When Nan came in sight of the court-house she saw a crowd of men and boys gazing at some spectacle on the side opposite her.  Some were laughing, while others had serious faces.  Among them she noticed Francis Bethune, and she also saw Gabriel, who was standing apart from the rest with a very gloomy countenance.  Arriving near the crowd, she paused to discover what had excited their curiosity; and there before her eyes, seated on the court-house steps, was Mr. Billy Sanders, relating to an imaginary audience some choice incidents in his family history.  His hat was off, and his face was very red.

As Nan listened, he was telling how his “pa” and “ma” had married in South Carolina, and had subsequently moved to Jasper County in Georgia.  In coming away (according to Mr. Sanders’s version), they had fetched a half dozen hogs too many, and maybe a cow or two that didn’t belong to them.  By-and-by the owners of the stock appeared in the neighbourhood where Mr. Sanders, Sr., had settled, found the missing property, and carried him away with them.  They had, or claimed to have, a warrant, and they hustled the pioneer off to South Carolina, and put him in jail.

“Now, Sally Hart was Nancy’s own gal,” said Mr. Sanders, pausing to take a nip from a bottle he carried in his pocket.  “She was a chip off’n the old block ef they ever was a block that had a chip.  So Sally (that was ma) she went polín’ off to Sou’ Ca’liny.  The night she got to whar she was agwine, she tore a hole in the side of the jail that you could ‘a’ driv a buggy through.  Then she took poor pa by one ear, an’ fetched him home.  An’ that ain’t all.  Arter she got him home, she took a rawhide an’ liter’ly wore pa out.  She said arterwards that she didn’t larrup him for fetchin’ the stock off, but for layin’ up there in jail an’ lettin’ his crap spile.  Well, that frailin’ made a good Christian of pa.  He j’ined the church, an’ would ‘a’ been a preacher, but ma wouldn’t let him.  She allowed they’d be too much gaddin’ about, an’ maybe a little too much honeyin’ up wi’ the sisterin’.  ‘No,’ says she, ’ef you want to do good prayin’, pray whilst you’re ploughin’.  I’ll look arter the hoein’ myself,’ says she.”

Mr. Sanders was not regarded as a dangerous man in his cups, but on one well-remembered occasion he had fired into a crowd of men who were inclined to be too familiar, and since that day he had been given a wide berth when he took a seat on the court-house steps and began to recite his family history.  While Nan stood there, Mr. Sanders drew a pistol from his pocket, and, smiling blandly, began to flourish it around.  As he did so, Gabriel Tolliver sprang into the street and ran rapidly toward him.  Some one in the crowd uttered a cry of warning.  Seized by some blind impulse Nan ran after Gabriel.  Francis Bethune caught her arm as she ran by him, but she wrenched herself from his grasp, and ran faster than ever.

“Stand back there!” exclaimed Mr. Sanders in an angry voice, raising his pistol.  For one brief moment, the spectators thought that Gabriel was doomed, for he went on without wavering.  But he was really in no danger.  Mr. Sanders had mistaken him for some of the young men who had been taunting him as they stood at a safe distance.  But when he saw who it was, he replaced the pistol in his pocket, remarking, “You ought to hang out your sign, Gabe.  Ef I hadn’t ‘a’ had on my furseein’ specks, I’m afear’d I’d a plugged you.”

At that moment Nan arrived on the scene, her anger at white heat.  She caught her breath, and then stood looking at Mr. Sanders, with eyes that fairly blazed with scorn and anger.  “Ef looks’d burn, honey, they wouldn’t be a cinder left of me,” said Mr. Sanders, moving uneasily.  “Arter she’s through wi’ me, Gabriel, plant me in a shady place, an’ make old Tar-Baby thar,” indicating Tasma Tid, who had followed Nan-“make old Tar-Baby thar set on my grave, an’ warm it up once in awhile.  I leave you my Sunday shirts wi’ the frills on ’em, Gabriel, an’ my Sunday boots wi’ the red tops; an’ have a piece put in the Malvern paper, statin’ that I was one of the most populous and public-sperreted citizens of the county.  An’ tell how I went about killin’ jimson weeds an’ curkle-burrs for my neighbours by blowin’ my breath on ’em.”

What Nan had intended to say, she left unsaid.  Her feelings reacted while Mr. Sanders was talking, and she turned her back on him and began to cry.  Under the circumstances, it was the very thing to do.  Mr. Sanders’s face fell.  “I’ll tell you the honest truth, Gabriel-I never know’d that anybody in the roun’ world keer’d a continental whether I was drunk or sober, alive or dead; an’ I’d lots ruther some un ’d stick a knife through my gizzard than to see that child cryin’.”

He rose and went to Nan-he was not too tipsy to walk-and tried to lay his hand on her arm, but she whirled away from him.  “Honey,” he said, “what must I do?  I’ll do anything in the world you say.”

“Go home and try to be decent,” she answered.

“I will, honey, ef you an’ Gabriel will go wi’ me.  I need some un for to keep the boogers off.  You git on the lead side, honey, an’ Gabriel, you be the off-hoss.  Now, hitch on here”-he held out both elbows, so that each could take him by an arm-“an’ when you’re ready to start, give the word.”

Nan dried her eyes as quickly as she could, but before she would consent to go with Mr. Sanders, insisted on searching him.  She found a flask of apple-brandy, and hurled it against the side of the court-house.

“Nan,” he said ruefully, “that’s twice you’ve broke my heart in a quarter of an hour.  Ain’t there some way you can break Gabriel’s?” He paused and sniffed the fumes of the apple-brandy.  “It’s a mighty good thing court ain’t in session,” he remarked, “bekaze the judge an’ jury an’ all the lawyers would come pourin’ out for to smell at that wall there.  You say they ain’t no way for you to break Gabriel’s heart, too?” he asked again, turning to Nan.

“I just know my eyes are a sight,” she said in reply.  “Are they red and swollen, Gabriel?”

“They are somewhat red, but -”

“But what?” she asked, as Gabriel paused.

“They are just as pretty as ever.”

“Mr. Sanders, that is the first compliment he ever paid me in his life.”

“You’ll remember it longer on that account,” said Mr. Sanders.  “Gabriel is lazy-minded, but he’ll brighten up arter awhile.  Speakin’ of fust an’ last, an’ things of that kind,” he went on, “I reckon this is the fust time I ever come betwixt you children.  I hope no harm’s done.”

“Well, sir,” said Nan, addressing Gabriel with a pretty formality, “since you are kind enough to pay me a compliment, I’ll be bold enough to ask you to take tea with me this evening; and I’ll have no refusal.”

Gabriel found himself in an awkward predicament.  He felt bound to discover what part the Union League was playing.  He had read of its sinister influence in other parts of the South, and he judged that the hour of its organisation at Shady Dale was the aptest time for such a discovery.  He couldn’t tell Nan what his plans were-he had no idea that she had already guessed them-and he hardly knew what to say.  He was thoroughly uncomfortable.  He was silent so long that Mr. Sanders had an opportunity to ask Nan if she hadn’t made a remark to Gabriel.

“Yes; I asked him to tea,” she replied in a low voice; “he has forgotten it by this time.”  But Nan well knew why Gabriel was silent; she was neither vexed nor surprised at his hesitation.  Nevertheless, she must play her part.

“Give him time, Nan; give him time,” said Mr. Sanders, consolingly.  “Gabriel comes of a stuttering family.  They say it took his grandma e’en about seven year to tell Dick Lumsden she’d have him.  I lay Gabriel is composin’ in his mind a flowery piece sorter like, ‘Here’s my heart, an’ here’s my hand; ef you ax me to tea, I’m your’n to command.’”

“I’m sorry I can’t come, Nan, but I can’t; and it’s just my luck that you should invite me to-day,” said Gabriel, finally.

“You have another engagement?” asked Nan.

“No, not an engagement,” he replied.

“Well, you are going to do something very unnecessary and improper,” said Nan, with the air and tone of a mature woman.  “You are sure to get into trouble.  Why don’t you ask your Mr. Bethune to take your place, or at least go with you?”

“Why, you talk as if you knew what I am going to do,” remarked Gabriel; “but you couldn’t guess in a week.”

At this point Mr. Sanders tried to stop in order to deliver an address.  “I bet you-I bet you a seven-pence ag’in a speckled hen that Nan knows precisely what you’re up to.”

But Nan and Gabriel pulled him along in spite of his frequently expressed desire to “lay down in the road an’ take a nap.”  “It’s a shame,” he said, “for a great big gal an’ a great big boy to be harryin’ a man as old as me.  Why don’t you ketch hands an’ run to play?  No, nothin’ will do, but you must worry William H. Sanders, late of said county.”  He received no reply to this, and continued:  “I’m glad I took too much, Gabriel, ef only for one thing.  You know what I told you about Nan’s temper-well, you’ve seed it for yourself.  She’s frailed Frank, she’d ‘a’ frailed me jest now ef you hadn’t ‘a’ been on hand, an’ she’ll frail you out before long.  She’s jest turrible.”

Mr. Sanders kept up his good-humour all the way home, and when he had been placed in charge of Uncle Plato, who knew how to deal with him, he said:  “Now, fellers, I had a mighty good reason for restin’ my mind.  You cried bekase old Billy Sanders was drunk, didn’t you, Nan?  Well, I’m mighty glad you did.  I never know’d before that a sob or two would make a Son of Temperance of a man; but that’s what they’ll do for me.  Nobody in this world will ever see me drunk ag’in.  So long!”

It may be said here that Mr. Sanders kept his promise.  The events which followed required clear heads and steady hands for their shaping, but each crisis, as it arose, found Mr. Sanders, and a few others who acted with him, fully prepared to meet it, though there were times and occasions when he, as well as the rest, was overtaken by a profound sense of his helplessness.  Some fell into melancholy, and some were overtaken by dejection, but Mr. Sanders never for a moment forgot to be cheerful.

“I don’t suppose there is another girl in the country who would make such a spectacle of herself as I made to-day,” said Nan, as she and Gabriel walked slowly in the direction of town.

“What do you mean?” inquired Gabriel.

“You know well enough,” replied Nan.  “Why, think of a young woman rushing across the public square in the face of a crowd, and doing as I did!  I’ll be the talk of the town.  What is your opinion?”

“Well, considering who the man was, and everything, I think it was very becoming in you,” replied Gabriel.

“Oh, thank you!” said Nan.  “Under the circumstances, you could say no less.  You have changed greatly, Gabriel, since Eugenia Claiborne began to make eyes at you.  You seem to think it is a mark of politeness to pay compliments right and left, and to agree with everybody.  No doubt, if an invitation to tea had come from further up the street, you would have found some excuse for accepting.”

Nan’s logic was quite feminine, but Gabriel took no advantage of that fact.  “I’m sorry I can’t come, Nan, and I hope you’ll not be angry.”

“Angry! why should I be angry?” Nan exclaimed.  “An invitation to tea is not so important.”

“But this one is important to me,” said Gabriel.  “It is the first time you have asked me, and I hope it won’t be the last.”

Nan said nothing more until she bade Gabriel good-bye at her father’s gate.  He thought she was angry, while she was wondering if he considered her bold.