“I hope you smacked him well and hard!” said the girl, whose mood was warlike.
“I ain't got no cause to complain, thank you,” returned Mr. Yancy pleasantly.
“I rode out to the Hill to say good-by to Hannibal and to you, but they said you were here and that the trial was today.”
Captain Murrell, with Crenshaw and the squire, came from the house, and Murrell's swarthy face lit up at sight of the girl. Yancy, sensible of the gulf that yawned between himself and what was known as “the quality,” would have yielded his place, but Betty detained him.
“Are you going away, ma'am?” he asked with concern.
“Yes—to my home in west Tennessee,” and a cloud crossed her smooth brow.
“That surely is a right big distance for you to travel, ma'am,” said Yancy, his mind opening to this fresh impression. “I reckon it's rising a hundred miles or mo',” he concluded, at a venture.
“It's almost a thousand.”
“Think of that! And you are that ca'm!” cried Yancy admiringly, as a picture of simply stupendous effort offered itself to his mind's eye. He added: “I am mighty sorry you are going. We-all here shall miss you—specially Hannibal. He just regularly pines for Sunday as it is.”
“I hope he will miss me a little—I'm afraid I want him to!” She glanced down at the boy as she spoke, and into her eyes, very clear and very blue and shaded by long dark lashes, stole a look of wistful tenderness. She noted how his little hand was clasped in Yancy's, she realized the perfect trust of his whole attitude toward this big bearded man, and she was conscious of a sudden feeling of profound respect for the Scratch Hiller.