“You here, Billy Aarons?” said young De Zhirley, as he approached the fire; and his voice had no joy in it. His blind eye was toward the stair door, for the Calhoun fiddler was a one-eyed man. This defacement scarcely marred the beauty of the athletic man thrown out by firelight. Jeanne Sattory had, indeed, never seen him without pitying people who were two-eyed. His misused skin yet held the milk and wine flush of childhood, and his fleece of red-gold rings was a gift not to be spoiled. “Yes, I’m here, Theodore,” said the man in the chair thickly. “Mother Roundcounter has been here too,” added De Zhirley, as he looked about. “It makes a feller feel good to see his house clean and smell new bread.” He hung a teakettle on the crane, and thrust a fork through some bacon to toast on the polished hearthstone. Then he drew his table toward the fireplace, and Jeanne could see his appreciative touch on the yellow ware she had washed. “What do you want, Billy? Did you come in to take a bite with me?” “No.” Aarons stirred from his doze. “I’m buyin’ cattle, Theodore.” “No cattle to sell here.” “I know it, Theodore. You’re a poor man by the side of me.” Indifferent to this fact, De Zhirley turned his bacon and proceeded to make coffee. “You’re a poor man, Theodore,” repeated the heavy guest, “and I’ve got all my father had.” “And all his second wife had,” added young De Zhirley, with a one-eyed glance of contempt, at which Aarons made a fist. “You go upstairs and sleep off what’s the matter with you, after I give you some coffee.” “That’s not what I come for. You’re a poor man, Theodore.” “Well, don’t let that keep you awake; it don’t me.” “You hain’t got no cattle, nor much land, nor even two eyes.” “And what do _you_ want on my blind side, Billy?” “But you’ve got a fiddle. Yes; you’ve got a fiddle.” De Zhirley moved back and took his violin off the wall with a jealous motion. It was his custom to play while his supper cooked; but as he felt the bow with his thumb, and fitted the instrument to his neck, he looked distrustfully at Aarons. The first sweet long cry filled the cabin. The fiddler gradually approached the hearth, playing as he came, and Aarons’s head, hands, and feet responded to the magic. De Zhirley’s back was toward Jeanne, but she saw joy in his whole bearing, and herself felt the piercing rapture of sound. “Let me see that fiddle,” demanded Aarons, when the young man finished and put down his bow, and brought the coffee-pot to set on the coals. De Zhirley turned a distrustful eye, but no precious violin toward his guest. “Let me see that fiddle, I say,” repeated Aarons, rising up. “Behave yourself,” said the young man, standing a head above him, and humoring him as a child might be humored by half granting his request. The fellow handled its ancient body, and looked at Stradivari’s inscription. “What’s that there, Theodore?” “That’s the maker’s name.” “Seventeen hunderd and--what’s them figgers?”