“Then you’ve had privileges enough,” Virginia answered.  “One week from to-morrow you are to say ‘Miss Jinny.’”

“I’se tell you what, Jinny,” he answered mischievously, with an emphasis on the word, “I’se call you Miss Jinny ef you’ll call me Mistah Johnson.  Mistah Johnson.  You aint gwinter forget?  Mistah Johnson.”

“I’ll remember,” she said.  “Ned,” she demanded suddenly, “would you like to be free?”

The negro started.

“Why you ax me dat, Jinny?”

“Mr. Benbow’s Hester is free,” she said.

“Who done freed her?”

Miss Virginia flushed.  “A detestable young Yankee, who has come out here to meddle with what doesn’t concern him.  I wanted Hester, Ned.  And you should have married her, if you behaved yourself.”

Ned laughed uneasily.

“I reckon I’se too ol’ fo’ Heste’.”  And added with privileged impudence, “There ain’t no cause why I can’t marry her now.”

Virginia suddenly leaped to the ground without his assistance.

“That’s enough, Ned,” she said, and started toward the house.

“Jinny!  Miss Jinny!” The call was plaintive.

“Well, what?”

“Miss Jinny, I seed that than young gemman.  Lan’ sakes, he ain’ look like er Yankee.”

“Ned,” said Virginia, sternly, “do you want to go back to cooking?”

He quailed.  “Oh, no’m—­Lan’ sakes, no’m.  I didn’t mean nuthin’.”

She turned, frowned, and bit her lip.  Around the corner of the veranda she ran into her cousin.  He, too, was booted and spurred.  He reached out, boyishly, to catch her in his arms.  But she drew back from his grasp.

“Why, Jinny,” he cried, “what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Max.”  She often called him so, his middle name being Maxwell.  “But you have no right to do that.”

“To do what?” said Clarence, making a face.

“You know,” answered Virginia, curtly.  “Where’s Aunt Lillian?”

“Why haven’t I the right?” he asked, ignoring the inquiry.

“Because you have not, unless I choose.  And I don’t choose.”

“Are you angry with me still?  It wasn’t my fault.  Uncle Comyn made me come away.  You should have had the girl, Jinny, if it took my fortune.”

“You have been drinking this morning, Max,” said Virginia.

“Only a julep or so,” he replied apologetically.  “I rode over to the race track to see the new trotter.  I’ve called him Halcyon, Jinny,” he continued, with enthusiasm.  “And he’ll win the handicap sure.”

She sat down on the veranda steps, with her knees crossed and her chin resting on her hands.  The air was heavy with the perfume of the grapes and the smell of late flowers from the sunken garden near by.  A blue haze hung over the Illinois shore.

“Max, you promised me you wouldn’t drink so much.”

“And I haven’t been, Jinny, ’pon my word,” he replied.  “But I met old Sparks at the Tavern, and he started to talk about the horses, and—­and he insisted.”