"Sally," the temporary chieftain spoke still in a patient, humoring
sort of voice, as to a tempestuous child, "thar hain't no place ter
mail a letter nigher then Hixon. No South can't ride inter Hixon, an'
ride out again. The mail-carrier won't be down this way fer two days
yit."
"I'm not askin' any South to ride into Hixon. I recollect another time
when Samson was the only one that would do that," she answered, still
scornfully. "I didn't come here to ask favors. I came to give orders--
for him. A train leaves soon in the morning. My letter's goin' on that
train."
"Who's goin' ter take hit ter town fer ye?"
"I'm goin' to take it for myself." Her reply was given as a matter of
course.
"That wouldn't hardly be safe, Sally," the miller demurred; "this
hain't no time fer a gal ter be galavantin' around by herself in the
night time. Hit's a-comin' up ter storm, an' ye've got thirty miles ter
ride, an' thirty-five back ter yore house."
"I'm not scared," she replied. "I'm goin' an' I'm warnin' you now, if
you do anything that Samson don't like, you'll have to answer to him,
when he comes." She turned, walking very erect and dauntless to her
sorrel mare, and disappeared at a gallop.
"I reckon," said Wile McCager, breaking the silence at last, "hit
don't make no great dif'rence. He won't hardly come, nohow." Then, he
added: "But thet boy is smart."
* * * * * Samson's return from Europe, after a year's study, was in the nature
of a moderate triumph. With the art sponsorship of George Lescott, and
the social sponsorship of Adrienne, he found that orders for portraits,
from those who could pay munificently, seemed to seek him. He was
tasting the novelty of being lionized.
That summer, Mrs. Lescott opened her house on Long Island early, and
the life there was full of the sort of gaiety that comes to pleasant
places when young men in flannels and girls in soft summery gowns and
tanned cheeks are playing wholesomely, and singing tunefully, and
making love--not too seriously.
Samson, tremendously busy these days in a new studio of his own, had
run over for a week. Horton was, of course, of the party, and George
Lescott was doing the honors as host. Besides these, all of whom
regarded themselves as members of the family, there was a group of even
younger folk, and the broad halls and terraces and tennis courts rang
all day long with their laughter, and the floors trembled at night
under the rhythmical tread of their dancing.