hog and hominy, and very little of that, she told Kent she was goin' to
let the place to a strawberry-planter from Philadelphia, and go to
Baltimo' to teach school. She was sorry to break up the home, but there
was nothin' else to do. Well, it hurt Kent to think she had to leave home
and work for her living, for he was a very tender-hearted man.

"'You don't say so, Jane,' said he, 'and you raised here! Isn't that very
sudden?' She told him it was, and asked him what he was going to do for a
home when the place was rented?

"'Me, Jane? I shan't do anythin'. I shall stay here. If your money affairs
are so badly mixed up that you're obliged to leave yo' home, I am very
deeply grieved, but I am powerless to help. I am not responsible for the
way this war ended. I was born here, and here I am going to stay." And he
did. Nothing could move him. She finally had to rent him with the
house,--he to have three meals a day, and a room over the kitchen.

"For two years after that Kent was so disgusted with life, and the turn of
events, that he used to lie out on a rawhide, under a big sycamore tree in
front of the po'ch, and get a farm nigger to pull him round into the shade
by the tail of the hide, till the grass was wore as bare as yo' hand. Then
he got a bias-cut rockin'-chair, and rocked himself round.

"The strawberry man said, of co'se, that he was too lazy to live. But I
look deeper than that. To me, gentlemen, it was a crushin', silent protest
against the money power of our times. And it never broke his spirit,
neither. Why, when the census man came down a year befo' the colonel's
death, he found him sittin' in his rockin'-chair, bare-headed. Without
havin' the decency to take off his own hat, or even ask Kent's permission
to speak to him, the census man began askin' questions,--all kinds, as