“She ain’ friendly.  You drap at her feet ez ef you wuz dead, en she hab a lil gyurlish, soft heart, dat’s all.  Didn’t she tole you dat she ain’ on yo’ side?”

“Well, bless her heart, then.”

“I circumscribe ter dat ar.”

“Aren’t you on our side?”

“I’se des ’twix en ’tween all de sides.”

“You’re all right, Aunt Jinkey.  I’d trust you with my life.”

“Reck’n you hab ter dis eb’nin’.”

“Well, about Miss Lou—­you say she has trouble to hold her own.  How’s that?”

“Dem’s fambly matters.”

“And so none of my business, unless she tells me herself.”

“How she gwine ter tol’ you tings?”

“Ah, Aunt Jinkey, you’ve vegetated a great while in these slow parts.  I feel it in my bones, sore as they are, that some day I’ll give you a new dress that will make you look like a spike of red hollyhocks.  You’ll see changes you don’t dream of.”

“My haid whirlin’ now, mars’r.  Hope ter grashus I kin do my wuk ter-morrer in peace and quietness.”

There was neither peace nor quietness at the mansion.  Whately, with a soldier’s instincts to make the most of passing opportunities, added to the hasty tendencies of his own nature, was not only enjoying the abundant supper, but feasting his eyes meantime on the charms developed by his cousin in his absence.  He knew of his uncle’s wish to unite the two plantations, and had given his assent to the means, for it had always been his delight to tease, frighten, and pet his little cousin, whose promise of beauty had been all that he could desire.  Now she evoked a sudden flame of passion, and his mind, which leaped to conclusions, was already engaged in plans for consummating their union at once.  He sought to break down her reserve by paying her extravagant compliments, and to excite her admiration by accounts of battles in which he would not have posed as hero so plainly had he not been flushed with wine.  There was an ominous fire in her eyes scarcely in accord with her cool demeanor.  Unused to the world, and distrusting her own powers, she made little effort to reply, taking refuge in comparative silence.  This course encouraged him and her uncle.  The former liked her manifestation of spirit as long as he believed it to be within control.  To his impetuous, imperious nature the idea of a tame, insipid bride was not agreeable; while Mr. Baron, still under the illusion that she was yet but a submissive child, thought that her bad mood was passing and would be gone in the morning.  He little dreamed how swiftly her mind was awakening and developing under the spur of events.  She did not yet know that her cousin was meditating such a speedy consummation of his purpose, but was aware that he and all her relatives looked upon her as his predestined wife.  Now, as never before, she shrank from the relation, and in the instinct of self-preservation resolved never to enter into it.