Dan met the girl's glance for an instant, and then looked at the old negroes hanging upon his hands.
“Yes, the prodigal is back,” he admitted, laughing, “and I hope the fatted calf is on the crane.”
“Dar's a roas' pig fur ter-morrow, sho's you bo'n,” returned Aunt Rhody. “En I'se gwine to stuff 'im full.” Then she hurried away to her fire, and Dan threw himself down upon the rug at the Major's feet.
“Yes, we may trust Betty for the sunshine,” repeated the Major, as if striving to recall his wandering thoughts. “She's my overseer now, you know, and she actually looks after both places in less time than poor Harris took to worry along with one. Why, there's not a better farmer in the county.”
“Oh, Major, don't,” begged the girl, laughing and blushing beneath Dan's eyes. “You mustn't believe him, Dan, he wears rose-coloured glasses when he looks at me.”
“Well, my sight is dim enough for everything else, my dear,” confessed the old man sadly. “That's why I have the lamps lighted before the sun goes down—eh, Molly?”
Mrs. Lightfoot unwrapped her knitting and the ivory kneedles clicked in the firelight.
“I like to keep the shadows away myself,” she responded. “The twilight used to be my favourite hour, but I dread it now, and so does Mr. Lightfoot.”
“Well, the war's given us that in common,” chuckled the Major, stretching out his feet. “If I remember rightly you once complained that our tastes were never alike, Molly.” Then he glanced round with hospitable eyes. “Draw up, my boy, draw up to the fire and tell your story,” he added invitingly. “By the time Champe comes home we'll have rich treats in store for the summer evenings.”
Betty was looking at him as he bent over the thin flames, and Dan saw her warm gaze cloud suddenly with tears. He put out his hand and touched hers as it lay on the Major's chair, and when she turned to him she was smiling brightly.