“Well, ’squire, I didn’t use the right word, that’s certain, when I said afraid, you see; because ’tan’t in Carolina and Georgia, and hereabouts, that men are apt to get frightened at trifles.  But, as you say, Guy Rivers is not the right kind of man, and everybody here knows it, and keeps clear of him.  None cares to say much to him, except when it’s a matter of necessity, and then they say as little as may be.  Nobody knows much about him—­he is here to-day and gone to-morrow—­and we never see much of him except when there’s some mischief afoot.  He is thick with Munro, and they keep together at all times, I believe.  He has money, and knows how to spend it.  Where he gets it is quite another thing.”

“What can be the source of the intimacy between himself and Munro?  Is he interested in the hotel?”

“Why, I can’t say for that, but I think not.  The fact is, the tavern is nothing to Munro; he don’t care a straw about it, and some among us do whisper that he only keeps it a-going as a kind of cover for other practices.  There’s no doubt that they drive some trade together, though what it is I can’t say, and never gave myself much trouble to inquire.  I can tell you what, though, there’s no doubt on my mind that he’s trying to get Miss Lucy—­they say he’s fond of her—­but I know for myself she hates and despises him, and don’t stop to let him see it.”

“She will not have him, then, you think?”

“I know she won’t if she can help it.  But, poor girl, what can she do?  She’s at the mercy, as you may see, of Munro, who is her father’s brother; and he don’t care a straw for her likes or dislikes.  If he says the word, I reckon she can have nothing to say which will help her out of the difficulty.  I’m sure he won’t regard prayers, or tears, or any of her objections.”

“It’s a sad misfortune to be forced into connection with one in whom we may not confide—­whom we can have no sympathy with—­whom we can not love!”

“’Tis so,’squire; and that’s just her case, and she hates to see the very face of him, and avoids him whenever she can do so without giving offence to her uncle, who, they say, has threatened her bitterly about the scornful treatment which she shows him.  It’s a wonder to me how any person, man or woman, can do otherwise than despise the fellow; for, look you, ’squire, over and above his sulky, sour looks, and his haughty conduct, would you believe it, he won’t drink himself, yet he’s always for getting other people drunk.  But that’s not all:  he’s a quarrelsome, spiteful, sore-headed chap, that won’t do as other people.  He never laughs heartily like a man, but always in a half-sniffling sort of manner that actually makes me sick at my stomach.  Then, he never plays and makes merry along with us, and, if he does, harm is always sure, somehow or other, to come of it.  When other people dance and frolic, he stands apart, with scorn in his face, and his black brows gathering clouds in such a way, that he would put a stop to all sport if people were only fools enough to mind him.  For my part, I take care to have just as little to say to him as possible, and he to me, indeed; for he knows me just as well as I know him:  and he knows, too, that if he only dared to crook his finger, I’m just the man that would mount him on the spot.”