t out of his
tilted chair and opened the door, and a dog, prancing in, lay down in
front of the fire, with his nose between his outstretched paws.

"What a pretty dog," said the girl, and with a look out of one eye and
with a slight wag of the tail the dog acknowledged the compliment.

"Oh, he's gallant," Gid replied, sitting down. "And he knows when a
truth has been told about him."

"No good at hunting, is he?" Tom asked.

"He is not a sportsman," Gid answered. "He pays his keep with
companionship. I sit here and read him to sleep nearly every night. He
tries to keep awake, but he can't. But as long as I read a lively book
he'll lie there and look up at me as if he enjoys it, and I believe he
does, but 'Benton's Thirty Years in the American Senate' will knock him
most any time. And old Whateley's logic makes him mighty drowsy. I
reckon you cubs have been to supper. If you haven't you may make
yourselves at home and cook something. Old Aunt Liza cooks for me, out
there in the other room, but she's generally away in the service of her
church and then I have to shift for myself."

"We've been to supper," the girl spoke up, "but if you want something to
eat I'll cook it."

"Bless your life, not a bite," the old man protested. "To eat now would
canker a memory. I took sacrament over at the Major's. Now, I'm going to
lean back here and I may talk or I may drop off to sleep, and in either
event just let me go. But if I doze off don't wake me, not even when you
get ready to leave. Just pull the door to and that's all."

"Ain't you afraid to sleep here all by yourself?" the girl asked. "I'd
be afraid somebody'd slip in and grab me."

"I could scarcely blame any one for grabbing you, my dear," the old man
replied, smiling upon her, "but as for myself, the grabber would get the
worst of it."

A long time they sat and talked of neighborhood happenings, the death of
a burly man who it was never supposed could die before Wash Sanders was
laid away; they talked of the growing dissatisfaction among the negroes,
of the church built by Father Brennon, of the trip to be taken to New
Orleans by Jim and Tom. The fire-light died down. A chunk fell and the
dog jumped up with a sniff and a sneeze. Old Gideon took no notice, for
leaning back against the wall he was softly snoring.

"Let us leave him just as he is," said Tom.

"But it looks cruel," the girl replied.

"He suffers from sleeplessness; to wake him would be more cruel