ed Squire. "Look,
Rushton! did you ever see finer!"

"Often," growled a voice in reply; and the Squire and his companion
entered.

Mr. Rushton was a rough-looking gentleman of fifty or fifty-five, with
a grim expression about the compressed lips, and heavy grey eyebrows,
from beneath which rolled two dark piercing eyes. His hair was slowly
retreating, and thought or care had furrowed his broad brow from
temple to temple. He was clad with the utmost rudeness, and resembled
nothing so much as a half-civilized bear.

He nodded curtly to Miss Lavinia, and took no notice whatever of
either Redbud or Verty.

"Why, thank for the antlers, Verty!" said the good-humored Squire.
"I saw Cloud, and knew you were here, but I had no idea that you had
brought me the horns."

And the Squire extended his hand to Verty, who took it with his old
dreamy smile.

"I could have brought a common pair any day," he said, "but I promised
the best, and there they are. Oh, Squire!" said Verty, smiling, "what
a chase I had! and what a fight with him! He nearly had me under him
once, and the antlers you see there came near ploughing up my breast
and letting out my heart's blood! They just grazed--he tried to bite
me--but I had him by the horn with my left hand, and before a swallow
could flap his wings, my knife was in his throat!"

As Verty spoke, his eyes became brighter, his lips more smiling, and
pushing his tangled curls back from his face, he bestowed his amiable
glances even upon Miss Lavinia.

Mr. Rushton scowled.

"What do you mean by saying this barbarous fight was pleasant?" he
asked.

Verty smiled again:--he seemed to know Mr. Rushton well.

"It is my nature to love it," he said, "just as white people love
books and papers."

"What do you mean by white people?" growled Mr. Rushton, "you know
very well that you are white."

"I?" said Verty.

"Yes, sir; no affectation: look in that mirror."

Verty looked.

"What do you see!"

"An Indian!" said Verty, laughing, and raising his shaggy head.

"You see nothing of the sort," said Mr. Rushton, with asperity; "you
see simply a white boy tanned--an Anglo-Saxon turned into mahogany by
wind and sun. There, sir! there," added Mr. Rushton, seeing Verty
was about to reply, "don't argue the question with me. I am sick of
arguing, and won't indulge you. Take this fine little lady here, and
go and make love to her--the Squire and myself have business."

Then Mr. Rushton scowled u