“Rachel Robards says there were lots of buffalo when she came,” said Miss Penelope, who was gradually recovering from the shock of tasting the coffee, and now prudently thought best to say no more about the matter.  “I always call her Rachel Robards, because I knew her so well by that name.  I am not a-disputing her marriage with General Jackson.  If she wasn’t married to him when she first thought she was, she is now, hard and fast enough.  I have got nothing to say about that one way or another.  As a single woman, it don’t become me to be a-talking about such matters.  But married or not married, I have always stood up for Rachel Robards.  Lewis Robards would have picked a fuss with the Angel Gabriel, let alone a fire-eater like Andrew Jackson.  Give the devil his due.  But all the same, if Andrew Jackson does try to chastise Peter Cartwright for what he said last night, there’s a-going to be trouble.  Now mark my word!  I know as well, and better than any of you, that Peter is only a boy.  Many’s the time that I’ve seen his mother take off her slipper and turn him across her lap.  And she never hit him a lick amiss, either.  But that’s neither here nor there.  His being young don’t keep me from seeing that he has surely got the Gift.  It don’t make any difference that he hasn’t cut his wisdom teeth, as they say.  What if he hasn’t?” demanded Miss Penelope, with the most singular contrast between her mild tone and her fierce words.  “What has the cutting of wisdom teeth got to do with preaching, when the preacher has been given the Gift!”

So speaking, she suddenly started up from the table with an exclamation of surprise, and ran to the open door.

“Peter!  Oh, Peter Cartwright!” she called.  “Wait—­stop a minute.  To think of your going by right at the very minute that we were a-talking about you!”

She went out under the trees where the square-built, stern-faced, swarthy young preacher had brought his horse to a standstill.

“Now, Peter, you surely ain’t a-going up to the court-house to see Andrew Jackson,” she said in sudden alarm.

“No, no, not now,” said Peter, hurriedly.  “I am riding fast to keep an appointment to preach on the other side of the river.”

“But you can stop long enough to eat breakfast.  I lay you haven’t had a bite this blessed day.”

Peter shook his head, gathering up the reins.

“And ten to one that you haven’t got a cent of money!” Miss Penelope accused him.

Peter’s grim young face relaxed in a faint smile.  He put his hand in his pocket and drew out two small pieces of silver.

“Ah, ha, I knew it!” exulted Miss Penelope.  “Now do wait just one minute till I run in the house and get you some money.”

“No, no, there isn’t time.  I’ll miss my appointment to preach.  I will get along somehow.  Thank you—­good-by.”

Miss Penelope, reaching up, seized the bridle-reins and held on by main force with one hand while she rummaged in her out pocket with the other.