him, while it is more than life to
you, and moreover you believe it to be sought by one who is your
foe--would you, Adam, having eaten that Indian's bread, go back into the
forest, and leave behind, untouched, unspoken of, that precious thing
your soul longed for? The trail you take may never lead again to that
lodge. Would you leave it?"

"Yes," answered Adam. "But my trail _should_ lead that way again. It is
a hostile tribe. I would come back, not in peace paint, but in war
paint. I would fairly warn the Indian, and then I would take the
bauble."

"Here is Mammy Chloe," said the other. "What have you there, mammy--a
dish of red pottage?"

"No, sah," said Mammy. "Hit's a baked apple an' whipped cream an'
nutmeg. Ole Miss she say Gineral Lafayette sho' did favour baked apples
wunst when he wuz laid up wid a cold at her father's house in
Williamsburgh. An' de little posy, Miss Deb she done gather hit outer
her square in de gyarden. De Cun'l he say de fambly gwine expect de
honour of yo' company dis evenin' in de drawin'-room."

Adam said good-bye and went away. An hour later, going down the Fontenoy
road, he came upon a small brown figure, seated, hands over knees, among
the blackberry bushes.

"Why, you partridge!" he exclaimed. "You little brown prairie-hen, what
are you doing so far from home? Blackberries aren't ripe."

"No," said Vinie. "I was just a-walking down the road, and I just walked
on. I wasn't tired. I always think the country's prettier down this way.
Did you come from Fontenoy, Mr. Adam?"

"Yes," replied Adam, sitting down beside her. "I went to see Lewis
Rand--not that I don't like all the people there anyway. They're always
mighty nice to me."

Vinie dug the point of her dusty shoe into the dusty road.

"How ith Mr. Rand, Mr. Adam?"

"He 'ith' almost well," answered Adam. "He's going down into the
parlour to-night, and pretty soon he's going home, and then he'll be
riding into town to his office."

He looked kindly into the small, freckled, pretty face. The heat of the
day stood in moisture on Vinie's brow, she had pushed back her
sunbonnet, and the breeze stirred the damp tendrils of her hair. "Tom
must miss him," said the hunter.

"Yeth, Tom does." Vinie drew toward her a blackberry branch, and studied
the white bloom. "Which do you think is the prettiest, Mr. Adam,--Miss
Unity or Miss Jacqueline?"

"Why, I don't know," answered Adam. "They are both mighty pretty."

"I think Miss