point Miss Jo dropped her glove, and that in
recovering it Culpepper possessed himself first of her hand and then her
lips. When they stood up to go Culpepper had his arm around her waist,
and her black hair, with its sheaf of golden oats, rested against the
breast pocket of his coat. But even then I do not think her fancy was
entirely captive. She took a certain satisfaction in this demonstration
of Culpepper's splendid height, and mentally compared it with a former
flame, one lieutenant McMirk, an active, but under-sized Hector, who
subsequently fell a victim to the incautiously composed and monotonous
beverages of a frontier garrison. Nor was she so much preoccupied but
that her quick eyes, even while absorbing Culpepper's glances, were yet
able to detect, at a distance, the figure of a man approaching. In an
instant she slipped out of Culpepper's arm, and, whipping her hands
behind her, said, "There's that horrid man!"

Culpepper looked up and beheld his respected uncle panting and blowing
over the hill. His brow contracted as he turned to Miss Jo: "You don't
like my uncle!"

"I hate him!" Miss Jo was recovering her ready tongue.

Culpepper blushed. He would have liked to enter upon some details of the
Colonel's pedigree and exploits, but there was not time. He only smiled
sadly. The smile melted Miss Jo. She held out her hand quickly, and said
with even more than her usual effrontery, "Don't let that man get you
into any trouble. Take care of yourself, dear, and don't let anything
happen to you."

Miss Jo intended this speech to be pathetic; the tenure of life among
her lovers had hitherto been very uncertain. Culpepper turned toward
her, but she had already vanished in the thicket.

The Colonel came up panting. "I've looked all over town for you, and be
dashed to you, sir. Who was that with you?"

"A lady." (Culpepper never lied, but he was discreet.)

"D--m 'em all! Look yar, Culp, I've spotted the man who gave the order
to put me off the floor" ("flo" was what the Colonel said) "the other
night!"

"Who was it?" asked Culpepper, listlessly.

"Jack Folinsbee."

"Who?"

"Why, the son of that dashed nigger-worshipping psalm-singing Puritan
Yankee. What's the matter, now? Look yar, Culp, you ain't goin' back on
your blood, ar' ye? You ain't goin' back on your word? Ye ain't going
down at the feet of this trash, like a whipped hound?"

Culpepper was silent. He was very white. Presently he looked up and