"This union was blessed,"--say the newspapers and story-books, speaking of a marriage,--"with a beautiful girl," or a "manly boy." Often this phrase is flattery, but sometimes, as in this instance, it is the truth. Lou Starbuck was beautiful. In her earlier youth she was a delicious little riot of joy. As she grew older, she was sometimes serious with the thought that her father and mother had suffered. She loved the truth and believed that bravery was not only akin to godliness, but the right hand of godliness. In Starbuck's household, or at least attached to his log-house establishment, there were two other persons, an old black mammy who had nursed Jasper, and a trifling negro named Kintchin. * * * * * One day in summer there came two notable visitors, Mrs. Mayfield, and her nephew Tom Elliott, both from Nashville, sister and son of a United States Judge. When they came to Jasper's house, they decided to go no further. "Tom," said the woman, "this is the place we are looking for." Tom caught sight of Lou Starbuck, standing in the doorway, and replied: "Auntie, I guess you are right." The mere suggestion of taking boarders threw the household into a flurry, but Mrs. Mayfield, tall, graceful, handsome, threw her charm upon opposition and it faded away. Old Jasper was not over cordial to "store clothes," at least he was not confidential, and with the keen whip of his eye he lashed Tom Elliott, but the boy appeared to be frank and manly. "Of course you can stay as long as you want to," said Jasper, "but I reckon you'll have to put on some homespun and a checked hickory shirt or two, befo' you kin put up with our fare." "Now, please, don't worry about that," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "We can eat parched corn if necessary. We have come from the city to rest, and--" "Rest," Jasper broke in, looking at the young fellow. "Why, he don't look like he ever done anythin'. Never plowed a day in your life, did you?" "I must confess that I haven't," Tom replied. "Thar, I knowed it." And then speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, he added: "All right, mam, we'll do the best we kin fur you. Got the same names here that you had down whar you come from?" Tom laughed. His aunt reproved him with a look. "Why, of course. What object would we have in changing them?" "Don't ask me, mam. I never know what object nobody has--ain't my business. Here, Kintchin," he called to the negro, "take them trunks outen the wagin and then you may go to sleep ag'in." Kintchin came round a corner of the house, rubbing his eyes. "Talkin' ter me, suh?" "You hearn me." "Said suthin' erbout gwine ter sleep. I jest wanter tell you dat I ain't slep' none fur er week, an' ef you 'sinuate at me--" "Go on there. Now mam, ef you'll jest step in we'll do the best we kin." "Oh, thank you. How courteous you are."