That evening old Barnaby brought his banjo around to the veranda. Colonel Sommerton was down in town mixing with the “boys,” and doing up his final political chores so that there might be no slip on the morrow. It was near eleven o'clock when he came up the hill and stopped at the gate to hear the song that Barnaby was singing. He supposed that the old negro was all alone. Certainly the captivating voice, with its unkempt melody, and its throbbing, skipping, harum-scarum banjo accompaniment, was all that broke the silence of the place. His song was: “DE SASSAFRAS BLOOM “Dey's sugah in de win' when de sassafras bloom, When de little co'n fluttah in de row, When de robin in de tree, like er young gal in de loom, Sing sweet, sing sof', sing low. “Oh, de sassafras blossom hab de keen smell o' de root, An' it hab rich er tender yaller green! De co'n hit kinder twinkle when hit firs' begin ter shoot, While de bum'le-bee hit bum'le in between. “Oh, de sassafras tassel, an' de young shoot o' de co'n, An' de young gal er-singing in de loom, Dey's somefin' 'licious in 'em f'om de day 'at dey is bo'n, An' dis darky's sort o' took er likin' to 'm. “Hit's kind o' sort o' glor'us when yo' feels so quare an' cur'us, An' yo' don' know what it is yo' wants ter do; But I takes de chances on it 'at hit jes can't be injur'us When de whole endurin' natur tells yo' to! “Den wake up, niggah, see de sassafras in bloom! Lis'n how de sleepy wedder blow! An' de robin in de haw--bush an' de young gal in de loom Is er-singin' so sof' an' low.” “Thank you, Barn; here's your dollar,” said the voice of Tom Bannister when the song was ended. “You may go now.” And while Colonel Sommerton stood amazed, the young man came clown the veranda steps with Phyllis on his arm. They stopped when they reached the ground. “Good--night, dear. I'll win you to-morrow or my name is not Tom Bannister. I'll win you, and Sommerton Place too.” And when they parted he came right down the walk between the trees, to run almost against Colonel Sommerton. “Why, good-evening, Colonel,” he said, with a cordial, liberal spirit in his voice. “I have been waiting in hopes of seeing you.” “You'll get enough of me to-morrow to last you a lifetime, sah,” promptly responded the old man, marching straight on into the house. Nothing could express more concentrated and yet comprehensive contempt than Colonel Sommerton's manner. “The impudent young scamp,” he growled. “I'll show him!” Phyllis sprang from ambush behind a vine, and covered her father's face with warm kisses, then broke away before he could say a word, and ran up to her room. In the distant kitchen Barnaby was singing: “Kick so high I broke my neck, An' fling my right foot off'm my leg Went to work mos' awful quick, An' mended 'em wid er wooden peg.”