body-servant befo' the war. He used to wear his marster's
cast-off ruffles an' high hat. A mighty likely nigger he was,
too,
till he got all bent up with the rheumatics."

The lawyer had lifted his walking-stick and was pointing straight
ahead to a group of old brick chimneys huddled in the sunset
above a grove of giant oaks.

"That must be Blake Hall over there," he said; "there's not
another house like it in the three counties."

"We'll be at the big gate in a minute, suh," Peterkin returned.
"This is the first view of the Hall you git, an' they say the old
gentleman used to raise his hat whenever he passed by it." Then
as they swung open the great iron gate, with its new coat of red,
he touched Carraway's sleeve and spoke in a hoarse whisper.
"Thar's Mr. Christopher himself over yonder," he said, "an' Lord
bless my soul, if he ain't settin' out old Fletcher's plants.
Thar! he's standin' up now--the big young fellow with the basket.
The old gentleman was the biggest man twixt here an'
Fredericksburg, but I d'clar Mr. Christopher is a good half-head
taller!"

At his words Carraway stopped short in the road, raising his
useless glasses upon his brow. The sun had just gone down in a
blaze of light, and the great bare field was slowly darkening
against the west.

Nearer at hand there were the long road, already in twilight, the