They were seated on the counter in Crenshaw’s store at Balaam’s Cross Roads, where the heavy odor of black molasses battled with the sprightly smell of salt fish.  The merchant held the Scratch Hiller in no small esteem.  Their intimacy was of long standing, for the Yancys going down and the Crenshaws coming up had for a brief space flourished on the same social level.  Mr. Crenshaw’s rise in life, however, had been uninterrupted, while Mr. Yancy, wrapped in a philosophic calm and deeply averse to industry, had permitted the momentum imparted by a remote ancestor to carry him where it would, which was steadily away from that tempered prosperity his family had once boasted as members of the land-owning and slaveholding class.

“I mean there’s money in the place fo’ Ferris,” Crenshaw explained.

“I reckon yo’re right, Mr. John; the old general used to spend a heap on the Barony and we all know he never got a cent back, so I reckon the money’s there yet.

“Bladen’s got an answer from them South Carolina Quintards, and they don’t know nothing about the boy,” said Crenshaw, changing the subject.  “So you can rest easy, Bob; they ain’t going to want him.”

“Well, sir, that surely is a passel of comfort to me.  I find I got all the instincts of a father without having had none of the instincts of a husband.”

A richer, deeper realization of his joy came to Yancy when he had turned his back on Balaam’s Cross Roads and set out for home through the fragrant silence of the pine woods.  His probable part in the young life chance had placed in his keeping was a glorious thing to the man.  He had not cared to speculate on the future; he had believed that friends or kindred must sooner or later claim Hannibal, but now he felt wonderfully secure in Crenshaw’s opinion that this was not to be.

Just beyond the Barony, which was midway between Balaam’s and the Hill, down the long stretch of sandy road he saw two mounted figures, then as they drew nearer he caught the flutter of skirts and recognized one of the horsewomen.  It was Mrs. Ferris, wife of the Barony’s new owner.  She reined in her horse abreast of his cart.

“Aren’t you Mr. Yancy?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s me—­Bob Yancy.”  He regarded her with large gray eyes that were frankly approving in their expression, for she was more than commonly agreeable to look upon.

“I am Mrs. Ferris, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The same here,” murmured Yancy with winning civility.

Mrs. Ferris’ companion leaned forward, her face averted, and stroked her horse’s neck with gloved hand.

“This is my friend, Miss Betty Malroy.”

“Glad to know you, ma’am,” said Yancy.

Miss Malroy faced him, smiling.  She, too, was very good to look upon, indeed she was quite radiant with youth and beauty.

“We are just returning from Scratch Hill—­I think that is what you call it?” said Mrs. Ferris.