"Yes,—Alexandria. They had no children; but the Colonel, he leaves her all for her life, and after she was gone it was to come back to the Sheplers. Afterwards she married C——; but she holds on to every dollar of the old Colonel's money. Now old Steadman was the only one of that family living."
"Do you mean to say that there is but one life between these boys and the Shepler properties?"
"Just so; but the 'life' is a tough one. She's been ailing these twenty years. It will come to them soon, surely."
"Where did you say was her place?"
He pointed it out, on the other side of the creek. After a few moments' consideration, I sauntered towards the ford. From his first mention of this Mrs. C—— I recognized my father's heroine, and determined to see her, at first from curiosity; but another reason was now added. If what the man stated was true, this woman surely could not be aware of the condition of almost pauperism to which these people were reduced whose property she held. If the case were plainly set before her, she would at least furnish means to save the poor woman's life whom I had just left, etc., etc. Reasoning thus, I came to the creek, and picked my way over on the stones raised about a foot above the water. The ground stretched from the bank up to the house in a grassy slope set with one or two alders and willows. It was a grazing farm. Rich meadows rolled away on every side, except where a sugar-loaf-shaped hill rose abruptly in front of me. The old Shepler mansion stood at its base. It was large, and, with its out-houses, built of stone, solid, clean, and jail-like. The absence of all look of comfort was curious,—not a curl of smoke from the wide kitchen, no sleepy dog sunning himself, no flower in garden or unshuttered window, the grass cleared away even from the well, and the yellow clay left. Two or three stalwart negroes were gossiping over a pile of half-sawed wood near where I stood. I had stopped but a moment, when a shrill, rasping voice came across the creek, making the men jump to their work with a will.
"No! I'll make my own way! I have crossed my own water-course for half a century, and what is come to me to stop me now? I must see what this fellow is staring about."
I turned and saw a man on the opposite bank, close to the water's edge, remonstrating with a short, thin old woman about something. She made use of violent gestures; her tones were acidulated into the essence of all that was dogmatic and shrewish.
"Don't talk to me, Parker! If you want to know how I will cross the ford, here!"
So saying, she squatted down on the ground, and removed her shoes and stockings in a twinkling,—then, tucking them under her arm, made her way over the stones with a chuckle as she touched the shore.
"Parker's a fool! Don't tire yourselves, I beg, Pike and Jerry! Now, young Sir, what is your errand?" facing me, sharply.