“I can’t honestly say they owed me, since I never expected to get anything out of them; however, they both left some furniture, all that was necessary for the kind of housekeeping they did, for they were single gentlemen and drew the bulk of their nourishment from Pegloe’s bar.  I’ll turn the establishment over to you with the greatest pleasure in the world, and wish you better luck than your predecessors had —­you’ll offend me if you refer to the rent again!”

And thus handsomely did Charley Norton acquit himself of the mission he had undertaken at Betty Malroy’s request.

That same morning Tom Ware and Captain Murrell were seated in the small detached building at Belle Plain, known as the office, where the former spent most of his time when not in the saddle.  Whatever the planter’s vices, and he was reputed to possess a fair working knowledge of good and evil, no one had ever charged him with hypocrisy.  His emotions lay close to the surface and wrote themselves on his unprepossessing exterior with an impartial touch.  He had felt no pleasure when Murrell rode into the yard, and he had welcomed him according to the dictates of his mood, which was one of surly reticence.

“So your sister doesn’t like me, Tom—­that’s on your mind this morning, is it?” Murrell was saying, as he watched his friend out of the corner of his eyes.

“She was mad enough, the way you pushed in on us at Boggs’ yesterday.  What happened back in North Carolina, Murrell, anyhow?”

“Never you mind what happened.”

“Well, it’s none of my business, I reckon; she’ll have to look out for herself, she’s nothing to me but a pest sand a nuisance —­I’ve been more bothered since she came back than I’ve been in years!  I’d give a good deal to be rid of her,” said Ware, greatly depressed as he recalled the extraordinary demands Betty had made.

“Make it worth my while and I’ll take her off your hands,” and Murrell laughed.

Tom favored him with a sullen stare.

“You’d better get rid of that notion—­of all fool nonsense, this love business is the worst!  I can’t see the slightest damn difference between one good looking girl and another.  I wish every one was as sensible as I am,” he lamented.  “I wouldn’t miss a meal, or ten minutes’ sleep, on account of any woman in creation,” and Ware shook his head.

“So your sister doesn’t like me?”

“No, she doesn’t,” said Ware, with simple candor.

“Told you to put a stop to my coming here?”

“Not here—­to the house, yes.  She doesn’t give a damn, so long as she doesn’t have to see you.”

Murrell, somber-faced and thoughtful, examined a crack in the flooring.

“I’d like to know what happened back yonder in North Carolina to make her so blazing mad?” continued Ware.

“Well, if you want to know, I told her I loved her.”

“That’s all right, that’s the fool talk girls like to hear,” said Ware.  He lighted a cigar with an air of wearied patience.