ing on her heels, she stretched out until she fairly swept the
young corn, as she raced for the sumac. Once Abram straightened, and
slipping a hand into his pocket, drew out a formidable jack-knife,
opening it as he rode. When he reached the fence, he almost flew over
Nancy's head. He went into a fence corner, and with a few slashes
severed a stout hickory withe, stripping the leaves and topping it as
he leaped the fence.

He grasped this ugly weapon, his eyes dark with anger as he appeared
before the hunter, who supposed him at the other side of the field.

"Did you shoot at that redbird?" he roared.

As his gun was at the sportman's shoulder, and he was still peering
among the bushes, denial seemed useless. "Yes, I did," he replied, and
made a pretense of turning to the sumac again.

There was a forward impulse of Abram's body. "Hit 'im?" he demanded
with awful calm.

"Thought I had, but I guess I only winged him."

Abram's fingers closed around his club. At the sound of his friend's
voice, the Cardinal came darting through the bushes a wavering flame,
and swept so closely to him for protection that a wing almost brushed
his cheek.

"See here! See here!" shrilled the bird in deadly panic. There was not
a cut feather on him.

Abram's relief was so great he seemed to shrink an inch in height.

"Young man, you better thank your God you missed that bird," he said
solemnly, "for if you'd killed him, I'd a-mauled this stick to ribbons
on you, an' I'm most afraid I wouldn't a-knowed when to quit."

He advanced a step in his eagerness, and the hunter, mistaking his
motive, levelled his gun.

"Drop that!" shouted Abram, as he broke through the bushes that clung
to him, tore the clothing from his shoulders, and held him back. "Drop
that! Don't you dare point a weapon at me; on my own premises, an'
after you passed your word.

"Your word!" repeated Abram, with withering scorn, his white, quivering
old face terrible to see. "Young man, I got a couple o' things to say
to you. You'r' shaped like a man, an' you'r' dressed like a man, an'
yet the smartest person livin' would never take you for anything but an
egg-suckin' dog, this minute. All the time God ever spent on you was
wasted, an' your mother's had the same luck. I s'pose God's used to
having creatures 'at He's made go wrong, but I pity your mother.
Goodness knows a woman suffers an' works enough over her children, an'
then to fetch a boy to man's