before? He reddened with self-reproach. This was the first tragedy which
he had stumbled upon, and how much of it was his own doing! The old
woman looked at him suspiciously.

"When did he die?" he asked softly.

The woman counted backwards on her fingers with the stem of her pipe.
"Right smart onto two weeks," she answered after much calculation. Then
she shot this question at him with a scowl, "Ye hain't no Northerner,
air ye?"

Taken off his guard, Ellesworth hesitated, and then forswore his
section.

"I--I am living at--eh--Sunshine."

Her face lighted.

"Mebbe ye'r raised in Charleston. Ye look like a South Carolinian."

Ellesworth was drawn to it by some occult power, and nodded assent. The
old woman's manner was now totally different, and she approached him
confidentially, and offered him the use of her tin snuff-box, which he
courteously declined.

"Ye haint heerd, so Colonel Tom Garvin told me, that a dum Northerner
hez got a holt on Bill's place; and there ain't none left now 'cept
Georgy and Mrs. McCorkle as is a widder nigh on ten year. Colonel Tom is
kin to her mother's second cousin, and he says thet thet dum Yankee hed
better not show up 'round these parts, for he'd get plugged if he tries
to take Bill's place away from Georgy, poor, innercent thing that she
is." The old woman's cracked voice thrilled with the passion and
tenderness of her kind; but Ellesworth did not look at her as she
finished. He felt a little frightened, and he bent over his horse to
fleck a bit of bark with his whip to conceal it.

"How far do they live from here?" he asked after a pause, which she
interpreted as actuated by sympathy.

"'Tain't no fur at all. Ye take the next turn to yer left. It's the
first plantation ye come to. I reckon ye'll see Georgy a dustin' and
sweepin'. She's almighty pertikler, she is, poor creetur."

Ellesworth thanked the old woman dreamily and rode in the direction
which she pointed out.

Ellesworth had never thought of this view of the subject. It never
occurred to him that he would be an object of hatred in Cherokee Garden.
He glanced around furtively, as if he expected to see an enemy hiding
behind the trees. At any rate, so far, he was not known. He made up his
mind that he should not be. Benson's daughter was undoubtedly a sallow,
withered young girl, with a hot temper and a deep sense of injury; and,
if she found out his identity would probably call the country to arms
against him.