all of us to our teeth was Cap. Westerfelt's
boy--by God, I jest want some hound dog to come an' take my place on
God's earth--so I do. I want some able-bodied cornfield nigger to wear
a hickory-withe out on my bare back." Then he dropped Westerfelt's
hand and strode away.

Chapter XV

Westerfelt accepted the urgent invitation of the Bradleys to live in
their house awhile. For the first week his wound gave him pain and his
appetite failed him, which was due as much, perhaps, to mental as
bodily trouble, for Harriet Floyd was on his mind constantly.
Thoroughly disgusted with himself for having in the past treated the
hearts of women lightly, he now drew the rein of honor tightly when he
thought of his position and hers. He told himself he would never go to
see her again till he had made up his mind to forget her love for
Wambush and every rasping fact pertaining to it, and honorably ask her
to be his wife. There were moments in which he wondered if she were
not, on her part, trying to forget him, and occasionally, when his
spirits sank lowest, he actually harbored the fear that her affection
might already have returned to Wambush. He recalled something he had
once heard that a woman would love a man who was unfortunate more
surely than one who was not, and this thought almost drove him mad with
jealousy, for was she not likely, through pity, to send her heart after
the exile? Now and then, in passing the hotel, he caught a glimpse of
Harriet on the veranda or at the window, but she always turned away, as
if she wished to avoid meeting him, and this pained him, too, for she
had become his very life, and such cold encounters were like permanent
steps towards losing her forever, which, somehow, had never quite
shaped itself into a possibility in his mind.

It was a warm day in the middle of November, Westerfelt and Washburn
stood at the stable waiting for the hack, which, once a day, brought
the mail and passengers from Darley. It had come down the winding red
clay road and stopped at the hotel before going on to the stable.

"I see a woman on the back seat," remarked Washburn. "Wonder why she
didn't git out at the hotel."

In a moment the hack was in front of the stable, and Budd Ridly, the
driver, had sprung down and was helping a woman out on the opposite
side. When she had secured her shawl and little carpet-bag, she walked
round the hack and came towards Westerfelt.

It was Sue Dawson. She wore