baby Kitty played no part at all. As Mrs. Kildare
had guessed, maternity was not enough for Mag Henderson.

Percival Channing, in the midst of the prettiest idyl of his experience,
was bringing to it far more enthusiasm than he would have thought
possible for a mere collector of impressions. He was quite pleased with
himself.

"Who said I was jaded and world-worn?" he thought amusedly. His critical
faculty did not become atrophied when applied to himself, as is the way
of smaller critical faculties.

From week to week he prolonged his visit at Holiday Hill, to the content
of Farwell, who was finding the picturesque solitude he had created for
himself rather wearing. Channing thought it necessary to explain that
the country furnished him just the quiet environment he needed for his
work.

"And eke the inspiration?" murmured Farwell.

"And eke the inspiration," admitted his guest.

Farwell puffed at a meditative pipe. He was a tolerant man, popular with
his friends because of his chariness in proffering advice and comment;
so that Channing was surprised when he continued the subject.

"I fancy the little girl is quite capable of taking care of
herself--these Southern beauties are that way, from the cradle. But
have a care of the old 'un, my boy! There's a glint in that fine gray
eye I wouldn't care to rouse, myself. She's by way of being a queen
around here, you know. I'm told the law asks her permission before it
makes an arrest in this neighborhood. Her subjects neither marry, nor
die, nor get themselves born without her permission--fact! As for her
daughters, hands off! Approach them on your knees.

"I'll give you a bit of local color, if you like. Have you noticed that
long-tailed whip she carries when she's got the dogs? Well, one day I
saw a couple of negroes fighting in one of the fields; big, burly
brutes, one with a knife, and both full of cocaine, probably. The white
man in charge danced around on the outskirts, afraid to interfere--I
don't blame him! Suddenly there was a cry, 'Here comes the Madam!' And
there she was, galloping into that field, hell-for-leather, unwrapping
her long-tailed whip as she came. When the negroes had had enough of it
and were whimpering for mercy, she turned her attention to the foreman.
But she didn't whip him. She said, her voice as calm as a May morning,
'Go and get your time, Johnson. I've no room on the place for a timid
man!'"

Farwell's eyes were lit with enthusiasm