“No, it's very foolish of him,” said the young man as the two turned towards the house. “Father keeps talking about the fine timber on such property, but it is entirely too far from a railroad ever to be worth anything. I asked Rayburn Miller about it and he told me to do all I could to stop father from investing, and you know he's as sharp a speculator as ever lived; but it's his money.” There was a paling fence around the house, and the enclosure was alive with chickens, turkeys, geese, ducks, and peafowls. In the sunshine on the veranda two pointers lay sleeping, but at the sound of the opening gate they rose, stretched themselves lazily, and gaped. “They are in the parlor,” said Mrs. Bishop, as she whisked off her breakfast shawl. “Go right in, I 'll come in a minute. I want to see how Linda is makin' out with the churnin'. La! I feel like it's a waste o' time to do a lick o' work with him in thar actin' like a child. Ef we both go in together it 'll look like we've concocked somethin', but we must stop 'im ef we kin.” Alan went into the parlor on the left of the wide, uncarpeted hall. The room had white plastered walls, but the ceiling was of boards planed by hand and painted sky blue. In one corner stood a very old piano with pointed, octagonal legs and a stool with hair-cloth covering. The fireplace was wide and high, and had a screen made of a decorated window-shade tightly pasted on a wooden frame. Old man Bishop sat near a window, and through his steel-framed nose-glasses was carefully reading a long document written on legal-cap paper. He paid no attention to the entrance of his son, but the lawyer, a short, fat man of sixty-five with thick black hair that fell below his coat-collar, rose and extended his hand. “How's Alan?” he asked, pleasantly. “I saw you down in the field as I come along, but I couldn't catch your eye. You see I'm out after some o' your dad's cash. He's buying hisse'f rich. My Lord! if it ever _does_ turn his way he 'll scoop in enough money to set you and your sister up for life. Folks tell me he owns mighty near every stick of timber-land in the Cohutta Valley, and what he has he got at the bottom figure.” “If it ever turns his way,” said Alan; “but do you see any prospect of it's ever doing so, Mr. Trabue?” The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. “I never bet on another man's trick, my boy, and I never throw cold water on the plans of a speculator. I used to when I was about your age, but I saw so many of 'em get rich by paying no attention to me that I quit right off. A man ought to be allowed to use his own judgment.” Old Bishop was evidently not hearing a word of this conversation, being wholly absorbed in studying the details of the deed before him. “I reckon it's all right,” he finally said. “You say the Tompkins children are all of age?”