Steve Allen intended to practise law as soon as matters settled themselves. As yet, however, he could not engage in any profession. He had not yet determined to take the oath of allegiance. Meantime, to the great happiness of his cousins, especially of Miss Thomasia, he deferred going to the county seat and, moved by the grassy appearance of the once beautifully cultivated fields of Red Rock, began farming. Perhaps, it was sheer pride and dislike of meeting Middleton at the court-house under circumstances so different from those under which they had met last; perhaps it was the pleasure of being near Birdwood that kept him. It was very pleasant when his day’s work was done, to don his old gray jacket, play gentleman once more, and ride across the river of an evening; lounge on the grass under the big trees at Birdwood, and tease Blair Cary about Jacquelin, until her eyes flashed, and she let out at him, as he used to say, “like a newly bridled filly.” So he hitched his war-horses, Hotspur and Kate, to ploughs and ploughed day by day, while he made his boy, Jerry, plough furrow for furrow near him, under promise of half of his share of their crop if he kept up, and of the worst “lambing” he had ever had in his life if he did not. Jerry was a long, slim, young negro, as black as tar. He was the grandson of old Peggy, Steve’s mammy, and had come from the far South. Where Steve had got him during the war no one knew except Steve and Jerry themselves. Steve said he found him hanging to a tree and cut him down because he wanted the rope; but that if he had known Jerry as well then as he did afterward, he would have left him hanging. At this explanation, Jerry always grinned, exhibiting two rows of white teeth which looked like corn from a full ear. Jerry was a drunkard, a liar, and a thief. But one thing was certain: he adored Steve, who in return for that virtue bore delinquencies which no one else in the world would have tolerated. Jerry had one other trait which recommended him to his master: he was as brave as a lion; he would not have been afraid of the devil himself unless he had taken on the shape of Mr. Stevenson Allen, of whom alone Jerry stood in wholesome awe. Steve’s bucolic operations came somewhat suddenly to an end. One evening, after a hard day’s work, he met Wash Still dressed up and driving a new buggy, turning in at Dr. Cary’s gate. He was “going to consult Dr. Cary about a case,” he said. Next day, as Steve was working in the field, he saw Wash driving down the hill from the manager’s house with the same well-appointed rig. Steve stopped in the row and looked at him as he drove past. Just then Jerry came up. His eye followed his master’s, and his face took on an expression of scorn.