“All right, baby,” Hoag said, in a tone of blended anger and gentleness, and with the child in his arms he went through the dark hall into the diningroom adjoining the kitchen in the rear of the house. Here, at the table next to his own place, he put Jack into the child's high-chair, and sat down beside him, his massive arm and hand still encircling the tiny shoulders. “Now, make Dilly bring Jack's mush an' milk!” Hoag said, with a laugh. “Call 'er--call 'er loud!” “Dilly!” Jack obeyed. “Oh, Dilly!” “Louder; she didn't hear you.” Hoag shook with laughter, and patted the child on the head encouragingly. “Dilly! Oh, Dilly!” Jack cried. “Oh, I hear you, young marster,” the portly negress laughed, as she shuffled into the room. “I was gittin' yo' mush en milk, honey. I 'clar', 'fo' de Lawd you make me jump out'n my skin, I was so scared.” “Where's the rest o' the folks?” Hoag inquired, with an impatient glance toward the door. “Bofe of 'em say dey don't want er bite after eatin' all dat watermelon dis evenin',” the cook answered. “Miz Hoag say she gwine ter lie down right off, kase she got off dat hot dress en feel weak after so much doin's terday. She ain't er well 'oman, Marse Hoag--she ain't, suh. I know, kase I seed er lots of um in my day en time. She hain't got no spirit, suh; en when 'omen git dat way it's er bad sign o' what may come.” Hoag showed no interest in the comment. He reached for the big platter of cold string-beans and boiled pork, and helped himself abundantly. He poured out his own coffee, and drank it hot from the saucer without sugar or cream. He used both hands in breaking the big, oval-shaped pone of corn-bread. He enjoyed his food as a hungry beast might, and yet he paused every now and then to feed the child with a spoon or to wipe the mush from the little chin. It was Jack's drooping head and blinking eyes that caused Hoag to hasten through the meal. He took the child to the little bed in its mother's room and put it down gently. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Now go to sleep.” CHAPTER VIII |HE went back to the veranda through the unlighted hall, and stood looking across the lawn toward the gate. There was no moon; but the stars were out, and cast a soft radiance over the undulating landscape. Along the steep side of the nearest mountain forest fires in irregular lines pierced the thicker darkness of the distance, and their blue smoke drifted in lowering wisps over the level fields. “Some'n's surely up, if Trawley wants to see me to-night,” Hoag mused. “I wonder if my men--” He saw a horse and rider emerge from the gloom down the road leading on to Grayson. There was no sound of hoofs, for the animal was moving slowly, as if guided with caution. Nearer and nearer the horse approached, till it was reined in at the barnyard gate.