"Thomas, ye ortn't ter plague Milly so much, ye'll spile her temper. Milly's a mighty good gal," said Mrs. White in a tone half entreaty and half command. It was easy to see that Mrs. White ruled the cabin. After a moment of silence, "She's oneasy 'bout the Colonel, now, but then hit's no use, he's all right, rain er shine," responded the man. Moreton, whose eyes furtively followed the girl as she left the room, saw that the apartment into which she passed was neatly carpeted and furnished with well-worn easy-chairs, a table and a desk. Between the opening and closing of the door he caught sight, also, of long shelves of books and some pictures. The room appeared quite large and arranged as if for a gentleman's study. The contrast between its almost elegant appointments and the arid blankness of the one in which Moreton sat was so pronounced that, despite his patrician self-control, a wave of surprise passed over his face. The quick eyes of the mountaineer saw this. "That there air the Colonel's part of the house," he hastily said, a trace of apology and disclaimer in his voice; "hit jest suits him. He's got a outdacious sight o' larnin' an' plenty o' money. He kin buy whatever he wants." "Yes," said Mrs. White, rather sharply, "an' jest es like es not he's right now a stan'in' under some tree er rock a waitin' fur the rain to quit an' a readin' of a book. Seems powerful quare to me." Moreton was almost tempted to ask questions, so quick an interest had been generated by this gossip about the Colonel. Certainly this was a strange home for a man of wealth and education. Possibly the Colonel was some sport-loving gentleman from New Orleans, Mobile or Montgomery, who had taken these apartments in the cabin as a sort of shooting-box, he thought, for he had heard much of the peculiarities and extravagances of rich Southerners. But his mental discussion of this subject was cut short by a sudden movement on the part of White, who sprang to his feet and elevated his hands. "Well, hit's jest too outdacious, Sarah," he cried, as if utterly chagrined; "jest to think, the strenger kem in wet an' soaked an' haint hed no liquor!" "'Bout like sech as we'ns to furgit what we're 'bout," responded Mrs. White; "ye'll find the dim'jon under the tother bed behind the sack o' 'taters." White dived under the bed in question and drew forth a large earthen bottle. "Hit air peach liquor," he said, advancing upon Moreton; "the best they air in these parts. Ye must parding us, strenger, fur we clean furgot hit." Mrs. White fetched a large, heavy tumbler and handed it to Moreton. "Le' me pour fur ye, stranger," said White, uncorking the bottle. "Ye'll find 'at hit air liquor wo'th a-drinkin'. Hit ain't pizened with no revenue postage, ye may set thet down solid."