“Damn those niggers!” he cried, in a tone that seemed to include the General in his condemnation, “that boy is the best boy I ever knew.  I believe he is my own blood, he looks a little like that picture there”—­pointing to the old portrait—­“and if he is what I believe he is, by —­, sir, he gets this farm and all I have.  Do you understand that?”

“I believe he told you what he was.”

“He did—­but I don’t believe he knows, and, anyhow, whatever he is, he shall have a home under this roof as long as he lives.”

The General rose suddenly—­stiffly.

“He must never darken my door again.”

“Very well.”  The Major made a gesture which plainly said, “In that event, you are darkening mine too long,” and the General rose, slowly descended the steps of the portico, and turned: 

“Do you really mean, that you are going to let a little brat that you picked up in the road only yesterday stand between you and me?”

The Major softened.

“Look here,” he said, whisking a sheet of paper from his coat-pocket.  While the General read Chad’s scrawl, the Major watched his face.

“He’s gone, by —.  A hint was enough for him.  If he isn’t the son of a gentleman, then I’m not, nor you.”

“Cal,” said the General, holding out his hand, “we’ll talk this over again.”

The bees buzzed around the honeysuckles that clambered over the porch.  A crow flew overhead.  The sound of a crying child came around the corner of the house from the quarters, and the General’s footsteps died on the gravel-walk, but the Major heard them not.  Mechanically he watched the General mount his black horse and canter toward the pike gate.  The overseer called to him from the stable, but the Major dropped his eyes to the scrawl in his hand, and when Miss Lucy came out he silently handed it to her.

“I reckon you know what folks is a-sayin’ about me.  I tol’ you myself.  But I didn’t know hit wus any harm, and anyways hit ain’t my fault, I reckon, an’ I don’t see how folks can blame me.  But I don’ want nobody who don’ want me.  An’ I’m leavin’ ’cause I don’t want to bother you.  I never bring nothing but trouble nohow an’ I’m goin’ back to the mountains.  Tell Miss Lucy good-by.  She was mighty good to me, but I know she didn’t like me.  I left the hoss for you.  If you don’t have no use fer the saddle, I wish you’d give hit to Harry, ‘cause he tuk up fer me at school when I was fightin’, though he wouldn’t speak to me no more.  I’m mighty sorry to leave you.  I’m obleeged to you cause you wus so good to me an’ I’m goin’ to see you agin some day, if I can.  Good-by.”

“Left that damned old mare to pay for his clothes and his board and his schooling,” muttered the Major.  “By the gods”—­he rose suddenly and strode away—­“I beg your pardon, Lucy.”

A tear was running down each of Miss Lucy’s faded cheeks.