Paul Conant came home to supper, and in the sitting-room, before the meal was announced, I observed that the Major was as solicitous about him as a mother is of her baby. His eyes were constantly on his son-in-law, and if the latter showed any sign of worry, or frowned as if in pain, a shadow would pass over the Major’s genial face. [Illustration: “I saw him fling his hand to his shoulder and hold it there.”] This intense solicitude was something out of the usual order, and I wondered what was behind it. But the next day it was forgotten, nor was it remembered until Aunt Minervy Ann reminded me of it. I had been faithful in my attendance on the fair, had listened patiently to the speeches, and had then tried to refresh my benumbed faculties with such fare as could be found on the grounds—barbecue, pickles, and ginger-cakes. But the occasion had been too much for me, and so, about two o’clock in the afternoon, I decided to return to my quarters at Major Perdue’s home and rest my weary limbs. The very thought of the quiet and cool house was refreshing, and so, without waiting for a conveyance, I set out on foot, going through the woods in preference to the public highway, thereby cutting the distance short by nearly a mile. A great many others had taken advantage of the short-cut through the woods, so that I had no lack of company. Among them I noticed Aunt Minervy and her husband, Hamp, the latter carrying the Conant baby, which, having had enough of the pomps and vanities of this life for the time being, was now fast asleep. I soon came up with the trio, and we went along home together. “You toughed it out mighty well, suh,” remarked Aunt Minervy Ann, after some talk about the various attractions of the fair. “Up dar in Atlanty deze kinder doin’s would be laughed at, I ’speck, but hit’s de bes’ we-all kin do. Me an’ Miss Vallie had some truck dar, speshually dat ar grape jelly on de right han’ side. Ef dat jelly don’t git de blue ribbon er sump’n better, hit’ll be bakaze dem ar jedgment men ain’t got no sense—I don’t keer who dey is. Ain’t you see dat ar quilt hangin’ up dar wid a pattern in it like a well-whorl, only de middle er de whorl was shape like de mornin’ star? Dat ar quilt is older dan what you is, suh—lots older. Me an’ Mistiss made dat quilt long ’fo’ Miss Vallie wuz born, an’ dish yer baby’ll tell you she ain’t no chicken. Ef dey’s any purtier quilt on dat hill dey had it hid ter-day; dey ain’t brung it out whar folks kin look at it. I dunno much, but I knows dat much.”