“Were the negroes not improving?” she asked. Her companion’s whole manner changed. She was surprised to see what a keen glance was suddenly shot at her from under his light brows. “Not as I can see—You can see ’em yonder for yourself.” “Do they ever give you trouble?” “Me?—No’m; don’t never give _me_ trouble,” he answered, negligently. “Don’ give nobody as much trouble as they did.” Mrs. Welch was just thinking this corroborative of her own views when he, with his back to her, stooped for something, and the butt of a pistol gleamed in his trousers pocket. Mrs. Welch froze up. She could hardly refrain from speaking of it. She understood now the significance of his speech. Just then there was quite a roar outside, followed by the rattle of wheels, and the next instant Mrs. Welch’s vehicle drew up to the door. For a moment Mrs. Welch’s heart failed her, and she regretted the enterprise which had committed her to such a combination. In the shafts of a rickety little wagon—the wheels of which wobbled in every direction and made four distinct tracks—was a rickety little yellow horse which at that moment, to the great diversion of the crowd of negroes outside, was apparently attempting to back the wagon through a fence. One instant he sat down in the shafts, and the next reared and plunged and tried to go any way but the right way. Two negroes were holding on to him while the others were shouting with laughter and delight. The driver was a spare, dingy-looking countryman past middle age, and was sitting in the wagon, the only creature in sight that appeared to be unmoved by the excitement. Mrs. Welch’s heart sank, and even after the plunging little animal was quieted she would have declined to go; but it was too late now. She had never put her hand to the plough and turned back. “I can manage him,” said the driver serenely, seeing her hesitation. And as there were many assurances that he was “all right now,” and everyone was expecting her to get in, she summoned the courage and climbed in. It was a wearying drive. The roads were the worst Mrs. Welch had ever seen, but, in one way, there was excitement enough. The tedium was relieved by the occasional breaking of the harness and the frequent necessity of dismounting to walk up the hill when the horse balked. The day before had been very warm, and Mrs. Welch’s journey had not been a comfortable one, and this last catastrophe capped the climax. But she did not complain—she considered querulousness a sin—it was a sign of weakness. Perhaps, she even found a certain satisfaction in her discomfort. She had not come for comfort. But when the harness broke for the half-dozenth time, she asked: “Why don’t you keep your harness in good order?” The somewhat apathetic look in the driver’s face changed. “‘Tain’t my harness.” “Well, whosever it is, why don’t he keep it in order?” “You’ll have to ask Dill that,” he said, dryly. When, a few minutes later, they came to their next stand she began again: