“The right thing,” moaned the old woman, as she sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “Mr. Trabue,” she went on, fiercely, “when that factory stock leaves our hands we won't have a single thing to our names that will bring in a cent of income. You kin see how bad it is on a woman who has worked as hard to do fer her children as I have. Mr. Bishop always said Adele, who is visitin' her uncle's family in Atlanta, should have that stock for a weddin'-gift, ef she ever married, an' Alan was to have the lower half of this farm. Now what would we have to give the girl--nothin' but thousands o' acres o' hills, mountains an' gulches full o' bear, wild-cats, and catamounts--land that it ud break any young couple to hold on to--much less put to any use. Oh, I feel perfectly sick over it.” There was a heavy, dragging step in the hall, and a long, lank man of sixty or sixty-five years of age paused in the doorway. He had no beard except a tuft of gray hair on his chin, and his teeth, being few and far between, gave to his cheeks a hollow appearance. He was Abner Daniel, Mrs. Bishop's bachelor brother, who lived in the family. “Hello!” he exclaimed, shifting a big quid of tobacco from one cheek to the other; “plottin' agin the whites? Ef you are, I 'll decamp, as the feller said when the bull yeerlin' butted 'im in the small o' the back. How are you, Mr. Trabue? Have they run you out o' town fer some o' yore legal rascality?” “I reckon your sister thinks it's rascality that's brought me out to-day,” laughed the lawyer. “We are on a little land deal.” “Oh, well, I 'll move on,” said Abner Daniel. “I jest wanted to tell Alan that Rigg's hogs got into his young corn in the bottom jest now an' rooted up about as many acres as Pole Baker's ploughed all day. Ef they'd a-rooted in straight rows an' not gone too nigh the stalks they mought 'a' done the crap more good than harm, but the'r aim or intention, one or t'other, was bad. Folks is that away; mighty few of 'em root--when they root at all--fer anybody but the'rse'ves. Well, I 'll git along to my room.” “Don't go, brother Ab,” pleaded his sister. “I want you to he'p me stand up fer my rights. Alfred is about to swap our cotton-mill stock fer some more wild mountain-land.” In spite of his natural tendency to turn everything into a jest--even the serious things of life--the sallow face of the tall man lengthened. He stared into the faces around him for a moment, then a slow twinkle dawned in his eye.