If Eugenia thought that Nan would exchange confidences with her, she was sadly mistaken. Nan had a horror of falling in love, and when the name of Gabriel was mentioned by her friend, she made many scornful allusions to that youngster.

"But you know, Nan, that you think more of Gabriel than you do of any other young man," said Eugenia. "You may deceive yourself and him, but you can't deceive me. I knew the moment I saw you together the first time that you were fond of him; and when I was told by some one that you were to marry Mr. Bethune, I laughed at them."

"I'm glad you did," replied Nan. "I care no more for Frank Bethune than for Gabriel. I'll tell you the truth, if I thought I was in love with a man, I'd hate him; I wouldn't submit to it."

"Well, you have been acting as if you hate Gabriel," suggested Eugenia.

"Oh, I don't like him half as well as I did when we were playfellows. I think he's changed a great deal. His grandmother says he's timid, but to me it looks more like conceit. No, child," Nan went on with an affectation of great gravity; "the man that I marry must be somebody. He must be able to attract the attention of everybody."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to move away from this town, or remain an old maid," said the other. "Or it may be that Gabriel will make a great man. He and Paul belong to a debating society here in town, and Paul says that Gabriel can make as good a speech as any one he ever heard.

They invited some of the older men not long ago, and mother heard Mr.

Tomlin say that Gabriel would make a great orator some day. Paul thinks there is n.o.body in the world like Gabriel. So you see he is already getting to be famous."

"But will he ever wear a red feather in his hat and a red sash over his shoulder?" inquired Nan gravely. She was reverting now to the ideal hero of her girlish dreams.

"Why, I should hope not," replied Eugenia. "You don't want him to be the laughing-stock of the people, do you?"

"Oh, I'm not anxious for him to be anything," said Nan, "but you know I've always said that I never would marry a man unless he wore a red feather in his hat, and a red sash over his shoulder."

"When I was a child," remarked Eugenia, "I always said I would like to marry a pirate--a man with a long black beard, a handkerchief tied around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes, and a shining sword in one hand and a pistol in the other."

"Oh, did you?" cried Nan, snuggling closer to her friend. "Let's talk about it. I am beginning to be very old, and I want to talk about things that make me feel young again."

But they were not to talk about their childish ideals that day, for a knock came on the door, and Margaret Gaither was announced--Margaret, who seemed to have no ideals, and who had confessed that she never had had any childhood. She came in dignified and sad. Her face was pale, and there was a weary look in her eyes, a wistful expression, as if she desired very much to be able to be happy along with the rest of the people around her.

The two girls greeted her very cordially. Both were fond of her, and though they could not understand her troubles, she had traits that appealed to both. She could be lively enough on occasion, and there was a certain refinement of manner about her that they both tried to emulate--whenever they could remember to do so.

"I heard Nan was here," she said, with a beautiful smile, "and I thought I would run over and see you both together."

"That is a fine compliment for me," Eugenia declared.

"Miss Jealousy!" retorted Margaret, "you know I am over here two or three times a week--every time I can catch you at home. But I wish you were jealous," she added with a sigh. "I think I should be perfectly happy if some one loved me well enough to be jealous."

"You ought to be very happy without all that," said Nan.

"Yes, I know I should be; but suppose you were in my shoes, would you be happy?" She turned to the girls with the gravity of fate itself. As neither one made any reply, she went on: "See what I am--absolutely dependent on those who, not so very long ago, were entire strangers. I have no claims on them whatever. Oh, don't think I am ungrateful," she cried in answer to a gesture of protest from Nan. "I would make any sacrifice for them--I would do anything--but you see how it is. I can do nothing; I am perfectly helpless. I--but really, I ought not to talk so before you two children."

"Children! well, I thank you!" exclaimed Eugenia, rising and making a mock curtsey. "Nan is nearly as old as you are, and I am two days older."

"No matter; I have no business to be bringing my troubles into this giddy company; but as I was coming across the street, I happened to think of the difference in our positions. Talk about jealousy! I am jealous and envious. Yes, and mean; I have terrible thoughts sometimes.

I wouldn't dare to tell you what they are."

"I know better," said Nan; "you never had a mean thought in your life.

Aunt f.a.n.n.y says you are the sweetest creature in the world."

"Don't! don't tell me such things as that, Nan. You will run me wild.

There never was another woman like Aunt f.a.n.n.y. And, oh, I love her! But if I could get away and become independent, and in some way pay them back for all they have done for me, and for all they hope to do, I'd be the happiest girl in the world."

"I think I know how you feel," said Nan, with a quick apprehension of the situation; "but if I were in your place, and couldn't help myself, I wouldn't let it trouble me much."

"Very well said," Mrs. Claiborne remarked, as she entered the room.

"Nan, you are becoming quite a philosopher. And how is Margaret?" she inquired, kissing that blushing maiden on the check.

"I am quite well, I thank you, but I'd be a great deal better if I thought you hadn't heard my foolish talk."

"I heard a part of it, and it wasn't foolish at all. The feeling does you credit, provided you don't carry it too far. You are alone too much; you take your feelings too seriously. You must remember that you are nothing but a child; you are just beginning life. You should cultivate bright thoughts. My dear, let me tell you one thing--if Pulaski Tomlin had any idea that you had such feelings as you have expressed here, he would be miserable; he would be miserable, and you would never know it. You said something about grat.i.tude; well if you want to show any grat.i.tude and make those two people happy, be happy yourself--and if you can't really be happy, pretend that you are happy.

And the first thing you know, it will be a reality. Now, I have had worse troubles than ever fell to your portion and if I had brooded over them, I should have been miserable. Your lot is a very fortunate one, as you will discover when you are older."

This advice was very good, though it may have a familiar sound to the reader, and Margaret tried hard for the time being to follow it. She succeeded so well that her laughter became as loud and as joyous as that of her companions, and when she returned home, her countenance was so free from care and worry that both Neighbour Tomlin and his sister remarked it, and they were the happier for it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Silas Tomlin Scents Trouble_

One day--it was a warm Sat.u.r.day, giving promise of a long hot Sunday to follow--Mr. Sanders was on his way home, feeling very blue indeed. He had been to town on no particular business--the day was a half-holiday with the field-hands--and he had wandered about aimlessly, making several unsuccessful efforts to crack a joke or two with such acquaintances as he chanced to meet. He had concluded that his liver was out of order, and he wondered, as he went along, if he would create much public comment and dissatisfaction if he should break his promise to Nan Dorrington by purchasing a jug of liquor and crawling into the nearest shuck-pen. It was on this warm Sat.u.r.day, the least promising of all days, as he thought, that he stumbled upon an adventure which, for a season, proved to be both interesting and amusing.

He was walking along, as has been said, feeling very blue and uncomfortable, when he heard his name called, and, turning around, saw a negro girl running after him. She came up panting and grinning.

"Miss Ritta say she wish you'd come dar right now," said the girl. "I been runnin' an' hollin atter you tell I wuz fear'd de dogs 'd take atter me. Miss Ritta say she want to see you right now."

The girl was small and very slim, bare-legged and good-humoured. Mr.

Sanders looked at her hard, but failed to recognise her; nor had he the faintest idea as to the ident.i.ty of "Miss Ritta." The girl bore his scrutiny very well, betraying a tendency to dance. As Mr. Sanders tried in vain to place her in his memory, she slapped her hands together, and whirled quickly on her heel more than once.

"You're a way yander ahead of me," he remarked, after reflecting awhile.

"I reckon I've slipped a cog some'rs in my machinery. What is your name?"

"I'm name Larceeny. Don't you know me, Ma.r.s.e Billy? I use ter b'long ter de Clopton Cadets, when Miss Nan was de Captain; but I wan't ez big den ez I is now. I been knowin' you most sence I was born."

"What is your mammy's name?"

"My mammy name Creecy," replied the girl, grinning broadly. "She cookin'

fer Miss Ritta."

Mr. Sanders remembered Creecy very well. She had belonged to the Gaither family before the war. "Where do you stay?" he inquired. He was not disposed to admit, even indirectly, that he didn't know every human being in the town.

"I stays dar wid Miss Ritta," replied Larceeny. "I goes ter de do', an'

waits on Miss Nugeeny."

"Ah!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders, with a smile of satisfaction. Here was a clew. Miss Nugeeny must be Eugenia Claiborne, and Miss Ritta was probably her mother.

"Miss Ritta say she wanter see you right now," insisted Larceeny. "When she seed you on de street, you wuz so fur, she couldn't holla at you, an' time she call me outer de gyarden, you wuz done gone. I wuz at de fur een' er de gyarden, pickin' rasbe'ies, an' I had ter drap ever'thing."

"Do you pick raspberries with your mouth?" inquired Mr. Sanders, with a very solemn air.

"Is my mouf dat red?" inquired Larceeny, with an alarmed expression on her face. She seized her gingham ap.r.o.n by the hem, and, using the underside, proceeded to remove the incriminating stains, remarking, "I'm mighty glad you tol' me, kaze ef ol' Miss Polly had seed dat--well, she done preach my funer'l once, an' I don't want ter hear it no mo'."