ks at the corner of the house; or sometimes go
shouting down the long halls and through the gallery to the great
stairway, a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doors
proclaiming that he had waked a guest. And many days we spent in the
wood, playing at hunting game--a poor enough amusement for me, and one
that Nick soon tired of. They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woods of
the mountains; and more than once we had excitement enough with the
snakes that lay there.

I believe that in a week's time Nick was as conversant with my life as I
myself. For he made me tell of it again and again, and of Kentucky. And
always as he listened his eyes would glow and his breast heave with
excitement.

"Do you think your father will take you there, David, when he comes for
you?"

I hoped so, but was doubtful.

"I'll run away with you," he declared. "There is no one here who cares
for me save Mr. Mason and Mammy."

And I believe he meant it. He saw but little of his mother, and nearly
always something unpleasant was coupled with his views. Sometimes we ran
across her in the garden paths walking with a gallant,--oftenest Mr.
Riddle. It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered walks and flowers
wondrously massed in color, a high brick wall surrounding it. Frequently
Mrs. Temple and Mr. Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon, and
when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating over the wall,
Nick would say:--

"Mamma is winning."

Once we heard high words between the two, and running into the garden
found the cards scattered on the grass, and the couple gone.

Of all Nick's escapades,--and he was continually in and out of them,--I
recall only a few of the more serious. As I have said, he was a wild
lad, sobered by none of the things which had gone to make my life, and
what he took into his head to do he generally did,--or, if balked, flew
into such a rage as to make one believe he could not live. Life was
always war with him, or some semblance of a struggle. Of his many wild
doings I recall well the time when--fired by my tales of hunting--he went
out to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and arrow. It
made small difference to the bull that the arrow was too blunt to enter
his hide. With a bellow that frightened the idle negroes at the slave
quarters, he started for Master Nick. I, who had been taught by my
father never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution to
prov