“Walk in, suh, walk right in,” said Jack Hicks, hospitably, “day or night you're welcome--as welcome as the Major himself.” He drew back and stood with the lamplight full upon him--a loose, ill-proportioned figure, with a flabby face and pale blue eyes set under swollen lids. “I want something to eat, Jack,” returned Dan, as he entered and put down his lantern, “and a place to sleep--in fact I want anything you have to offer.” Then, as Mrs. Hicks appeared upon the stair, he greeted her, despite his weariness, with something of his old jesting manner. “I am begging a supper,” he remarked affably, as he shook her hand, “and I may as well confess, by the way, that I am positively starving.” The woman beamed upon him, as women always did, and while she led the way into the little dining room, and set out the cold meat and bread upon the oil-cloth covering of the table, she asked him eager questions about the Major and Mrs. Lightfoot, which he aroused himself to parry with a tired laugh. She was tall and thin, with a wrinkled brown face, and a row of curl papers about her forehead. Her faded calico wrapper hung loosely over her nightgown, and he saw her bare feet through the cracks in her worn-out leather slippers. “The poor young gentleman is all but dead,” she said at last. “You give him his supper, Jack, and I'll go right up to fix his room. To think of his walkin' ten miles in the pitch blackness--the poor young gentleman.” She went out, her run down slippers flapping on the stair, and Dan, as he ate his ham and bread, listened impatiently to the drawling voice of Jack Hicks, who discussed the condition of the country while he drew apple cider from a keg into a white china pitcher. As he talked, his fat face shone with a drowsy good-humour, and his puffed lids winked sleepily over his expressionless blue eyes. He moved heavily as if his limbs were forever coming in the way of his intentions.