ee me coming along the road, turn back or climb the
fence, for I might not be in as good humor as I'm in now."

He whistled and strode away, with the dog trotting at his heels; and by
the time he gained the road the occurrence had almost wholly passed out
of his mind, so fondly did his heart leap at the thought of the letter
in his bosom.

Upon reaching a gate that opened into his meadow, he looked about and
whistled for the dog, but the setter was gone. "You were howling for
your master," the giant said, "and the greatest service I could do you
was to let you go to him. All right, old fellow, we are both happier for
having met."

He went into the house, lighted his lamp, sat down, read the letter; he
went out and stood under the weeping-willow. "If I am foolish," he said,
"it is delicious to be a fool, and God pity the wise. But I don't know
what to do with myself. Yes, I do; I'll go over and see old Gideon."

He considered not the increasing rain, the dreariness of the road, the
moanful wind in the tops of the trees; he felt that to be alone was to
suppress a part of his happiness, that his light and talkative heart
must seek a hearing for the babbling of its joy. So off he strode, and
as he climbed over a fence, he laughingly jolted himself upon the top
rail to see whether it would break. It did not, and he laughed to find a
stick of old timber strong enough to support his weight. He called
himself a lumbering fool and laughed again, sitting there with the rain
beating upon him.

A short distance down the road was a wagon-maker's shop, and against the
outside wall a ladder was leaned. He thought of the ladder as he bore
to the edge of the road to avoid the deep ruts cut by the cotton-wagons,
and fearful that he might pass under it and thus invite ill luck, he
crossed to the other side. He smiled at this weakness, instilled by the
negroes, but he did not recross the road until he had passed far beyond
the shop. The old black mammy was lovable and affectionate, but she
intimidated man with many a superstition.

CHAPTER XXII.

In old Gid's house a light was burning, and as the giant drew near, he
caught a fragment of a flat-boatman's song. He made no noise, but a dog
inside scented his approach and announced it with a whimsical bark. Gid
opened the door.

"Why, here's Jim Taylor, as wet as a drowned bear. Come in."

Sitting by the fire was the Major, with his coat off and his shirt
collar unbuttoned.