as well. He stood
smiling at them. Out in the yard the fox-hounds began to yelp, and a
galloping horse stopped with a loud, jolting "gluck" at the gate. Then
came authoritative commands, and then a jar as if some one had leaped
upon the porch. There was brisk walking, the opening and slamming of
doors, and then at Louise's door a voice demanded: "What are you all
doing here in the dark? Ain't supper ready? I'm as hungry as a she
bear."

The Major's son Tom had arrived. And just at that moment, and before any
one replied to him, the supper bell began to ring. "Takes me to bring
things about, eh? You people might have waited here hungry for an hour.
What are you doing here, anyway? Lou brushing mam's hair and pap looking
on like a boy at a show."

"Thomas," said his mother, "I wish you wouldn't be so rough. There,
daughter, that will do. Just coil it. That's it; thank you. Major, I do
wish you wouldn't laugh at the brusqueness of your son; you encourage
him."

Tom took his mother by the shoulders and turned her face toward the
door. He was a clean-looking, blondish fellow, younger than his
sister--an athlete, a boxer, with far more restlessness of muscle than
absorption of mind. He had failed at Harvard, where his
great-grandfather had distinguished himself; he had, with the influence
of a Congressman, secured a West Point cadetship, and there had fallen
under the rapid fire of a battery of mathematics, and had come home
scouting at the humiliation which he had put upon his parents, and was
now ready to submit himself to any other test that might present
itself--was ready to borrow, to lend, or to fight. He picked negro tunes
on a banjo, and had been heard hoarsely to sing a love song under a
cypress tree. He had now just returned from the capital of the state,
where he had spent two days watching the flank movements of a military
drill.

"You people seem to be mighty solemn," was Tom's observation as they sat
down to supper, glancing from one to another, and finally directing a
questioning look at his father. "What's the trouble? What's happened? Is
it possible that old Gideon has paid his rent?"

Louise laughed, a wrinkle crept across Mrs. Cranceford's brow and the
Major sprawled back with a loud "haw." Gid's rent was a standing joke;
and nothing is more sacredly entitled to instant recognition than a joke
that for years has been established in a Southern household.

"I notice that he never goes into the Major's