"Why do you hate the wooden-leg man, honey? It was all in a dream," said Mrs. Absalom, soothingly.

"Oh, I don't know what you are talking about, Nonny!" exclaimed Nan, ready to cry. "I mean old Billy Sanders. And if I don't give him a piece of my mind when I see him. Now Gabriel will go to that place to-night, and he's nothing but a boy."

"A boy! well, I dunner where you'll find your men ef Gabriel ain't nothin' but a boy. Where's anybody in these diggin's that's any bigger or stouter? I wish you'd show 'em to me," remarked Mrs. Absalom.

"I don't care," Nan persisted; "I know just what Gabriel will do. He'll go to that place to-night, and--and--I'd rather go there myself."

"Well, my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Absalom, with lifted eyebrows.

The pallor of Nan's face was gradually replaced by a warmer glow. "Now, Nonny! don't say a word--don't tease--don't tease me about Gabriel. If you do, I'll never tell you anything more for ever and ever."

"All this is bran new to me," Mrs. Absalom declared. "You make me feel, Nan, like I was in some strange place, talkin' wi' some un I never seed before. You ain't no more like yourself--you ain't no more like you used to be--than day is like night, an' I'm jest as sorry as I can be."

"That's what Gabriel says," sighed Nan. "He said he was sorry, and now you say you are sorry. Oh, Nonny, I don't want any one to be sorry for me."

"Well, then, behave yourself, an' be like you use to be, an' stop trollopin' aroun' wi' them highfalutin' gals downtown. They look like they know too much. All they talk about is boys, boys, boys, from mornin' till night; an' I noticed when they was spendin' a part of the'r time here that you was just as bad. It was six of one an' twice three of the rest. Now you know that ain't a sign of good health for gals to be eternally talkin' about boys, 'specially sech ganglin', lop-sided creeturs as we've got aroun' here."

"Where's Johnny?" asked Nan, who evidently had no notion of getting in a controversy with Mrs. Absalom on the subject of boys. "Johnny" was her name for her step-mother, whose surname of Dion had been changed to "Johns" the day after she arrived at Shady Dale. The story of little Miss Johns has been told in another place and all that is necessary to add to the record is the fact that she had managed to endear herself to the critical, officious, and somewhat jealous Mrs. Absalom. Mrs.

Dorrington had the tact and the charm of the best of her race. She was Nan's dearest friend and only confidante, and though she was not many years the girl's senior, she had an influence over her that saved Nan from many a bad quarter of an hour.

Mrs. Dorrington was in her own room when Nan found her, sewing and singing softly to herself, the picture of happiness and content. Nan dropped on her knees beside her chair, and threw her arms impulsively around the little woman's neck.

"Tell me ever what it is, Nan, before you smother-cate me," said Mrs.

Dorrington, smoothing the girl's hair. The two had a language of their own, which the elder had learned from the younger.

"It is the most miserable misery, Johnny. Do you remember what I told you about those people?"

"How could I forget, Nan?"

"Well, those people are going head foremost into trouble, and whatever happens, I want to be there."

"Oh, is that so? Well, it is too bad," said the little woman sympathetically. "Perhaps if you would say something about it--not too much, but just enough for me to get it through my thick numskull----"

Whereupon Nan told of all the fears by which she was beset, and of all the troubles that racked her mind, and the two had quite a consultation.

"You are not afraid for yourself; why should you be afraid for those people?" inquired Mrs. Dorrington, laying great stress on "those people," the name that Gabriel went by when Nan and Johnny were referring to him.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Nan, helplessly. "It isn't because of what you would guess if you knew no better. I have a very great friendship for those people; but it isn't the other feeling--the kind that you were telling me about. If it is--oh, if it is--I shall never forgive myself."

"In time--yes. It is quite easy to forgive yourself on account of those people. I found it so."

"Oh, don't! You make me feel as if I ought never to speak to myself."

"Then don't," said Mrs. Dorrington, calmly. "You can speak to me instead of to that ignorant girl."

"Oh, you sweetest!" cried Nan, hugging her step-mother; "I am going to have you for my doll."

"Very well, then," said Mrs. Dorrington, shrugging her shoulders; "but you will have some trouble on your hands--yes, more than those people give you."

"Johnny, you are my little mother, and you never gave me any trouble in your life. I am the one that is troublesome; I am troubling you now."

"Silly thing! will you be good?" cried Mrs. Dorrington, tapping Nan lightly on the cheek. "How can you trouble me when I don't know what you mean? You haven't told me."

"I thought you could guess as well as I can," replied Nan.

"About some things--yes; but not about this terrible danger that is to overcome those people."

Whereupon, Nan told Mrs. Dorrington of the conversation she and Gabriel had overheard. To this information she added her suspicions that Gabriel intended to do something desperate; and then she gave a very vivid description of the strange white man, of his pale and eager countenance, his glittering, shifty eyes, and his thin, cruel lips.

Instead of shuddering, as she should have done, Mrs. Dorrington laughed.

"But I don't see what the trouble is," she declared. "That boy is ever so large; he can take care of himself. But if you think not, then ask him to tea."

Nan frowned heavily. "But, Johnny, tea is so tame. Think of rescuing a friend from danger by means of a cup of tea! Doesn't it seem ridiculous?"

"Of course it is," responded Mrs. Dorrington. "But it isn't half so ridiculous as your make-believe. Oh, Nan! Nan! when will you come down from your clouds?"

Now, Nan's world of make-believe was as natural to her as the persons and things all about her. No sooner had she guessed that it was Gabriel's intention to find out what the Union League was for, and, in a way, expose himself to some possible danger of discovery, than she carried the whole matter into her land of make-believe as naturally as a mocking-bird carries a flake of thistle-down to its nest. Once there, nothing could be more reasonable or more logical than the terrible danger to which Gabriel would be exposed. While it lasted, Nan's feeling of anxiety and alarm was both real and sincere. Mrs. Absalom could never enter into this world of Nan's; she was too practical and downright. And yet she had a ready sympathy for the girl's troubles and humoured her without stint, though she sometimes declared that Nan was queer and flighty.

Mrs. Dorrington, on the other hand, inheriting the sensitive and artistic temperament of Flavian Dion, her father, was able to enter heartily into the most of Nan's vagaries. Sometimes she humoured them, but more frequently she laughed at them as the girl grew older.

Occasionally, in her twilight conversations with her father, whose gentleness and shyness kept him in the background, Mrs. Dorrington would deplore Nan's tendency to exploit her imagination.

"But she was born thus, my dear," Flavian Dion would reply, speaking the picturesque patois of New France. "It will either be her great misery, or her great happiness. How was it with me? Once it was my great misery, but now--you see how it is. Come! we will have some music, if Mademoiselle the Dreamer is willing."

And then they would go into the parlour, where, with Mrs. Dorrington at the piano, Flavian Dion with his violin, and Nan with her voice, which was rich and strong, they would render the beautiful folk-songs of France. Moreover, Flavian Dion had caught many of the plantation melodies, of which Nan knew the words, and when the French songs were exhausted, they would fall back on these. It frequently happened that Mademoiselle the Dreamer would add feet as well as voice to the negro melodies, especially if Tasma Tid were there to incite her, and the way that Nan reproduced steps and poses was both wonderful and inimitable.

The reader who takes the trouble to make inferences as he goes along, will perceive that Nan's solicitude for Gabriel was no compliment to him; it was not flattering to the heroism of a young man who was threatening to grow a moustache, for a young lady to believe, or even pretend to believe, that he needed to be rescued from some imaginary danger. Gabriel was strong enough to take a man's place at a log-rolling, and he would have had small relish for the information if he had been told that Nan Dorrington was planning to rescue him.

Let the simple truth be told. Gabriel was no hero in Nan's eyes. He was merely a friend and former comrade, who now was in sad need of some one to take care of him. That was her belief, and she would have shrunk from the idea that Gabriel would one day be her lover. She had quite other views. Yes, indeed! Her lover must be a man who had pa.s.sed through some desperate experiences. He must be a hero with sword and plume, a cutter and slasher, a man who had a relish for bloodshed, such as she had read about in the romances she had appropriated from her father's library.

Nan had brought over from her childhood many queer dreams and fancies.

Once upon a time, she had heard her elders talking of John A. Murrell, the notorious land-pirate and highwayman. The man was one of the coa.r.s.est and cruellest of modern ruffians, but about his name the common people had placed a halo of romance. It was said of him that he rescued beautiful maidens from their abductors, and restored them to their friends, and that he robbed the rich only to give to the poor. Sad to say, this ruffian was Nan's ideal hero.

And now, when she was racking her brains to invent some bold and simple plan for the rescue of Gabriel, her mind reverted to this ideal hero of her childhood.

"If you insist, Johnny, I'll ask Gabriel to tea," Nan remarked for the second time; "but, as you say, it is perfectly ridiculous. Whoever heard of rescuing persons by inviting them to supper?" She paused a moment, and then went on with a sigh that would have sounded very real in Mrs.

Absalom's ears, but which simply brought a smile to Mrs. Dorrington's face--"Heigh-ho! What a pity John A. Murrell isn't alive to-day!"

"And who is this Mr. Murrell?" Mrs. Dorrington asked.

"He was a fierce robber-chief," replied Nan, placidly. "He wore a big black beard, and a hat with a red feather in it. Over his left shoulder was a red sash, and he rode a big white horse. He carried two big pistols and a bowie-knife--Nonny can tell you all about him."

Whereupon, Mrs. Dorrington jumped from her chair, and made an effort to catch the young romancer; and in a moment, the laughter of the pursuer, and the shrieks of the pursued, when she thought she was in danger of being caught, roused the echoes in the old house. Mrs. Absalom, who was in the kitchen, laughed and shook her head. "I believe them two scamps will be children when they are sixty year old!"

But after awhile, when their romp was over, Nan suddenly discovered that she had been in very high spirits, and this, according to the const.i.tution and by-laws of the land of make-believe, was an unpardonable offence, especially when, as now, a very dear friend was in danger. So she went out upon the veranda, and half-way down the steps, where she seated herself in an att.i.tude of extreme dejection.

While sitting there, Nan suddenly remembered that she did have a grievance and a very real one. Tasma Tid was in a state of insurrection.

She had not been permitted to accompany her young mistress when the latter visited her girl-friends, and for a long time she had been sulking and pouting. An effort had been made to induce Tasma Tid to make herself useful, but even the strong will of Mrs. Absalom collapsed when it found itself in conflict with the bright-eyed African.