“Yes, burn every trace of it,” Hugh said, watching the child as she picked up piece by piece, and threw them into the grate.
“I means to save dat ar. I’ll play I has a letter for Miss Alice,” Mug thought, as she came upon a bit larger than the others, and when she left the room there was hidden in her bosom that part of ’Lina’s letter relating to herself and Harney.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SALE.
Col. Tiffton could not pay the $10,000 note which he had foolishly endorsed, and as Harney knew no mercy where his interest was concerned. Mosside must be sold; and the day of the sale had come. There was a crowd of people out and they waited anxiously for the shrill voice and hammer of the auctioneer, a portly little man, who felt more for the family than his appearance would indicate.
There had been a long talk that morning between him self and a young lady, whose beauty had thrilled his heart just as it did every heart beating beneath a male’s attire. The lady had seemed a little nervous, as she talked, casting anxious glances up the Lexington turnpike, and asking several times when the Lexington cars were due.
“It shan’t make no difference. I’ll take your word,” the auctioneer had said in reply to some doubts expressed by her. “I’d trust your face for a million,” and with a profound bow by way of emphasising his compliment, the well meaning Skinner went out to the group assembled in the yard, while the lady returned to the upper chamber where Mrs. Tiffton and Ellen were weeping bitterly and refusing to be comforted.
From Ellen’s chamber a small glass door opened out upon an open balcony, where the Colonel sat leaning on his cane, and watching the movements in the yard below. To this balcony, and the glass door communicating with it, many eyes were directed, for it was known the family were in that vicinity, and it was also whispered that Miss Johnson, the beautiful young lady from Spring Bank was there, and great was the anxiety of some for a sight of her. But neither Ellen nor Alice were visible for the first hour, and only the white-haired colonel kept watch while one after another of his household goods were sold.
The crowd grew weary at last—they must have brisker sport, if they would keep warm in that chilly November wind, and cries for the “horses” were heard.
“Your crack ones, too. I’m tired of this,” growled Harney, and Ellen’s riding pony was led out, the one she loved and petted almost as much as Hugh had petted Rocket. The Colonel saw the playful animal, and with a moan tottered to Ellen’s chamber, saying,
“They are going to sell Beauty, Nell. Poor Nellie, don’t cry,” and the old man laid his hand on his weeping daughter’s head.