Uncle Abner
He was on his feet and again before the window. He had his jaw gathered into his hand. The man swore softly.
"What disturbs you, Byrd?" said my uncle.
He stood unmoving before the fire, his hands to the flame.
The man turned quickly.
"It is the night, Abner—wind and driving rain. The devil has it!"
"The weather, Byrd," replied my uncle, "happens in your philosophy by chance, so be content with what it brings you, for this chance regards, as you tell me, no man's plans; neither the wise man nor the fool hath any favor of it."
"Nor the just nor the unjust, Abner."
My uncle looked down at the floor. He locked his great bronze fingers behind his massive back.
"And so you believe, Byrd," he said. "Well, I take issue with you. I think this thing you call 'chance' is the Providence of God, and I think it favors the just."
"Abner," cried the man, now turning from the window, "if you believe that, you believe it without proof."
"Why, no," replied my uncle; "I have got the proof on this very night."
He paused a moment; then he went on.
"I was riding with the Virginia wagons," he said, "on the journey here. It was my plan to come on slowly with them, arriving on the morrow. But
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