quavering voice of an old man.

"Chad Buford, you little devil, come hyeh this minute or I'll beat the life
outen you!"

"What--what!" said the Major excitedly. The boy's face was as honest as the
sky above him. "Well, that's funny--very funny."

"Well, that's it," said Chad, "that's what ole Nathan used to call me. I
reckon I hain't naver thought o' my name agin tell you axed me." The Major
looked at the lad keenly and then dropped back in his seat ruminating.

Away back in 1778 a linchpin had slipped in a wagon on the Wilderness Road and
his grandfather's only brother, Chadwick Buford, had concluded to stop there
for a while and hunt and come on later--thus ran an old letter that the Major
had in his strong box at home--and that brother had never turned up again and
the supposition was that he had been killed by Indians. Now it would be
strange if he had wandered up in the mountains and settled there and if this
boy were a descendant of his. It would be very, very strange, and then the
Major almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. The name Buford was all
over the State. The boy had said, with amazing frankness and without a
particle of shame, that he was a waif--a "woodscolt," he said, with paralyzing
candor. And so the Major dropped the matter out of his mind, except in so far
that it was a peculiar coincidence--again saying, half to himself--

"It certainly is very odd!"



CHAPTER 8. HOME WITH THE MAJOR