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EIL FILMORE'S store was about half a mile from Bishop's house, at the crossing of the Darley road and another leading into East Tennessee. Alan had gone down there one day to engage white labor to work in his growing cotton, negroes being scarce, owing to the tendency of that race to flock into the towns. With the aid of Pole Baker, who was clerking that day for Filmore, he soon employed the men he wanted and started to walk back home. On the way he was overtaken by his uncle, who was returning from Darley in his wagon.

"Hold on thar," the old man called out; "ef you are a-goin' home I 'll rest yore legs."

Alan smiled as he climbed up into the seat by the old man.

"I shall certainly appreciate it," he said. "I'm tired out to-day."

"I sorter thought you looked flabbergasted," returned Abner, as he swung his whip over the backs of his sleek horses. "Well, I reckon I could afford to give you a ride. I hauled that cuss Dole three miles goin' t'other way. He had the cheek to yell at me from Habbersham's gin-house an' axed me ef I'd haul 'im. Then he kept me waitin' till he'd helt prayer an' read to the family."

"You don't seem to like him," said Alan. "I've noticed that for some time."

"I reckon I don't to any great extent," said Abner, clucking to his tired horses; "but it ain't raily to my credit. A feller's wrong som 'er's, Alan, that allows hisse'f to hate anything the Lord ever made. I've struggled agin that proposition fer twenty-five yeer. All this talk about the devil makin' the bad an' the Lord the good is talk through a hat. Bad things was made 'fore the devil ever jumped from his high estate ur he'd never preferred a fork to a harp. I've tuck notice, too, that the wust things I ever seed was sometimes at the root o' the best. Manure is a bad thing, but a cake of it will produce a daisy bigger 'n any in the field. Dole makes me gag sometimes; but as narrer as he is twixt the eyes, he may do some good. I reckon that hell-fire sermon he give us last August made some of the crowd sweat out a little o' the'r meanness. I'd 'a' been more merciful on sech a hot day, though. He mought 'a' reserved that harangue fer some cold day in December when the stove-flues wouldn't work. Ef I'd 'a' been a-goin' tell about future torment that hot day I'd 'a' said that every lost soul was made to set on a cake o' ice in a windy spot through all eternity, an' I'd 'a' started out by singin' 'On Greenland's Icy Mountain.' But that ain't what I axed you to git in my wagon fer."

"You didn't intend to try to convert me, then?"

"No, I didn't, fer you are jest my sort of a Christian—better'n me, a sight, fer you don't shoot off yore bazoo on one side or t'other, an' that's the habit I'm tryin' to quit. Ef I could hold in when Dole gits to spoutin' I'd be a better man. I think I 'll do better now. I've got a tenpenny nail in my pocket an' whenever he starts in I'm goin' to bite it an' keep my holt on it till he stops. Yes, you are jest my sort of a Christian. You believe in breathin' fresh air into yore windpipe, thankin' God with a clear eye an' a good muscle, an' takin' what He gives you an' axin' 'Im to pass more ef it's handy. You know the Lord has sent you a invite to His table, an' you believe in eatin' an' drinkin' an' makin' merry, jest like you'd have a body do that was stoppin' over night with you. Yes, I wanted to say some 'n' else to you. As I got to the widder Snowden's house, a mile this side o' Darley, she came out an' axed me ef I'd object to deliverin' a couple o' smoke-cured hams to a feller in town that had ordered 'em. Of course that's what a' old bach' like me 's heer fer, so I let 'er fling 'em in the back end."

The speaker paused and smiled knowingly, and Alan noticed that he slowed his horses up by drawing firmly on the reins as if he feared that their arrival at the farm-house might interrupt what he had to say.

"Well," said Alan, "you delivered the hams?"

"Yes." Abner was looking straight ahead of him. "They was fer Colonel Seth Barclay. I driv' up to the side gate, after I'd helloed in front till I was hoarse, an' who do you reckon come trippin' out o' the dinin'-room?

It was her. Ef you hain't never ketched 'er off'n her guard round the house, you've missed a treat. Durned ef I don't like 'er better without a hat on than with all the fluffy flamdoodle that gals put on when they go out. She was as neat as a new pin, an' seemed powerful glad to see me. That made me bless the widder Snowden fer sendin' me thar. She said the cook was off som 'er's, an' that old nigger Ned, the stable-man, was in the garden-patch behind the house, so she was thar by 'erse'f. She actually looked like she wanted to tote in the hams 'erse'f ruther'n bother me; but you bet my old bones hopped off'n this seat quicker'n you could say Jack Robinson with yore mouth open. I was afeerd my team wouldn't stand, fer fellers was a-scootin' by on bicycles; but I tuck the hams to the back porch an' put 'em on a shelf out'n re'ch o' the dogs. Then I went back to my wagon. She foller............