She was composed for a moment, then went on:

"It isn't every day your father comes home, sir, and I've waited a long, long time. I'd be a h.e.l.l of a kid if I couldn't muster up a 'sir' for you."

Singleton glanced sidewise at his young daughter, bending his brows together in a frown.

"You're a queer sort of a girl, but I suppose it's to be expected when you've only lived with n.i.g.g.e.rs.... Now will you remember something if I tell it to you?"

"Yes, sir," breathed Virginia, drawing back a little from his strong emotion.

"Well, this! Don't ever say 'sir' to any human being living! Don't ever! Do you understand me? What I mean is, when you say 'sir,' it's as if you were--as if you were a servant or afraid--you make yourself menial. Can you remember, child?"

"Yes, sir,--yes, I'll remember.... I _think_ I'll remember."

"If you're going to accomplish anything in the world, don't be afraid of any one."

A dozen explanations, like so many birds, fluttered through Virginia's mind. Before her rose her world of yesterday, and a sudden apology leapt to her lips. She turned on her father a wondering, sober glance.

"I've never said 'sir' or 'ma'am' before in all my life--never!" she remarked.

"So you're afraid of me?"

"A little," she sighed.

"Ah, don't be, child! I'm your father. Will you keep that in mind?"

"I'll try to; I will, sure."

Mr. Singleton shifted uneasily, as if in pain.

"This money is coming to you when you're eighteen years old,"

explained Mr. Singleton. "My dying will throw you into an ocean of difficulties. I guess the only service I've ever done you has been to keep your Uncle Jordan from you."

"Matty told me about him, too," she offered. "He's a d.a.m.n bad duffer, isn't he, mister?"

"Yes, and I'm going to ask you not to call me 'mister,' either. Look here!... I'm your father! Can't anything get that into your head?"

"I keep forgetting it," answered the girl sadly. "And you're so big and thin and different from any man I know. You look as weak as a--as a cat."

She stretched forth her two strong legs, but sank back.

"Yes, your Uncle Jordan is bad," proceeded Singleton, presently, "bad enough to want to get us both out of the way, and he wouldn't find much of an obstacle in you."

A clammy chill clutched at Virginia's heart like tightening fingers.

The import of his words burned deep within her. She got to her feet--but reseated herself at once at a wave of her father's hand. The thought of death always had a sobering effect upon her--it filled her with longing, yet dread. The beautiful young mother, whose picture hung in the best room, and whose eyes followed her in every direction, was dead. Matty had told her many times just how her mother had gone, and how often the gentle spirit had returned to hover over the beloved young daughter. Now the memory of it was enhanced by the roar of the wind and the dismal moaning of the tall pines. Virginia firmly believed that her mother, among other unearthly visitants, walked in the night when the blizzard kept up its incessant beating. She also believed that the sound through the pines--that roaring, ever-changing, unhuman sound--was not of the wind's making. It was voices,--spirit voices,--voices of the dead, of those who had gone down into the small cemetery beyond the road.

Only the day before Matty had told her how, one night, a tall, wandering white thing had walked in silence across the fields to Jonathan Woggles' house. In the story, Jonathan's grandpa was about to pa.s.s away. The glittering spirit stalked around and around the house, waiting for the old man's soul. She was about to relate the tale when her father repeated:

"Your uncle is bad enough to want us out of the way."

The shuddering chill again possessed her. She was torn between horror and eagerness--horror of what might be and eagerness to escape it.

"But he can't get us out, can he?" she questioned.

"Yes, I'm afraid he can and will! Your Uncle Jordan is your mother's stepbrother, no direct relation to you, but the only one left to look after you in the world but me. If you've any desire to live, you must leave here after I've gone, and that's all there is to it!"

Virginia then understood, for the first time, something of the danger menacing her. Her heart beat and pounded like an engine ploughing up hill. From sheer human desire of self-preservation, she partly rose from the chair, with the idea of immediate departure.

"I could go with Matty, couldn't I?" she suggested.

Mr. Singleton made a negative gesture with his head, flinging himself down again.

"Matty? Matty, the n.i.g.g.e.r? No, of course not. Matty is nothing to any one who hasn't money, and you'll have none to pay her, or any one else, after I'm gone. You must eat and live for three long years. Do you understand that?... Sit back in your chair and don't fidget," he concluded.

The girl obeyed, and a silence fell between them. The thought of the wonderful white presence of which Matty had told her faded from her mind. Her heart lay stone-like below her tightening throat, for her former world and all the dear familiar things it held were to be dashed from her, as a rose jar is broken on a marble floor, by a single decision of the thin, tall father whom yesterday she had not known. She understood that if her uncle succeeded in his wicked plans, she, too, would join that small number of people, dead and buried, under the pines. Her father's words brought the cemetery, with its broken cross and headstones, its low toolhouse, and the restless night spirits, closer than Matty, with her vivid, ghastly tales, had ever done. In the past, Matty had stood between her and her fears; in the future, there would be only a stranger, her uncle, the man her father had just warned her against. At length Mr. Singleton coughed painfully, and spoke with evident effort.

"The doctor told me not long ago I might die at any moment. That's what made me escape--I mean, what drove me home."

He rose and walked nervously up and down the room.

"The doctor made me think of you. I can't live long."

"It's awful bad," answered the girl, sighing. "I wouldn't know where to go if there wasn't any Matty--or--you."

Her voice lowered on the last word, and she continued: "I wish I had my mother. Matty says mothers kiss their girls and make over 'em like Milly Ann does with her kittens--do they? Some of 'em?"

The father glanced curiously into the small, earnest, uplifted face.

"I couldn't help being your girl," pursued Virginia. "I'd have had another father if I could, one who'd 've loved me. Matty says even fathers like their kids sometimes--a little." She paused a minute, a wan, sweet smile pa.s.sing over her lips. "But I've got Milly Ann and her kittens, and they're soft and warm and wriggley."

What a strange child was this daughter of his! She spoke of cats as if they were babies; of loving as if it were universal. Each moment, in her presence, he realized more and more what he had missed in thus neglecting her. But he had hurried to Mottville from foreign lands to perform one duty, at least,--to save her, if possible. So he returned to his vital subject.

"Your Uncle Jordan's coming, perhaps this week. He's found out I'm here! That's why you must go away."

"Shall I--just go?" queried Virginia. "I don't know of any special place--do you?" and she shivered again as the wind, in a fierce gust, blew out from the slumbering fire a wreath of smoke that encircled the room and hung grey-blue about the ceiling.

"I only know one man," reflected Mr. Singleton, presently, "and you'll have to find him yourself--after I've gone, of course; but if Jordan Morse should come, you'd have to go quickly."

"I'd go faster'n anything," decided the girl, throwing up her head.

"Your mother's father used to have a family in his tenement house on this place, and they were all very fond of her when she was a girl.

One of the sons moved to Bellaire. He's the only one left, and would help you, I know."

"Mebbe if you'd talk to my uncle----" Virginia cut in.

An emphatic negative gesture frightened her.

"You don't know him," said Singleton, biting his lips. "He's nearer being a devil than any other human being." It was a feeling of bitterness, of the deadly wrong done him, that forced him to sarcasm.

"The great--the good Jordan Morse--bah!" he sneered. "If he's 'good,'

so are fiends from perdition."