o, don't say
anything about it."

"About what? Lacey's going to New Orleans and dying there?"

"No, cadfound it all, about my wallerin' the General."

"I won't," I answered, and then I thought to touch upon a question that
had taken a fast hold upon me. "By the way, you spoke of having sent
your daughter to school at Raleigh----"

"The devil I did! Well, what's that got to do with you or with anyone
else, for that matter? I'll be--you must excuse me, sir," he quickly
added, bowing. "I'm not right bright in my mind at times. Pecked right
at my eye, and if I hadn't dodged I'd be one-eyed this minute--yes, I
would, as sure as you are born. But here, let us drop that wallowin'
business and that other affair with it, and not mention it again. Don't
know why I done it in the first place, but I reckon it was because I'm
not right bright in my mind at times. You'll excuse my snap and snarl,
won't you? Go on back there, now, and talk about your books."

"I am the one to ask pardon, Mr. Jucklin. I ought to have had better
sense than to touch upon something that didn't concern me. I guess there
must be a good deal of the brute in me, and it seems to me that I spend
nearly half my time regretting what I did the other half."

"Why, Lord love your soul, man, you haven't done nothin'. But you draw
me close to you when you talk of regrettin' things. I have spent nearly
all my life in putty much that fix. After you've lived in this
neighborhood a while you'll hear that old Lim has been in many a fight,
but you'll never hear that anybody has ever whupped him. You may hear,
though, that he has rid twenty mile of a cold night to beg the pardon of
a man that he had thrashed. We'll shake hands right here, and if you say
the word we'll go right now and make them chickens fight. No, it's
Sunday. Kiver to kiver, you understand. Go on back there, now."

With Guinea I sat and saw the sun go down behind a yellow gullied hill.
From afar up and down the valley came the lonesome "pig-oo-ee!" of the
farmers, calling their hogs for the evening's feed. We heard the flutter
of the chickens, flying to roost, and the night hawk heard them, too,
for his eager, hungry scream pierced the still air. On a smooth old rock
at the verge of the ravine the girl's brother stood, arms folded,
looking out over the darkening low land, and from within the house,
where Mrs. Jucklin sat alone, there came a sad melody: "Come, thou fount
of every blessing."

The gir