“You had a very good and sensible father, Mr. Yancy.  How much better than if—­” began Mrs. Ferris, who feared that the moral might elude him.

“Yes, ma’am, but along about day he come into the loft where I was sleeping and says to me, ‘Sun-up, Bob—­time fo’ you to haul on yo’ pants and go back yonder and fetch that Dave Blount a smack in the jaw.’” Mrs. Ferris moved uneasily in her chair:  “I dressed and come here, but when I asked fo’ Dave he wouldn’t step outside, so I just lost patience with his foolishness and took a crack at him standing where I’m standing now, but he ducked and you can still see, ma’am”—­turning to the embarrassed Mrs. Ferris—­“where my knuckles made a dint in the door-jamb.  I got him the next lick, though!”

Mr. Yancy’s moral tale had reached its conclusion; it was not for him to boast unduly of his prowess.

“Uncle Bob, you lift me up and show me them dints!” and Hannibal slipped from his seat.

“Oh, no!” said Betty Malroy laughing.  She captured the boy and drew him down beside her on a corner of her chair.  “I am sure you don’t want to see the dents—­Mr. Yancy’s story, children, is to teach us how important it is to guard our words—­and not give way to hasty speech—­”

“Betty!” cried Mrs. Ferris indignantly.

“Judith, the moral is as obvious as it is necessary.”

Mrs. Ferris gave her a reproachful look and turned to the children.

“You will all be here next Sunday, won’t you?—­and at the same hour?” she said, rising.

There was a sudden clatter of hoofs beyond the door.  A man, well dressed and well mounted had ridden into the yard.  As Mrs. Ferris came from the cabin he flung himself out of the saddle and, hat in hand, approached her.

“I am hunting a place called the Barony; can you tell me if I am on the right road?” he asked.  He was a man in the early thirties, graceful and powerful of build, with a handsome face.

“It is my husband you wish to see?  I am Mrs. Ferris.”

“Then General Quintard is dead?” His tone was one of surprise.

“His death occurred over a year ago, and my husband now owns the Barony; were you a friend of the general’s ?”

“No, Madam; he was my father’s friend, but I had hoped to meet him.”  His manner was adroit and plausible.

Mrs. Ferris hesitated.  The stranger’s dress and bearing was that of a gentleman, and he could boast of his father’s friendship with General Quintard.  Any doubts she may have had she put aside.

“Will you ride on with us to the Barony and meet my husband, Mr. —?” she paused.

“Murrell—­Captain Murrell.  Thank you; I should like to see the old place.  I should highly value the privilege,” then his eyes rested on Miss Malroy.

“Betty, let me present Captain Murrell.”

The captain bowed, giving her a glance of bold admiration.

By this time the children had straggled off into the pine woods as silently as they had assembled; only Yancy and Hannibal remained.  Mrs. Ferris turned to the former.