“But, Ann Craddock, you know nothing at all about a chicken in any more natural state than in a croquette,” stormed Matthew at me as he savagely speared one of those inoffensive articles of banquet diet with a sharp silver fork while he squared himself with equal determination between me and any possible partner for the delicious one-step that the band in the ball-room was beginning to send out in inviting waves of sound to round the dancers in from loitering over their midnight food.

“The little I do not know about the chicken business, after one week spent in pursuit of that knowledge through every weird magazine and state agricultural bulletin in the public library, even you could learn, Matthew Berry, with your lack of sympathy with the great American wealth producer, the humble female chicken known in farmer patois as a hen.  Did you know that it only costs about two dollars and thirteen cents to feed a hen a whole year and that she will produce twenty-seven dollars and a half for her owner, the darling thing?  I know I’ll just love her when I get to know her—­them better, as I will in only about eighteen hours now.”

“Ann, you are mad—­mad!” foamed Matthew, as he set down his plate of perfectly good and untasted food, and buried his head in his hands until his mop of black hair looked like a big blot of midnight.

“I’m not mad, Matthew, just dead poor, an heiress out of a job and with the necessity of earning her bread by the sweat of her brow instead of consuming cake by the labor of other people.  Uncle Cradd is coming in again with a two-horse wagon, and the carriage to move us out to Elmnest to-morrow morning.  Judge Rutherford will attend to selling all the property and settle with father’s creditors.  Another wagon is coming for father’s library, and in two days he won’t know that Uncle Cradd and I have moved him, if I can just get him started on a bat with Epictetus or old Horace.  Then me for the tall timbers and my friend the hen.

“Oh, Ann, for the love of high heaven, marry me to-morrow, and let me move you and Father Craddock over into that infernal, empty old barn I keep open as a hotel for nigger servants.  Marry me instead—­”

“Instead of the hen?” I interrupted him with a laugh.  “I can’t, Matt, you dear thing.  I honestly can’t.  I’ve got to go back to the land from which my race sprang and make it blossom into a beautiful existence for those two dear old boys.  When Uncle Cradd heard of the smash from that horrible phosphate deal he was at the door the next morning at sun-up, driving the two gray mules to one wagon himself, with old Rufus driving the gray horses hitched to that queer tumble-down, old family coach, though he hadn’t spoken to father since he married mother twenty-eight years ago.