“Yes.”

“I know your half-brother, Tom Ware—­I know him very well.”  There was another brief silence.

“So you know Tom?” she presently observed, and frowned slightly.  Tom was her guardian, and her memories of him were not satisfactory.  A burly, unshaven man with a queer streak of meanness through his character.  She had not seen him since she had been sent north to Philadelphia, and their intercourse had been limited to infrequent letters.  His always smelled of strong, stale tobacco, and the well-remembered whine in the man’s voice ran through his written sentences.

“You’ve spent much of your time up North?” suggested Murrell.

“Four years.  I’ve been at school, you know.  That’s where I met Judith.”

“I hope you’ll like West Tennessee.  It’s still a bit raw compared with what you’ve been accustomed to in the North.  You haven’t been back in all those four years?” Betty shook her head.  “Nor seen Tom—­nor any one from out yonder?” For some reason a little tinge of color had crept into Betty’s cheeks.  “Will you let me renew our acquaintance at Belle Plain?  I shall be in West Tennessee before the summer is over; probably I shall leave here within a week,” he said, bending toward her.  His glance dwelt on her face and the pliant lines of her figure, and his sense swam.  Since their first meeting the girl’s beauty had haunted and allured him; with his passionate sense of life he was disposed to these violent fancies, and he had a masterful way with women just as he had a masterful way with men.  Now, however, he was aware that he was viewed with entire indifference.  His vanity, which was his whole inner self, was hurt, and from the black depths of his nature his towering egotism flashed out lawless and perverted impulses.  “I must tell you that I am not of your sort, Miss Malroy—­” he continued hurriedly.  “My people were plain folk out of the mountains.  For what I am I have no one to thank but myself.  You must be aware of the prejudices of the planter class, for it is your class.  Perhaps I haven’t been quite frank at the Barony—­I felt it was asking too much when you were there.  That was a door I didn’t want closed to me!”

“I imagine you will be welcome at Belle Plain.  You are Tom’s friend.”  Murrell bit his lip, and then laughed as his mind conjured up a picture of the cherished Tom.  Suddenly he reached out and rested his hand on hers.  He lived in the shadow of chance not always kind, his pleasures were intoxicating drafts snatched in the midst of dangers, and here was youth, sweet and perfect, that only needed awakening.