hall have
things my own way. After I die you can turn it into a pandemonium, for
all I care."

Pluma flashed her large dark eyes upon him surprisedly, beginning to
lose her temper, spurred on by opposition.

"I am sure I do not mean to make a hermit of myself because you are
too old to enjoy the brightness of youth," she flashed out, defiantly;
"and you ought not to expect it--it is mean and contemptible of you."

"Pluma!" echoed Basil Hurlhurst, in astonishment, his noble face
growing white and stern with suppressed excitement, "not another
word."

Pluma tossed her head contemptuously. When once her temper arose it
was quite as impossible to check it as it was when she was a willful,
revengeful, spoiled child.

"Another man as rich as you are would have taken their daughter to
Washington for a season, and in the summer to Long Branch or
Newport--somewhere, anywhere, away from the detestable waving
cotton-fields. When you die I shall have it all set on fire."

"Pluma!" he cried, hoarsely, rising to his feet and drawing his
stately, commanding figure to its full height, "I will not brook such
language from a child who should at least yield me obedience, if not
love. You are not the heiress of Whitestone Hall yet, and you never
may be. If I thought you really contemplated laying waste these waving
fields that have been my pride for long years--and my father's before
me--I would will it to an utter stranger, so help me Heaven!"

Were his words prophetic? How little she knew the echo of these words
were doomed to ring for all time down the corridors of her life! How
little we know what is in store for us!

"I am your only child," said Pluma, haughtily; "you would not rob me
of my birthright. I shall be forced to submit to your pleasure--while
you are here--but, thank Heaven, the time is not far distant when I
shall be able to do as I please. 'The mills of the gods grind slowly,
but they grind exceeding fine,'" she quoted, saucily.

"Thank Heaven the time is not far distant when I shall be able to do
as I please." He repeated the words slowly after her, each one sinking
into his heart like a poisoned arrow. "So you would thank Heaven for
my death, would you?" he cried, with passion rising to a white heat.
"Well, this is no better than I could expect from the daughter--of
such a mother."

He had never intended speaking those words; but she goaded him on to
it with her taunting, scornful smile, reminding him so bi