Involuntarily Fanny laughed, but Bill construed it into approval, and was about to sit down by her, when Tiger, with an angry growl, sprang forward and precipitated the wooing swain over the log into the dirt. Fanny called off the dog, and Bill gathered himself up, carefully brushing the dirt from his Sunday suit. Fearing he would repeat his offer, Fanny said, "I appreciate your kindness, Billy, but you see Tiger doesn’t seem to approve of your proposal, and as I have great confidence in his judgment, I think I, too, must follow his example, and though I shan’t knock you down, I shall have to tell you ’No.’" She might as well have knocked him down, for he instantly sat down, and covering his face with his hands, burst into such a fit of crying that Fanny, half-laughing at and half-pitying him, said, "Poor Billy, I am sorry for you, and though I cannot marry you, I will like you just as well as you fancy I always have." This failed to quiet Bill, who kept on crying until Tiger made so many threatening demonstrations of anger, that Bill thought it was wise to leave before he got another tumble. He had hardly disappeared when a loud voice called out, "Bravo, Tiger! You know how to fix ’em." Looking around, Fanny saw her father, who had been a silent spectator of the scene, and now came forward laughing heartily at his would-be son-in-law. "Pretty well done, Sunshine," said he. "Let’s see, how many offers does this make? Thar’s Joe’s one, the doctor’s two; Yankee Carmeron’s three; and lubberin’ Bill Jeffrey’s four, and you not quite eighteen. That’ll do; that’ll do!" Afterward, when Mr. Middleton wished to entertain his visitors with anything extra, he would rehearse to them, with some exaggerations, Bill Jeffrey’s proposal to Fanny. Glancing backward a few pages, we find we have omitted to repeat what happened among Dr. Lacey’s blacks during the days when they were anxiously but vainly watching for the coming of their young master and his bride. For a week Aunt Dilsey was unusually crusty, and all her attempts at cookery invariably failed, plainly showing her mind to be in a disturbed state. "I don’t keer," she would say, "if the cakes is all dough and the ’sarves all froth. They’s good enough for her, any day." Then she would call out, "Get along you, Jack, pokin’ your fingers into the ’lasses cup; make yourself scarce in this kitchen, or I’ll crack your head mighty nigh as hard as the new Miss will." Then she would scold Leffie, who, she said, "was of no more account than a burnt stick, now she was spectin’ Rondeau. Pity but the boat he come on wouldn’t blow up and let ’em all into perdition together." Leffie knew her mother didn’t mean more than half what she said, but she chose to keep silent, hoping each morning that the close of the day would bring the long absent Rondeau. Thus, between scolding and fretting, cooking and sweating, Aunt Dilsey passed the time until the day arrived on which, as she said, "they’d come if they ever did."