"Yes, I've noticed everything. And it's all right. And Susan has noticed everything and it's all right with her. There never was a prouder human than Guinea, sir; the old General's pride is rain water compared to her'n. And she's got an idee in her head—I don't exactly understand it, but she's got it there and we'll have to let her keep it till she wants to throw it aside. I was over to the General's before sun up this mornin'. He swore that he wouldn't take the money, but I left it under a brick-bat on the gate post and come away. Well, everything is settled, and all I can say now is, God bless you."
We were silent at breakfast, and we dared not look at one another. A wagon came rattling through the gate, and Parker shouted that he was ready. No one had said a word, but the old man struck the table with his fist and exclaimed: "I insist on everybody showin' common sense. I don't want anybody to speak to me. I'll fight in a minit. Git in that wagon without a word. Hush, now."
I wanted to lead Guinea to the wagon, to feel again her dependence upon me, but she pretended to be looking away when I attempted to take her hand, and so she walked on alone; but I helped her into the vehicle, and I kissed her hand when she took hold of the seat. She gave me a quick look and a smile; and the wagon rolled away. I stood on the log step, watching it, and as it was slowly sinking beyond the hill I saw the flutter of a handkerchief.
I went up to my room and sat down, sad that I had seen her going away from me, yet happy to know that she had left her heart in my keeping. But the foolishness of this separation struck me with a force that had been lacking until now, and for a time I felt toward the old man a hardness that not even a keen appreciation of his kindness and his drollery could soften. Gradually, however, the truth came to me that Alf had drawn the plan, and with my arms stretched out toward the hill-top that had slowly arisen between me and the fluttering handkerchief I foolishly apologized to the old man. I did more foolish things than that; I improvised a hymn and sang it to Guinea—a chant that, no doubt, would have been immeasurably funny to the cold-hearted and the sane, but it brought the tears to my eyes and rendered the rafters just above my head a work of lace, far away. And at these devotions I might have remained for hours had not a sharp footfall smote upon my ear. I hastened down stairs, and at the entrance of the passage stood Chyd Lundsford, looking about, slowly lashing his leg with a switch.
"Helloa! Where are all the folks?"
"They are gone, sir," I answered, stiffly bowing to him.
"Gone? I don't know that I quite catch your meaning."
"If it be illusive you have made it so. I said that they were gone, which means, of course, that they are not here."
"I understand that all right enough, but do you mean that they are not in at present or that they have really left home?"
"They have no home, sir."