“And do you ever hear the things spoken of you learned about at Mrs. Ferris’ Sunday-school?”

“When the judge is drunk he talks a heap about ’em.  It’s beautiful to hear him then; you’d love it, Miss Betty,” and Hannibal smiled up sweetly into her face.

“Does he have you go to Sunday-school in Raleigh?”

The boy shook his head.

“I ain’t got no clothes that’s fitten to wear, nor no pennies to give, but the judge, he ’lows that as soon as he can make a raise I got to go, and he’s learning me my letters—­but we ain’t a book.  Miss Betty, I reckon it’d stump you some to guess how he’s fixed it for me to learn?”

“He’s drawn the letters for you, is that the way?” In spite of herself, Betty was experiencing a certain revulsion of feeling where the judge and Mahaffy were concerned.  They were doubtless bad enough, but they could have been worse.

“No, ma’am; he done soaked the label off one of Mr. Pegloe’s whisky bottles and pasted it on the wall just as high as my chin, so’s I can see it good, and he’s learning me that-a-ways!  Maybe you’ve seen the kind of bottle I mean—­Pegloe’s Mississippi Pilot:  Pure Corn Whisky?” But Hannibal’s bright little face fell.  He was quick to see that the educational system devised by the judge did not impress Betty at all favorably.  She drew him into her arms.

“You shall have my books—­the books I learned to read out of when I was a little girl, Hannibal!”

“I like learning from the label pretty well,” said Hannibal loyally.

“But you’ll like the books better, dear, when you see them.  I know just where they are, for I happened on them on a shelf in the library only the other day.”

After they had found and examined the books and Hannibal had grudgingly admitted that they might possess certain points of advantage over the label, he and Betty went out for a walk.  It was now late afternoon and the sun was sinking behind the wall of the forest that rose along the Arkansas coast.  Their steps had led them to the terrace where they stood looking off into the west.  It was here that Betty had said good-by to Bruce Carrington—­it might have been months ago, and it was only days.  She thought of Charley—­Charley, with his youth and hope and high courage—­unwittingly enough she had led him on to his death!  A sob rose in her throat.

Hannibal looked up into her face.  The memory of his own loss was never very long absent from his mind, and Miss Betty had been the victim of a similarly sinister tragedy.  He recalled those first awful days of loneliness through which he had lived, when there was no Uncle Bob—­soft-voiced, smiling and infinitely companionable.

“Why, Hannibal, you are crying—­what about, dear?” asked Betty suddenly.

“No, ma’am; I ain’t crying,” said Hannibal stoutly, but his wet lashes gave the lie to his words.

“Are you homesick—­do you wish to go back to the judge and Mr. Mahaffy?”