Now as they drew near to the vine and tree entangled yard, the massive white columns stood out through the gloom to meet them. From some of the outlying cabins, former quarters of slaves, came low, minor singing of present day field hands. However many times Bob approached this place, his thoughts reverted to the evenings—half a score of years behind him—when he would ride across from his own farm to court the Colonel's daughter. He was thinking of this, of its sweetness to him then, of its blessings to him now, and quietly said:
"When you marry I hope you will be as happy as I am."
"Existence is satisfying enough with you and Ann and Bip," she lightly replied, "unless you want to get rid of me!"
He flushed, and turned almost angrily.
"There, I take it back," she said in tones as soft as the night. "It was horrid! You've been so splendid in giving me a home—although I do sometimes feel guilty for not being with the Colonel after all he's done! Yet, were I there, I couldn't give nearly as much time to Bip. Nothing can—"
"I wish you'd chop that," he growled. "You talk like you're under an obligation, when you know darn well—"
"I was saying," she looked up brightly, "that nothing can take its place, not even your suggested slavery; and there isn't a man in the world whom I wouldn't despise for asking me. I just don't feel a bit like it!"
"Lord help us!" he cried. "When will D. Cupid, Esquire, discover this pristine hunting ground? You've a blue ribbon surprise in store for you, that's all!"
"Perhaps Mr. D. Dawson will spring it," she laughed.
"Or the blasé B. McElroy," he suggested.