med, after critically surveying her
daughter, "I don't see how girls can be so weak-minded. Many a man as
good as George Denham has crossed Murder Creek in a freshet. I don't
see but what he's big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself."

"Oh," exclaimed Kitty, going from window to window, and vainly
endeavouring to peer out into the darkness, "why didn't he stop?"

"Well," said Mrs. Kendrick, resuming the use of her shears, "if you'll
try to worry along and stand it this time, I'll send out and have a
fence built across the big road, and get the niggers to light a
bonfire; and we'll stop him the next time he comes along. I'll have to
do my duty by my own children, I reckon. But don't be alarmed," she
continued, perceiving that Kitty's distress was genuine. "You may have
to fly around here and get George some supper, after all. I've been
waiting on niggers all day; and even if I hadn't, I'm too old and
fagged out to be rushing in amongst the pots and kettles to please
George Denham."

George Denham rattled down the road, singing of "Barbara Allen," but
thinking of Kitty Kendrick. Suddenly his horse shied, and then he heard
somebody call him.

"Mars. George! Is dat you, Mars. George?"

"Unless you want to make a ghost of me by frightening my horse,"
exclaimed the young man, checking the animal with some difficulty.
"What do you want?"

"Mars. George, is you see Miss Kitty w'en you come by des now?"

"No, I didn't stop. Is anything the matter?"

"No, sir, nothin' in 'tickler ain't de matter, 'ceppin' dat Miss Kitty
had sump'n' ter tell you."

"Are you one of the Kendrick negroes?"

"No, sir; I don't b'long dar."

"Who are you?"

"I 'clar' ter goodness, I skeer'd ter tell you, Mars. George; kaze you
mought fly up en git mad."

The young man laughed with such genuine heartiness that it did the
negro good to hear it.

"Well, I know who you are," he said; "you are Blue Dave, and you've
come to tell me that you want me to carry you to jail, where Bill Brand
can get his hands on you."

The negro was thunderstruck. "To' de Lord, Mars. George! how you know
who I is?"

"Why, I know by your looks. You've got horns and a club foot. That's
the way the Old Boy fixes himself."

"Now, Mars. George," said the negro in a grieved tone, "ef you could
see me good you wouldn't set dar en say I'm a bad-lookin' nigger."

"Are you really Blue Dave?" the young man asked, dropping his bantering
tone and speaking se