The man's eyes were riveted on her—they seemed to devour her as she rode up, a picture of grace and beauty, sitting her cantering mare with the ease of long years of riding. She smiled and nodded brightly at the Bishop, as she cantered past, but scarcely glanced at the man beside him.
Travis followed at a brisk gait:
“Hello, Bishop,” he said banteringly—“got a new boarder to-day?”
He glanced at the man as he spoke, and then galloped on without turning his head.
“Alice!—Alice!”—whispered the man, holding out his hands pleadingly, in the way he had held them when he first saw the Bishop. “Alice!”—but she disappeared behind a turn in the road. She had not noticed him.
The Bishop was relieved.
“We'll go home, Cap'n Tom—you'll want for nothin' whilst I live. An' who knows—ay, Cap'n Tom, who knows but maybe God has sent you here to-day to begin the unraveling of the only injustice I've ever knowed Him to let go so long. It 'ud be so easy for Him—He's done bigger things than jes' to straighten out little tangles like that. Cap'n Tom! Cap'n Tom!” he said excitedly—“God'll do it—God'll do it—for He is just!”
As he turned to go a negro came up hurriedly: “I was fetchin' him to you, Marse Hillard—been lookin' for yo' home all day. I had gone to the spring for water an' 'lowed I'd be back in a minute.”
“Why, it's Eph,” said the Bishop. “Come on to my home, Eph, we'll take keer of Cap'n Tom.”
It was Sunday night. They had eaten their supper, and the old man was taking his smoke before going to bed. Shiloh, as usual, had climbed up into his lap and lay looking at the distant line of trees that girdled the mountain side. There was a flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes which the old man had noticed for several weeks.