“Ah, I know it’s hard for you, Mr. Mark,” she said, “and I wish—­I wish—­The lilacs will be in bloom next week, won’t that help some?” And the wooing tone in her voice was exactly what she used in coaxing young Stonewall Jackson to bed or Uncle Tucker to tie up his throat in a flannel muffler.

“It’s not lilacs I’m needing with a rose in bloom right—­” But Everett’s gallant response to the coaxing was cut short by a sally from an unexpected quarter.

Down Providence Road at full tilt came Stonewall Jackson, with the Swarm in a cloud of dust at his heels.  He jumped across the spring branch and darted in under the milk-house eaves, while the Swarm drew up on the other bank in evident impatience.  Swung bundle-wise under his arm he held a small, tow-headed bunch, and as he landed on the stone door-sill he hastily deposited it on the floor at Rose Mary’s feet.

“Say, Rose Mamie,” he panted, “you just keep Shoofly for us a little while, won’t you?  Mis’ Poteet have done left her with Tobe to take care of and he put her on a stump while he chased a polecat that he fell on while it was going under a fence, and now Uncle Tuck is a-burying of him up in the woods lot.  Jest joggle her with your foot this way if she goes to cry.”  And in demonstration of his directions the General put one bare foot in the middle of the mite’s back and administered a short series of rotary motions, which immediately brought a response of ecstatic gurgles.  “We’ll come back for her as soon as we dig him up,” he added, as he prepared for another flying leap across the spring stream.

“But, Stonie, wait and tell me what you mean!” exclaimed Rose Mary, while Everett regarded Stonewall Jackson and his cohorts with delighted amusement.

“I told you once, Rose Mamie, that Tobe fell on a polecat under a fence he was a-chasing, and he smells so awful Uncle Tuck have burned his britches and shirt on the end of a stick and have got him buried in dirt up to jest his nose.  Burying in dirt is the onliest thing that’ll take off the smell.  We comed to ask you to watch Shoofly while he’s buried, cause Mis’ Poteet will be mad at him when she comes home if Shoofly smells.  We’re all a-going to stay right by him until he’s dug up, ’cause we all sicked him on that polecat and we ought in honor!”

Stonie looked at the Swarm for confirmation of this worthy sentiment, and it arose in a murmur.  The Swarm was a choice congregation of small fry that trailed perpetually at the heels of Stonewall Jackson, and at the moment was in a state of seething excitement.  Jennie Rucker’s little freckled face was pale under its usual sunburn, as a result of being too near the disastrous encounter, and her little nose, turned up by nature in the outset, looked as if it were in danger of never again assuming its normal tilt.  She held small Pete by one chubby hand, and with a wry face he was licking out an absurd little red tongue at least twice each moment, as if uncertain