He grabbed the blackened hand of each, pushing Jimmy and pulling Billy, and towed the reluctant little boys through the coach.

“Yuh sho’ is sp’iled my fun,” he growled as he hustled them across the platform to the waitingroom.  “Dis-here’s de fus’ ‘scursion I been on widout Sukey a-taggin’ long in five year an’ I aimed fo’ to roll ’em high; an’ now, ‘case o’ ketchin’ up wid y’ all, I gotta go right back home.  Now y’ all set jes’ as straight as yer kin set on dis here bench,” he admonished, “whilst I send a telegraph to Marse Jeems Garner.  An’ don’ yuh try to ’lope out on de flatform neider.  Set whar I kin keep my eye skinned on yuh, yuh little slipp’ry-ellum eels.  Den I gwine to come back an’ wash yer, so y’ all look like ’spectable white folks.”

Miss Minerva came out of her front door looking for Billy at the same time that Mrs. Garner appeared on her porch in search of Jimmy.

“William!  You William!” called one woman.

“Jimmee-ee!  O Jimmee-ee-ee!” called the other.

“Have you seen my nephew?” asked the one.

“No.  Have you seen anything of Jimmy?” was the reply of the other.

“They were talking together at the fence about an hour ago,” said Billy’s aunt.  “Possibly they are down at the livery stable with Sam Lamb; I’ll phone and find out.”

“And I’ll ring up Mrs. Black and Mrs. Hamilton.  They may have gone to see Lina or Frances.”

In a short time both women appeared on their porches again: 

“They have not been to the stable this morning,” said Miss Minerva uneasily, “and Sam went to Memphis on the excursion train.”

“And they are not with Lina or Frances,”—­Mrs. Garner’s face wore an anxious look, “I declare I never saw two such children.  Still, I don’t think we need worry as it is nearly dinner time, and they never miss their meals, you know.”

But the noon hour came and with it no hungry little boys.  Then, indeed, did the relatives of the children grow uneasy.  The two telephones were kept busy, and Mr. Garner, with several other men on horseback, scoured the village.  Not a soul had seen either child.

At three o’clock Miss Minerva, worn with anxiety and on the verge of a collapse, dropped into a chair on her veranda, her faithful Major by her side.  He had come to offer help and sympathy as soon as he heard of her distress, and, finding her in such a softened, dependent, and receptive mood, the Major had remained to try to cheer her up.

Mr. and Mrs. Garner were also on the porch, discussing what further steps they could take.

“It is all the fault of that William of yours,” snapped one little boy’s mother to the other little boy’s aunt:  “Jimmy is the best child in the world when he is by himself, but he is easily led into mischief.”

Miss Minerva’s face blazed with indignation.

“William’s fault indeed!” she answered back.  “There never was a sweeter child than William;” for the lonely woman knew the truth at last.  At the thought that her little nephew might be hurt, a long forgotten tenderness stirred her bosom and she realized for the first time how the child had grown into her life.