"But I shall not be gone long, Natalia—only an hour or two. And when I come back, I shall tell you all about the terrible judges who sat on a platform, all in a row, and asked me all sorts of questions about the laws of our country."
"I don't care a picayune about the judges," the little girl complained, "but I do want you to tell me all about old Mr. Puckett, and how Jacob Phelps killed him. Mammy says Mamma Brandon told her not to tell us about it, but you will, won't you?"
Sargent looked down at her, as she stood with her vivid little face, excited and intense over the subject, looking up at him, her hands clasped tight in a characteristic gesture. It always made him marvel when he saw her so passionately intent over something—for in the darkening grey eyes and warm rich glow beneath her olive skin, a wealth of hereditary influence asserted itself.
"You will tell me when you come back?" she repeated, as Sargent mounted his horse without answering.
"Wouldn't you rather hear about my first case?" he asked, avoiding an answer.
"Your first case?"
"Yes—Judge Houston says he has one for me. So I am going now to find out what it is."
Natalia slipped one hand through the bars of the great gate, and leaned against it, not in the least enthusiastic.
"I don't care much about the case," she began, almost sadly, "if it is going to take you away every day after school, and keep you from reading to me any more or taking me walking. I wouldn't care if you didn't ever have a case if it's going to be this way."
Sargent leaned from his saddle, and lifted the little girl up beside him.