“As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no
     rule over his own spirit.”

    “My soul!  Master Jesus, my soul! 
      My soul! 
    Dar’s a little thing lays in my heart,
    An’ de more I dig him de better he spring: 
      My soul! 
    Dar’s a little thing lays in my heart
    An’ he sets my soul on fire: 
      My soul! 
    Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!”

The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as he chanted his joyful little melody.  It was early in the morning, yet he rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his left hand.

“I’se mighty weary ’bout Massa Davie; he’ll get himself into trouble ef he stay dar much longer.  Ole massa might be ’long most any time now.”  He communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp.  Threading his way among the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the cypress.

Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy—­a very handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero.  He leaned upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid switching to and fro of his riding-whip.  “Plato, she has not come!” He said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame.

“I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat kind; ole massa ’ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present time.”

“My father objects to every one I like.”

“Ef Massa Davie jist ’lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his good.”

“You oversize that statement considerably, Plato.  Tell my father, if he asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this letter.”

“I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message from you, Massa Davie.”

In a moment the youth’s handsome face was flaming with ungovernable passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike.

“For de Lord Jesus’ sake don’t strike, Massa Davie!  Dese arms done carry you when you was de littlest little chile.  Don’t strike me!”

“I should be a brute if I did, Plato;” but the blow descended upon the trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force.  Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs chiming to his uneven, crashing tread.

Plato looked sorrowfully after him.  “Poor Massa Davie!  He’s got de drefful temper; got it each side ob de house—­father and mother, bofe.  I hope de good Massa above will make ’lowances for de young man—­got it bofe ways, he did.”  And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving unselfishness of a prayer in them.