Now from possession which is recognized unquestioningly by one’s compeers to fancied possession in fee simple is but a step; and from that to the putting up of “No Trespass” signs the interval can be read only on a micrometer scale.  Wherefore, Thomas Jefferson had developed a huge disgust on hearing that Major Dabney was going to upset the natural order of things by bringing his granddaughter to Deer Trace Manor.  If Ardea—­the very name of her had a heathenish sound in his Scripturally-trained ear—­had been a boy, the matter would have simplified itself.  Thomas Jefferson had a sincere respect for his own prowess, and a boy might have been mauled into subjection.  But a girl!

His lip curled stiffly at the thought of a girl, a town girl and therefore a thing without legs, or at best with legs only half useful and totally unfit for running or climbing trees, dividing the sovereignty of the fields and the forest, the swimming-hole and the perch pools in the creek, with him!  She would do it, or try to do it.  A girl would not have any more sense than to come prying around into all the quiet places to say, “This is my grandfather’s land.  What are you doing here?”

At such thoughts as these a queer prickling sensation like a hot shiver would run over him from neck to heel, and his eyes would gloom sullenly.  There would be another word to put with that; a word of his own choosing.  No matter if her grandfather, the terrifying Major, did own the fields and the wood and the stream:  God was greater than Major Dabney, and had he not often heard his mother say on her knees that the fervent, effectual prayer of the righteous availeth much?  If it should avail even a little, there would be no catastrophe, no disputed sovereignty of the woods, the fields and the creek.

It was in the middle of a sultry afternoon in the hotter half of August, two weeks or such a matter after the Great Southwestern Railway had given up the fight for Paradise Valley to run its line around the encompassing hills, that Thomas Jefferson was cast alive into the pit of burnings.

He made sure he should always remember his latest glimpse of the pleasant, homely earth.  He was sitting idly on the porch step, letting his gaze go adrift over the nearer green-clad hills to the purple deeps of the western mountain, already steeped in shadow.  The pike was deserted, and the shrill hum of the house-flies played an insistent tune in which the low-pitched boom of a bumblebee tumbling awkwardly among the clover heads served for an intermittent bass.

Suddenly into the hot silence came the quick cloppity-clop of galloping hoofs.  Thomas Jefferson’s heart was tender on that side of it which was turned toward the dumb creatures, and his thought was instantly pitiful and indignant.  Who would be cruel enough to gallop a horse in such weltering weather?

The unspoken query had its answer when Major Dabney’s fleet saddle stallion thundered up to the gate in a white nimbus of dust, and the Major flung himself from the saddle and called loudly for Mistress Gordon.  Thomas Jefferson sprang up hastily to forward the cry, fear clutching at his heart; but the Major was before him in the wide passage opening upon the porch.