st the moss-hung cypress trees to the yellow
Savannah flowing swiftly beyond. The salt tide-water made as far as
Villard Landing, and when it was in full flood, as now, it brought the
smell of the sea strongly with it.

"No matter that now, Guy. A good old soul, my uncle, d'y' see; but the
blood was everything to him. And he put it in the bond and I am bound by
it: that only the lawful issue, a son of the house, shall inherit. 'I'll
have no strange derelict child inherit my estate.' His own words. So
this fair estate, lacking lawful issue of my body or my old uncle's
son--and he is dead--it goes out of the family. Oh, a stormy,
intolerant, but well-meaning old uncle, who would have none of his
property left to--Oh, but not that, Guy--no, no, lad." He laid a
restraining hand on my shoulder. "No, no, lad, you must not take that to
yourself; for you are, no fear, honest born."

"I've waited long for you to tell me even that. Won't you tell me more,
sir?"

"Enough for now. But whatever my uncle thought or wished, here, Guy, is
an estate to your hand to enjoy. What d'y' say, eh, to the life of a
Southern gentleman on his plantation? A hundred thousand acres, a
thousand slaves, a stable of the horses you love so, upland and river
bottom to hunt, dancing, riding, balls, the city in winter. Is not that
something better than the hard, uncertain sea, Guy?"

He had paused for my answer, but I made none. He was standing
motionless, except for the backward toss of his head and the deep
inhalation, three or four times, of the briny air from the flooding
river. There was disappointment in his voice when he took up the talk
again.

"Oh, Guy, between us two what a difference! I was born ashore, you at
sea, and yet

"'It's you for the back of a charging barb,
And me for the deck of a heaving brig!'"

In a lower voice he repeated the couplet, and was plainly vastly pleased
with it. "Faith, and I wonder is that my own, or something I read
somewhere. Something of the lilt of a Scotch strathspey to 't, shouldn't
you say? You know more of such things. What d'y' say--shall I claim that
for my own, Guy?"

"You do, sir, and it's not Homer, nor Dante, nor Keats who will rise up
to accuse you of plagiarism."

"Bah! You would no more allow me the merit of a poetic vein than--"

"Poetry, sir?"

"Poetry--why not?" and suddenly bending sidewise and forward, he essayed
to obtain a fuller view of my face. And it is true that I was thi