eling mixed of fierceness and terror; but he said nothing.

His father seated himself on one of the roots of the old stump, laid one
hand upon Jacob's knee, and said with an unusual gentleness of manner,
"I'd like to know what it is that troubles you so much."

After a pause, Jacob suddenly burst forth with: "Is there any reason why
I should tell you? Do you care any more for me than the rest of 'em?"

"I didn't know as you wanted me to care for you particularly," said the
father, almost deprecatingly. "I always thought you had friends of your
own age."

"Friends? Devils!" exclaimed Jacob. "Oh, what have I done--what is there
so dreadful about me that I should always be laughed at, and despised,
and trampled upon? You are a great deal older than I am, father: what do
you see in me? Tell me what it is, and how to get over it!"

The eyes of the two men met. Jacob saw his father's face grow pale in
the moonlight, while he pressed his hand involuntarily upon his heart,
as if struggling with some physical pain. At last he spoke, but his
words were strange and incoherent.

"I couldn't sleep," he said; "I got up again and came out o' doors.
The white ox had broken down the fence at the corner, and would soon
have been in the cornfield. I thought it was that, maybe, but still
your--your mother would come into my head. I was coming down the edge of
the wood when I saw you, and I don't know why it was that you seemed so
different, all at once--"

Here he paused, and was silent for a minute. Then he said, in a grave,
commanding tone: "Just let me know the whole story. I have that much
right yet."

Jacob related the history of the evening, somewhat awkwardly and
confusedly, it is true; but his father's brief, pointed questions kept
him to the narrative, and forced him to explain the full significance
of the expressions he repeated. At the mention of "Whitney's place," a
singular expression of malice touched the old man's face.

"Do you love Becky Morton?" he asked bluntly, when all had been told.

"I don't know," Jacob stammered; "I think not; because when I seem to
like her most, I feel afraid of her."

"It's lucky that you're not sure of it!" exclaimed the old man with
energy; "because you should never have her."

"No," said Jacob, with a mournful acquiescence, "I can never have her,
or any other one."

"But you shall--and will I when I help you. It's true I've not seemed to
care much about you, and I suppose you'r