthia, you have the girl ready."

"Yes, and we'll be ready, too," Cynthia promised. "For we're going at the same time."

Morning found everyone up early and quite busy. Mary Jane cooked breakfast, then left Cynthia, Frederick and Robert at the table. When they finished eating, each went his separate way. Cynthia packed her own things, and picked out a few of her parents' belongings which she especially wanted. Frederick hitched his horse to the buggy and drove around to the south doer where he loaded their bags into the back-end. He hitched the horse and awaited the arrival of Billy Thompson.

Presently Billy came in his own buggy with his son Frank driving, and with Selina. He had decided to go to Lancaster where they would meet the stage, and Frank would bring the buggy back. Cynthia went to find Mary Jane to whom she had given orders to get her things together and be ready. She called and searched everywhere for her, but in vain. She reported to Billy and Frederick her inability to locate the girl.

"Sakes alive!" Billy exploded. "We got to be going or we'll miss the stage. Ask Robert where she is."

But Robert was not to be found either. Frederick even asked the darkies, but could get no information from them. Cynthia and Frederick were worried. Billy was fuming. Then the missing pair rode up the carriage lane from the main road. They were flushed and smiling and confusedly happy looking.

"Where in the world have you two been?" Billy thundered. "This is a fine time to go horseback riding, wasting half o' the morning when I'm waiting here to go to Tennessee. Like as not, we missed the stage and got to wait two more days now."

"Mary Jane's not going to Tennessee," Robert said, dismounting and going to help the girl from her horse.

"What's she gonna do then?" Billy asked in astonishment.

"She's gonna stay here with me."

"But she can't do that," Cynthia put in sharply. "It aint proper."

"Yes, it is," Robert stated calmly. Oh, but he was enjoying this! For once in his life nobody in the world could tell him what to do and make him do it.

"I won't allow it," Cynthia protested.

"Mama! Mama!" Robert said mockingly, "this is one time when you don't have nothing to do with it."

"Robert, don't," Mary Jane said gently. "Tell them."

"Tell us what?" Frederick asked.

"We're married," Mary Jane said softly.

THE END