Part 1 (2/2)

Laying the field-gla.s.s in its accustomed place on the little table beside his chair, he picked up his hat and strode down the walk.

Colonel Lloyd's friends all said he looked like Napoleon, or rather like Napoleon might have looked had he been born and bred a Kentuckian.

He made an imposing figure in his suit of white duck.

The Colonel always wore white from May till October.

There was a military precision about him, from his erect carriage to the cut of the little white goatee on his determined chin.

No one looking into the firm lines of his resolute face could imagine him ever abandoning a purpose or being turned aside when he once formed an opinion.

Most children were afraid of him. The darkies about the place shook in their shoes when he frowned. They had learned from experience that ”ole Ma.r.s.e Lloyd had a tigah of a tempah in him.”

As he pa.s.sed down the walk there were two mute witnesses to his old soldier life. A spur gleamed on his boot heel, for he had just returned from his morning ride, and his right sleeve hung empty.

He had won his t.i.tle bravely. He had given his only son and his strong right arm to the Southern cause. That had been nearly thirty years ago.

He did not charge down on the enemy with his usual force this time. The little head, gleaming like suns.h.i.+ne in the strawberry patch, reminded him so strongly of a little fellow who used to follow him everywhere,--Tom, the st.u.r.diest, handsomest boy in the county,--Tom, whom he had been so proud of, whom he had so nearly wors.h.i.+pped.

Looking at this fair head bent over the vines, he could almost forget that Tom had ever outgrown his babyhood, that he had shouldered a rifle and followed him to camp, a mere boy, to be shot down by a Yankee bullet in his first battle.

The old Colonel could almost believe he had him back again, and that he stood in the midst of those old days the locusts sometimes whispered about.

He could not hear the happiest of little voices that was just then saying, ”Oh, Fritz, isn't you glad we came? An' isn't you glad we've got a gran'fathah with such good 'trawberries?”

It was hard for her to put the ”s” before her consonants.

As the Colonel came nearer she tossed another berry into the dog's mouth. A twig snapped, and she raised a startled face toward him.

”Suh?” she said, timidly, for it seemed to her that the stern, piercing eyes had spoken.

”What are you doing here, child?” he asked, in a voice so much kinder than his eyes that she regained her usual self-possession at once.

”Eatin' 'trawberries,” she answered, coolly.

”Who are you, anyway?” he exclaimed, much puzzled. As he asked the question his gaze happened to rest on the dog, who was peering at him through the ragged, elfish wisps of hair nearly covering its face, with eyes that were startlingly human.

”'Peak when yo'ah 'poken to, Fritz,” she said, severely, at the same time popping another luscious berry into her mouth. Fritz obediently gave a long yelp. The Colonel smiled grimly.

”What's your name?” he asked, this time looking directly at her.

”Mothah calls me her baby,” was the soft-spoken reply, ”but papa an' Mom Beck they calls me the Little Cun'l.”

”What under the sun do they call you that for?” he roared.

”'Cause I'm so much like you,” was the startling answer.

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