was so strung that its vibrations reached his numb perceptions as duly as if intended for his ears.  He made no sign, in his pride and politeness, both indigenous.  But he said to himself, “I don’t laugh at her gown,—­it is what she likes and what she is accustomed to wear.  And why can’t she let me dress in peace as I was early trained to do?  God knows I feel myself better than nobody.”

And he was sensible of his age, his infirmity, his isolation, and his jauntiness was eclipsed.

Thus he entered the race with a handicap, and John Ronackstone would hear none of his reasons with grace.  He could not and he would not consent to the nomination of an ambassador in the stead of Emsden, who had volunteered for the service, which was the more appropriate since it was he who had shot the wolf and brought the stampede and its attendant difficulties upon the herders of the Keowee River, and this threat of retaliation upon the Blue Lick Stationers.  If there were danger at hand, let a volunteer encounter it!  In vain Mivane argued that there was danger to no one else.  John Ronackstone, who found an added liberty of disputation in the emphasis imposed by the necessity of roaring out his immutable opinions in an exceeding loud voice, retorted that so far as he was informed the “cow-drivers” on the Keowee were not certain who it was that had committed this atrocity, unless perhaps their messenger during his sojourn at Blue Lick Station had learned the name from “X.”  But this uncertainty, Mivane argued, was the very point of difficulty.  It was the maddest folly to dispatch to angry men, smarting under a grievous injury, messages of taunt and defiance by the one person who in their opinion, perhaps, had carelessly or willfully wrought this wrong.  His life would pay the forfeit of the folly of his fellow-stationers.

Mivane noted suddenly that the woman rocking the cradle was laughing with an ostentatious affectation of covert slyness, and a responsive twinkle gleamed in the eyes of John Ronackstone.  As he caught the grave and surprised glance of his visitor he made a point of dropping the air of a comment aside, which he, as well as she, had insistently brought to notice, and Mivane was aware that here was something which sought an opportunity of being revealed as if by necessity.

“Well, sir,” Ronackstone began in a tone of a quasi-apology, “we were just saying—­that is, I sez to X, who was in here a while ago,—­I sez, ‘I’ll tell you what is goin’ to happen,’—­I sez, ’old Gentleman Rick,’—­excuse the freedom, sir,—­’he’ll be wantin’ to send somebody else in Ralph Emsden’s place.’  X, he see the p’int, just as you see it.  He sez, ’Somebody that won’t be missed—­somebody not genteel enough to play loo with him after supper,’ sez X.  ‘Or too religious,’ sez I.  ’Or can’t sing a good song or tell a rousing tale,’ sez X.  ‘Or listen an’ laugh in the right places at the gentleman’s old cracks about the great world,’ sez I.  ‘He’ll never let Ralph Emsden go,’ sez X.  ‘Jus’ some poor body will do,’ sez I.  ‘Jus’ man enough to be scalped by the Injuns if the red sticks take after him,’ sez X.  ’Or have his throat cut if the cow-drivers feel rough yet,’ sez I.  ‘Jus’ such a one ez me,’ sez X.  ’Or me,’ sez I.”