“But ain't you ever coming back, Miss Betty?” asked Hannibal rather fearfully, smitten with the awesome sense of impermanence which dogs our footsteps.
“Oh, I hope so, dear—I wish to think so. But you see my home is not here.” She turned to Yancy, “So it is settled that he is to remain with you?”
“Not exactly, Miss Betty. You see, there's an order from the Fayetteville co't fo' me to give him up to this man Bladen.”
“But Uncle Bob says—” began Hannibal, who considered his Uncle Bob's remarks on this point worth quoting.
“Never mind what yo' Uncle Bob said,” interrupted Yancy hastily.
“Oh, Mr. Yancy, you are not going to surrender him—no matter what the court says!” cried Betty. The expression on Yancy's face was so grim and determined on the instant with the latent fire that was in him flashing from his eyes that she added quickly, “You know the law is for you as well as for Mr. Bladen!”
“I reckon I won't bother the law none,” responded Yancy briefly. “Me and my nevvy will go back to Scratch Hill and there won't be no trouble so long as they leave us be. But them Fayetteville folks want to keep away—” The fierce light slowly died out of his eyes. “It'll be all right, ma'am, and it's mighty good and kind of you fo' to feel the way you do. I'm obliged to you.”
But Betty was by no means sure of the outcome Yancy seemed to predict with such confidence. Unless Bladen abandoned his purpose, which he was not likely to do, a tragedy was clearly pending for Scratch Hill. She saw the boy left friendless, she saw Yancy the victim of his own primitive conception of justice. Therefore she said:
“I wonder you don't leave the Hill, Mr. Yancy. You could so easily go where Mr. Bladen would never find you. Haven't you thought of this?”
“That are a p'int,” agreed Yancy slowly. “Might I ask what parts you'd specially recommend?” lifting his grave eyes to hers.