“Well, well, well.” Mrs. Barclay hurried through the house and out to where Barclay stood at the lot fence watching Ned curry his horse.
“What do you reckon?” she gasped. “Dolly didn't go off at all; she just went to spend the night with Hattie Alexander.”
His face changed its expression against his will; the blood flowed into the pallor and a satisfied gleam shot from his half-closed eyes. He turned from her, looking over the fence at the horse.
“You're leavin' a splotch on that right hind leg,” he said. “Are you stone blind?”
“I was gittin' roun' to it, marster,” said the negro, looking his surprise over such an unexpected reproof. “No; she just wrote Alan that you was displeased at them getting together yesterday and advised him to dodge you to-day while he is in town.”
“Well, he'd better!” said the Colonel, gruffly, as they walked towards the house. “You tell her,” he enjoined—“you tell her what I said when I thought she was gone. It will be a lesson to her. She can tell now how I 'll do if she does go against me in this matter.”
“I reckon you are glad she didn't run off,” replied his wife thoughtfully. “The Lord only knows what you'd do about writing your letters without her help. I believe she knows more about your business right now than you do, and has a longer head. You'd' a' saved a thousand dollars by taking her advice the other day about that cotton sale.”