"And the poor woman's child?" he asked, after a little.

"Mahs Matt done send her down to Mahs Larue's Georgy plantation, an' we all nevah seen her no mo'. Mahs Larue done sold that Georgy plantation 'bout five yeahs back an' move up fo' good on one his wife own up heah. An' little while back I hear tell they gwine sell it, too, an' flit way cross to Mexico somewhah. This heah war jest broke them up a'ready."

"And the child was sold?—do you mean that?"

"Deed we all nevah got a sure story o' what come o' that baby; only when Retta come back Mahs Matt tell her little Rhoda dead long time ago—dead down in Georgy, an' no one evah heah her ask a word from that day to this. But one Larue's niggahs tole me"—and the voice and manner of Nelse took on a grotesquely impressive air—"they done raise a mighty handsome chile 'bout that time what was called Rhoda, an' she went to ferren parts with Mahs Larue an' his family an' didn't nevah come back, no mo', an' Mahs Matt raise some sort o' big row with Mahs Jean Larue ovah that gal, an' they nevah was friends no mo'. To be suah maybe that niggah lied—I don't know. But he let on as how Mars Larue say that gal gwine to fetch a fancy price some day, an' I thought right off how Mahs Matt said Retta boun' to fetch a fancy price in Orleans; an' taken' it all roun' I reckoned it jest as well Retta keep on thinken' that chile died."

Delaven agreed. From the house he could hear the ladies talking, and Evilena's laugh sang out clear as a bird's song. He wondered if they also knew the story of the silent deft-handed bondwoman?—but concluded it was scarcely likely. Mrs. Nesbitt might know something of it, but who could tell Tom Loring's daughter?—and Evilena, of course, was too much of a child.

"I should like to see the picture you spoke of," he said at last, "the small one the painter left."

"I reckon that picture done sent away with little Rhoda's things. I ain't nevah heard tell of it since that time. But it don't look a mite like her now. All the red gone out o' her cheeks an' lips, all the shine out o' her eyes, an' her long brown hair has mo' white than brown in it these days. This woman Marg'ret ain't Retta; they jest as yo' might say two different women;" then, after a pause, "any othah thing you want ask me, sah? I see Jedge Clarkson comen' this way."

"No, that is all; thank you, old fellow."

He left Nelse ducking his head and fingering a new coin, while he sauntered to meet the Judge.

"How much he give you, Uncle Nelse?" asked a guarded voice back of the old man, and he nearly fell over backwards in his fright. A large, middle-aged colored man arose from the tall grass, where he has been hidden under the bank.

"Wha—what you mean—yo' Pluto? What fo' you hide theah an' listen?"

"I wan't hiden'," replied the man, good naturedly. "I jest lay to go sleep in the shade. Yo' come 'long an' talk—talk so I couldn't help hear it all," and he smiled shrewdly. "I alles was curious to know the true way 'bout that Marg'ret—I reckon there was a heap that wan't told to neighbors. An' reason why I ask you how much he give you fo' the story is 'cause I got that picture you tole 'bout. I married Mahs Larue's Rosa what come from Georgy with them. She been daid ovah a yeah now, but it's some whar 'mongst her b'longings. Reckon that strange gentleman give me dollar for it?—the frame is mighty pretty—what you think?"



CHAPTER XV.

"Do tell me every blessed thing about her—a real Marquise—I love titles;" and Evilena clasped her hands rapturously.

"Do you, now? Faith, then I'm glad I secured mine before I came over," and the laughing Irish eyes met hers quizzically.

"Oh, I never meant titles people earn themselves, Mr. Doctor, for—"

"Then that puts the Judge and Col. Kenneth and myself on the outside of your fence, does it? Arrah now! I'll be looking up my pedigree in hopes of unearthing a king—every true Irishman has a traditional chance of being the descendant of rulers who ran barefoot, and carried a club to teach the court etiquette."

She made a mutinous little grimace and refused to discuss his probable ancestors.

"Does not the presence of a French Marquise show how Europe sides with us?" she demanded, triumphantly. "Quantities of noblemen have been the guests of the South lately, and isn't General Wolseley, the most brilliant officer of the British Army, with our General Lee now? I reckon all that shows how we are estimated. And now the ladies of title are coming over. Oh, tell me all about her; is she very grand, very pretty?"

"Grand enough for a queen over your new monarchy," replied Delaven, who derived considerable enjoyment from teasing the girl about affairs political—"and pretty? No, she's not that; she's just Beauty's self, entirely."

"And you knew her well in Paris?" asked Evilena, with a hesitating suspicion as to why he had not announced such a wonderful acquaintance before—this woman who was Beauty's self, and a widow. She wondered if she had appeared crude compared with those grand dames he had known and forgotten to mention.

"Oh, yes, I knew her while the old Marquise was living, that was when your mother and Col. Kenneth met her, but afterwards she took to travel for a change, and has evidently taken your South on her way. It will be happiness to see her again."

"And brother Ken knew her, too?" asked the girl, with wide-open eyes; "and he never mentioned her, either—well!"

"The rascal!—to deprive you of an account of all the lovely ladies he met! But you were at school when they returned, were you not?—and Ken started off hot foot for the West and Indian fighting, so you see there were excuses."

"And Kenneth does not know you are here still, and will not know the beautiful Marquise is here. Won't he be surprised to see you all?"

"I doubt if I cause him such a shock," decided Delaven; "when he gets sight of Judithe, Marquise de Caron, he will naturally forget at once whether I am in America or Ireland."

"Indeed, then, I never knew Kenneth to slight a friend," said the girl, indignantly.

"But maybe you never saw him face to face with such a temptation to make a man forget the universe."

"Sh—h!" she whispered, softly. Gertrude had come out on the veranda looking for the Judge. Seeing him down at the landing she walked leisurely in that direction.

"You do say such wild, extravagant things," continued Evilena, "that I just had to stop you until Gertrude was out of hearing. I suppose you know she and Kenneth are paired off for matrimony."

"Are they, now? Well, he's a lucky fellow; when are we to dance at the wedding?"

"Oh, they never tell me anything about serious things like that," complained Evilena. "There's Aunt Sajane; she can tell us, if any one can; everybody confides love affairs to her."

"Do they, now? Might I ask how you know?"

"Yes, sir; you may ask!" Then she dropped that subject and returned to the first one. "Aunt Sajane, when do you reckon we can dance at Kenneth's wedding—his and Gertrude's? Doctor Delaven and I want to dance."

"Evilena—honey!" murmured Aunt Sajane, chidingly, the more so as Matthew Loring had just crept slowly out with the help of his cane, and a negro boy. His alert expression betrayed that he had overheard the question.

"You know," she continued, "folks have lots to think of these days without wedding dances, and it isn't fair to Gertrude to discuss it, for I don't know that there really has been any settled engagement; only it would seem like a perfect match and both families seem to favor it." She glanced inquiringly at Loring, who nodded his head decidedly.

"Of course, of course, a very sensible arrangement. They've always been friends and it's been as good as settled ever since they were children."

"Settled by the families?" asked Delaven.

"Exactly—a good old custom that is ignored too often these days," said Mr. Loring, promptly. "Who is so fit to decide such things for children as their parents and guardians? That boy's father and me talked over this affair before the children ever knew each other. Of course he laughed over the question at the time, but when he died and suggested me as the boy's guardian, I knew he thought well of it and depended on me, and it will come off right as soon as this war is over—all right."

"A very good method for this country of the old French cavaliers," remarked Delaven, in a low tone, to the girl, "but the lads and lassies of Ireland have to my mind found a better."

Evilena looked up inquiringly.

"Well, don't you mean to tell me what it is?" she asked, as he appeared to have dropped the subject. He laughed at the aggrieved tone she assumed.

"Whist! There are mystical rites due to the telling, and it goes for nothing when told in a crowd."

"You have got clear away from Kenneth," she reminded him, hastily. "Did you mean that he was—well, in love with this magnificent Marquise?"

Low as she tried to speak, the words reached Loring, who listened, and Delaven, glancing across, perceived that he listened.

"In love with the Marquise? Bless your heart, we were all of course."

"But my brother?" insisted Evilena.

"Well, now he might have been the one exception—in fact he always did get out of the merely social affairs when he could, over there."

"Showed his good sense," decided Loring, emphatically. "I don't approve of young people running about Europe, learning their pernicious habits and customs; I've had my fill of foreign places and foreign people."

Mrs. Nesbitt opened her lips with a shocked expression of protest, and as promptly closed them, realizing the uselessness of it. Evilena laughed outright and directed an eloquent glance towards the only foreigner.

"Me, is it?" he asked, doubtingly. "Oh, don't you believe it. I've been here so long I'm near a Southerner myself."

"How near?" she asked, teasingly.

"Well, I must acknowledge you hold me at arms length in spite of my allegiance," he returned, and in the laugh of the others, Mr. Loring's tirade against foreigners was passed over.

It was only a few hours since Pluto arrived with the letter from Mobile telling of the early arrival of Mrs. McVeigh and her guest. Noting that the letter had been delayed and that the ladies might even now be in Savannah, Judge Clarkson proposed starting at once to meet them, but was persuaded to wait until morning.

Pluto was also told to wait over—an invitation gladly accepted, as visits to Loringwood were just now especially prized by the neighboring darkies, for the two runaways were yet subjects of gossip and speculation, and Uncle Nelse scattered opinions in the quarters on the absolute foolishness in taking such risks for freedom, and dire prophesies of the repentance to follow.

That his own personal feeling did not carry conviction to his listeners was evidenced by the sullen silence of many who did not think it wise to contradict him. Pluto was the only person to argue with him. But this proved to be the one subject on which Pluto could not be his natural good-natured self. His big black eyes held threatening gleams, rebellious blood throbbed through every vein of his dark body. He championed the cause of the runaways; he knew of none who had left a good master; old man Masterson was unreasonable as Matthew Loring; he did not blame them for leaving such men.

"I got good a mistress—good a master as is in all Carolina," he stated, bluntly, "but you think I stay here to work for any of them if it wan't for my boy?—my Rose's baby? No, I wouldn't! I'd go North, too! I'd never stop till I reached the men who fight against slave states. You all know what keeps me here. I'd never see my boy again. I done paid eighteen dollars towards Rose's freedom when she died. Then I ask Mr. Jean Larue if he wouldn't let that go on the baby. He said yes, right off, an' told me I could get him for hundred fifty dollars; that why I work 'long like I do, an' let the other men fight fo' freedom But I ain't contented so long as any man can sell me an' my child."

None of the other blacks made any verbal comment on his feelings or opinions, but old Nelse easily saw that Pluto's ideas outweighed his own with them.

"I un'stan' you to say Mahs Jean Larue promise he keep yo' boy till such time as the money is raised?" he asked, cautiously.

"That's the way it was," assented Pluto. "I ain't been to see him—little Zekal—for nigh on two months now. I'm goen', sure, soon as Mrs. McVeigh come home an' get settled. It's quite a jaunt from our place to Mahs Larue's—thirty good mile."

Aunt Chloe poured him out some more rye and corn-meal coffee and insisted on him having more sweet potato pie. She swept an admonishing glance towards the others as she did so. "I did heah some time ago one o' the Larue's gwine way down to the Mexico country," she remarked, carelessly. "I don't reckon though it is this special Larue. I mind they did have such a monstrous flock o' them Larue boys long time back; some got killed in this heah war what's maken' trouble all roun'. How much you got paid on yo' little boy, Pluto?"

"Most thirty dollars by time I make next trip over. Takes mighty long time to save money these days, quarters scarcer than dollars use to be."

His entertainers agreed with him; then the little maid Raquel entered to say Pluto was wanted by Miss Sajane soon as his lunch was over.

And as he walked across the grounds Evilena pointed him out to Delaven.

"That is our Pluto," she said, with a certain note of pride in her tone; "three generations of his family belonged to us. Mama can always go away feeling the whole plantation is safe so long as Pluto is in charge. We never do have trouble with the folks at the quarters as Mr. Loring does. He is so hard on them I wonder they don't all run away; it would be hard on Gertrude, though—lose her a lot of money. Did you know Loringwood is actually offered for sale? Isn't it a shame? The only silver lining to the cloud is that then Gertrude will have to move to The Pines—I don't mean to the woods"—as he turned a questioning glance on her. "I mean to Gertrude's plantation joining ours. It is a lovely place; used to belong to the Masterson tracts, and was part of the wedding dowery of that Miss Leo Masterson Uncle Nelse told of—Gertrude's mother, you know. It is not grand or imposing like Loringwood, but I heard the Judge say that place alone was enough to make Gertrude a wealthy woman, and the loveliest thing about it is that it joins our plantation—lovely for Gertrude and Kenneth, I mean. Look here, Doctor Delaven, you roused my curiosity wonderfully with that little remark you made about the beautiful Marquise; tell me true—were they—did Ken, even for a little while, fall in love with her?"

She looked so roguishly coaxing, so sure she had stumbled on some fragment of an adventure, and so alluringly confident that Delaven must tell her the rest, that there is no telling how much he might have enlightened her if Miss Loring had not entered the room at that moment through a door nearest the window where they stood.

Her face was serene and self possessed as ever. She smiled and addressed some careless remark to them as she passed through, but Delaven had an uncomfortable feeling that she had overheard that question, and Evilena was too frightened to repeat it.



CHAPTER XVI.

The warm summer moon wheeled up that evening through the dusk, odorous with the wild luxuriance of wood and swamp growths. A carriage rolled along the highway between stretches of rice lands and avenues of pines.

In the west red and yellow showed where the path of the sun had been and against it was outlined the gables of an imposing structure, dark against the sky.

"We are again close to the Salkahatchie," said Mrs. McVeigh, pointing where the trees marked its course, "and across there—see that roof, Marquise?—that is Loringwood. If the folks had got across from Charleston we would stop there long enough to rest and have a bit of supper. But the road winds so that the distance is longer than it looks, and we are too near home to stop on such an uncertainty. Gertrude's note from Charleston telling of their safe arrival could say nothing definite of their home coming."

"That, no doubt, depends on the invalid relative," suggested her guest; "the place looks very beautiful in this dim light; the cedars along the road there are magnificent."

"I have heard they are nearly two hundred years old. Years ago it was the great show place of the country, but two generations of very extravagant sportsmen did much to diminish its wealth—generous, reckless and charming men—but they planted mortgages side by side with their rice fields. Those encumbrances have, I fancy, prevented Gertrude from being as fond of the place as most girls would be of so fine an ancestral home."

"Possibly she lacks the gamester blood of her forefathers and can have no patience with their lack of the commercial instinct."

"I really do believe that is just it," said Mrs. McVeigh. "I never had thought of it in that way myself, but Gertrude certainly is not at all like the Lorings; she is entirely of her mother's people, and they are credited with possessing a great deal of the commercial instinct. I can't fancy a Masterson gambling away a penny. They are much more sensible; they invest."

The cedar avenues had been left a mile behind, and they had entered again the pine woods where even the moon's full radiance could only scatter slender lances of light. The Marquise leaned back with half-shut slumberous eyes, and confessed she was pleased that it would be later, instead of this evening, that she would have the pleasure of meeting the master and mistress of Loringwood—the drive through the great stretches of pine had acted as a soporific; no society for the night so welcome as King Morpheus.

The third woman in the carriage silently adjusted a cushion back of Madame's head. "Thank you, Louise," she said, yawning a little. "You see how effectually I have been mastered by the much remarked languor of the South. It is delightfully restful. I cannot imagine any one ever being in a hurry in this land."

Mrs. McVeigh smiled and pointed across the field, where some men were just then running after a couple of dogs who barked vociferously in short, quick yelps, bespeaking a hot trail before them.

"There is a living contradiction of your idea," she said; "the Southerners are intensity personified when the game is worth it; the game may be a fox chase or a flirtation, a love affair or a duel, and our men require no urging for any of those pursuits."

They were quite close to the men now, and the Marquise declared they were a perfect addition to the scene of moonlit savannas backed by the masses of wood now near, now far, across the levels. Two of them had reached the road when the carriage wheels attracted attention from the dogs, and they halted, curious, questioning.

"Why, it's our Pluto!" exclaimed Mrs. McVeigh; "stop the carriage. Pluto, what in the world are you doing here?"

Pluto came forward smiling, pleased.

"Welcome home, Mrs. McVeigh. I'se jest over Loringwood on errend with yo' all letters to Miss Lena an' Miss Sajane. Letters was stopped long time on the road someway; yo' all get here soon most as they did. Judge Clarkson—he aimen' to go meet yo' at Savannah—start in the mawning at daybreak. He reckoned yo' all jest wait there till some one go fo' escort."

"Evilena is at Loringwood, you say? Then Miss Loring and her uncle have got over from Charleston?"

"Yes, indeedy!—long time back, more'n a week now since they come. Why, how come you not hear?—they done sent yo' word; I know Miss Lena wrote you, 'cause she said so. Yes'm, the folks is back, an' Miss Sajane an' Judge over there this minute; reckon they'll feel mighty sorry yo' all passed the gate."

"Oh, but the letter never reached me. I had no idea they were home, and it is too far to go back I suppose? How far are we from the house now?"

"Only 'bout a mile straight 'cross fields like we come after that 'possum, but it's a good three miles by the road."

"Well, you present my compliments and explain the situation to Miss Loring and the Judge. We will drive on to the Terrace. Say I hope to see them all soon as they can come. Evilena can come with you in the morning. Tell Miss Gertrude I shall drive over soon as I am rested a little—and Mr. Loring, is he better?"

"Heap better—so Miss Gertrude and the doctor say. He walks roun' some. Miss Gertrude she mightily taken with Dr. Delaven's cure—she says he jest saved Mahs Loring's life over there in France."

"Dr. Delaven!" uttered the voice of the Marquise, in soft surprise—"our Dr. Delaven?" and as she spoke her hand stole out and touched that of the handsome serving woman she called Louise; "is he also a traveller seeking adventure in your South?"

"Did I not tell you?" asked Mrs. McVeigh. "I meant to. Gertrude's note mentioned that her uncle was under the care of our friend, the young medical student, so you will hear the very latest of your beloved Paris."

"Charming! It is to be hoped he will visit us soon. This little woman"—and she nodded towards Louise—"must be treated for homesickness; you observe her depression since we left the cities? Dr. Delaven will be an admirable cure for that."

"Your Louise will perhaps cure herself when she sees a home again," remarked Mrs. McVeigh; "it is life in a carriage she has perhaps grown tired of."

"Madame is pleased to tease me as people tease children for being afraid in the dark," explained Louise. "I am not afraid, but the silence does give one a chill. I shall be glad to reach the door of your house."

"And we must hasten. Remember all the messages, Pluto; bring your Miss Lena tomorrow and any of the others who will come."

"I remember, sure. Glad I was first to see yo' all back—good night."

The other colored men in the background had lost all interest in the 'possum hunt, and were intent listeners to the conversation. Old Nelse, who had kept up to the rest with much difficulty, now pushed himself forward for a nearer look into the carriage. Mrs. McVeigh did not notice him. But he startled the Marquise as he thrust his white bushy head and aged face over the wheel just as they were starting, and the woman Louise drew back with a gasp of actual fear.

"What a stare he gave us!" she said, as they rolled away from the group by the roadside. "That old man had eyes like augers, and he seemed to look through me—may I ask if he, also, is of your plantation, Madame?"

"Indeed, he is not," was Mrs. McVeigh's reassuring answer. "But he did not really mean to be impertinent; just some childish old 'uncle' who is allowed special privileges, I suppose. No; you won't see any one like that at the Terrace. I can't think who it could be unless it is Nelse, an old free man of Loring's; and Nelse used to have better manners than that, but he is very old—nearly ninety, they say. I don't imagine he knows his own age exactly—few of the older ones do."

Pluto caught the old man by the shoulder and fairly lifted him out of the road as the carriage started.

"What the matter with yo', anyway, a pitchen' yo'self 'gainst the wheel that-a-way?" he demanded. "Yo' ain't boun' and sot to get run over, are yo'?"

Some of the other men laughed, but Nelse gripped Pluto's hand as though in need of the support.

"Fo' God!—thought I seen a ghost, that minute," he gasped, as the other men started after the dogs again; "the ghost of a woman what ain't dead yet—the ghost o' Retta."

"Yo' plum crazy, ole man," said Pluto, disdainfully. "How the ghost o' that Marg'ret get in my mistress carriage, I like to know?—'special as the woman's as live as any of us. Yo' gone 'stracted with all the talken' 'bout that Marg'ret's story. Now, I ain't seen a mite of likeness to her in that carriage at all, I ain't."

"That 'cause yo' ain't nevah see Retta as she used to be. I tell yo' if her chile Rhoda alive at all I go bail she the very likeness o' that woman. My king! but she done scairt me."

"Don't yo' go talk such notions to any other person," suggested Pluto. "Yo' get yo'self in trouble when yo' go tellen' how Mrs. McVeigh's company look like a nigger, yo' mind! Why, that lady the highest kind o' quality—most a queen where she comes from. How yo' reckon Mrs. McVeigh like to hear such talk?"

"Might'nt a' been the highest quality one I meant," protested Nelse, strong in the impression he had received; "it wa' the othah one, then—the one in a black dress."

All three occupants of the carriage had worn dark clothes, in the night all had looked black. Nelse had only observed one closely; but Pluto saw a chance of frightening the old man out of a subject of gossip so derogatory to the dignity of the Terrace folks, and he did not hesitate to use it.

"What other one yo' talken' 'bout?" he demanded, stopping short, "my Mistress McVeigh?"

"Naw!—think me a bawn fool—you? I mean the otha one—the number three lady."

"This here moonlight sure 'nough make you see double, ole man," said Pluto, with a chuckle. "Yo' better paddle yo'self back to your own cabin again 'stead o' hunten' ghost women 'round Lorin'wood, 'cause there wan't only two ladies in that carriage—two live ladies," he added, meaningly, "an' one o' them was my mistress."

"Fo' Gawd's sake!"

The old man appeared absolutely paralyzed by the statement. His eyes fairly bulged from their sockets. He opened his lips again, but no sound came; a grin of horror was the only describable expression on his face. All the superstition in his blood responded to Pluto's suggestion, and when he finally spoke it was in a ghostly whisper.

"I—I done been a looken' for it," he gasped, "take me home—yo'! It's a sure 'nough sign! Last night ole whippo'will flopped ovah my head. Three nights runnen' a hoot owl hooted 'fore my cabin. An' now the ghost of a woman what ain't dead yet, sot there an' stare at me! I ain't entered fo' no mo' races in this heah worl', boy; I done covah the track fo' las' time; I gwine pass undah the line at the jedge stan', I tell yo'. I got my las' warnen'—I gwine home!"



CHAPTER XVII.

Pluto half carried the old man back to Loringwood, while the other darkies continued their 'possum hunt. Nelse said very little after his avowal of the "sign" and its relation to his lease of life. He had a nervous chill by the time they reached the house and Pluto almost repented of his fiction. Finally he compromised with his conscience by promising himself to own the truth if the frightened old fellow became worse.

But nothing more alarming resulted than his decision to return at once to his own cabin, and the further statement that he desired some one be despatched at once for "that gal Cynthy," which was done according to his orders.

The women folk—old Chloe at their head—decided Uncle Nelse must be in some dangerous condition when he sent the command for Cynthia, whom he had divorced fifty years before. The rumors reached Dr. Delaven, who made a visit to Nelse in the cabin where he was installed temporarily, waiting for the boatmen who were delegated to row him home, he himself declining to assist in navigation or any other thing requiring physical exertion.

He was convinced his days were numbered, his earthly labors over, and he showed abject terror when Margeret entered with a glass of bitters Mrs. Nesbitt had prepared with the idea that the old man had caught a chill in his endeavor to follow the dogs on the oppossum hunt.

"I told you all how it would be when I heard of him going," she asserted, with all a prophet's satisfaction in a prophecy verified. "Pluto had to just about tote him home—following the dogs at his age, the idea!"

But for all her disgust at his frivolity she sent the bitters, and Delaven could not comprehend his shrinking from the cup-bearer.

"Come—come, now! You're not at all sick, my man; what in the wide world are you shamming for? Is it for the dram? Sure, you could have that without all this commotion."

"I done had a vision, Mahs Doctor," he said, with impressive solemnity. "My time gwine come, I tell you." He said no more until Margeret left the room, when he pointed after her with nervous intensity. "It's that there woman I seen—the ghost o' that woman what ain't dead—the ghost o' her when she was young an' han'some—that's what I seen in the McVeigh carriage this night, plain as I see yo' face this minute. But no such live woman wa' in that carriage, sah. Pluto, he couldn't see but two, an' I saw three plain as I could see one. Sure as yo' bawn it's a death sign, Mahs Doctor; my time done come."

"Tut, tut!—such palaver. That would be the queerest way, entirely, to read the sign. Now, I should say it was Margeret the warning was for; why should the likeness of her come to hint of your death?"

Nelse did not reply at once. He was deep in thought—a nervous, fidgety season of thought—from which he finally emerged with a theory evidently not of comfort to himself.

"I done been talken' too much," he whispered. "I talk on an' on today; I clar fo'got yo' a plum stranger to we all. I tell all sorts o' family things what maybe Mahs Duke not want tole. I talked 'bout that gal Retta most, so he done sent a ghost what look like Retta fo' a sign. Till day I die I gwine keep my mouth shut 'bout Mahs Duke's folks, I tell yo', an' I gwine straight home out o' way o' temptations."

So oppressed was he with the idea of Mahs Duke's displeasure that he determined to do penance if need be, and commenced by refusing a coin Delaven offered him.

"No, sah; I don' dar take it," he said, solemnly, "an' I glad to give yo' back that othar dollar to please Mahs Duke, only I done turned it into a houn' dog what Ben sold me, and Chloe—she Ben's mammy—she got it from him, a'ready, an' paid it out fo' a pair candlesticks she been grudgen' ole M'ria a long time back, so I don' see how I evah gwine get it. But I ain't taken' no mo' chances, an' I ain't a risken' no mo' ghost signs. Jest as much obliged to yo' all," and he sighed regretfully, as Delaven repocketed the coin; "but I know when I got enough o' ghosts."

Pluto had grace enough to be a trifle uneasy at the intense despondency caused by his fiction in what he considered a good cause. The garrulity of old Nelse was verging on childishness. Pluto was convinced that despite the old man's wonderful memory of details in the past, he was entirely irresponsible as to his accounts of the present, and he did not intend that the McVeigh family or any of their visitors should be the subject of his unreliable gossip. Pride of family was by no means restricted to the whites. Revolutionary as Pluto's sentiments were regarding slavery, his self esteem was enhanced by the fact that since he was a bondman it was, at any rate, to a first-class family—regular quality folks, whose honor he would defend under any circumstances, whether bond or free.

His clumsily veiled queries about the probable result of Uncle Nelse's attack aroused the suspicions of Delaven that the party of hunters had found themselves hampered by the presence of their aged visitor, who was desirous of testing the ability of his new purchase, the hound dog, and that they had resorted to some ghost trick to get rid of him.

He could not surmise how the shade of Margeret had been made do duty for the occasion, her subdued, serious manner giving the denial to any practical joke escapades.

But the news Pluto brought of Mrs. McVeigh's homecoming dwarfed all such episodes as a scared nigger who refused to go into details as to the scare, and in his own words was "boun' an' sot" to keep his mouth shut in future about anything in the past which he ever had known and seen, or anything in his brief earthly future which he might know or see. He even begged Delaven to forget immediately the numerous bits of history he, Nelse, had repeated of the Loring family, and Delaven comforted him by declaring that all he could remember that minute was the horse race and he would put that out of his mind at once if necessary.

Nelse was not sure it was necessary to forget that, because it didn't in any way reflect discredit on the family, and he didn't in reason see why his Mahs Duke should object to that story unless it was on account of the high-flier lady from Philadelphia what Mahs Duke won away from Mr. Jackson without any sort of trouble at all, and if Mahs Duke was hovering around in the library when Miss Evilena and Mahs Doctor listened to that story, Mahs Duke ought to know in his heart, if he had any sort of memory at all, that he, Nelse, had not told half what he might have told about that Northern filly and Mahs Duke. And taking it all in all Nelse didn't see any reason why Delaven need put that out of his remembrance—especially as it was mighty good running for two-year-olds.

Evilena had peeped in for a moment to say good-bye to their dusky Homer. But the call was very brief. All her thoughts were filled with the folks at the Terrace, and dawn in the morning had been decided on for the ten-mile row home, so anxious was she to greet her mother, and so lively was her interest in the wonderful foreigner whom Dr. Delaven had described as "Beauty's self."

That lady had in the meantime arrived at the Terrace, partaken of a substantial supper, and retired to her own apartments, leaving behind her an impression on the colored folks of the household that the foreign guest was no one less than some latter day queen of Sheba. Never before had their eyes beheld a mistress who owned white servants, and the maid servant herself, so fine she wore silk stockings and a delaine dress, had her meals in her own room and was so grand she wouldn't even talk like folks, but only spoke in French, except when she wanted something special, at which time she would condescend to talk "United States" to the extent of a word or two. All this superiority in the maid—whom they were instructed to call "Miss"—reflected added glory on the mistress, who, at the supper table, had been heard say she preferred laying aside a title while in America, and to be known simply as Madame Caron; and laughingly confessed to Mrs. McVeigh that the American Republic was in a fair way to win her from the French Empire, all of which was told at once in the kitchen, where they were more convinced than ever that royalty had descended upon them. This fact did not tend to increase their usefulness in any capacity; they were so overcome by the grandeur and the importance of each duty assigned to them that the wheels of domestic machinery at the Terrace that evening were fairly clogged by the eagerness and the trepidation of the workers. They figuratively—and sometimes literally—fell over each other to anticipate any call which might assure them entrance to the wonderful presence, and were almost frightened dumb when they got there.

Mrs. McVeigh apologized for them and amused her guest with the reason:

"They have actually never seen a white servant in their lives, and are eaten up with curiosity over the very superior maid of yours, her intelligence places her so high above their ideas of servitors."

"Yes, she is intelligent," agreed the Marquise, "and much more than her intelligence, I value her adaptability. As my housekeeper she was simply perfect, but when my maid grew ill and I was about to travel, behold! the dignity of the housekeeper was laid aside, and with a bewitching maid's cap and apron, and smile, she applied for the vacant position and got it, of course."

"It was stupid of me not to offer you a maid," said Mrs. McVeigh, regretfully; "I did not understand. But I could not, of course, have given you any one so perfect as your Louise; she is a treasure."

"I shall probably have to get along with some one less perfect in the future," said the other, ruefully. "She was to have had my yacht refurnished and some repairs made while I was here, and now that I am safely located, may send her back to attend to it. She is worth any two men I could employ for such supervision, in fact, I trust many such things to her."

"Pray let her remain long enough to gain a pleasant impression of plantation life," suggested Mrs. McVeigh, as they rose from the table. "I fancied she was depressed by the monotony of the swamp lands, or else made nervous by the group of black men around the carriage there at Loringwood; they did look formidable, perhaps, to a stranger at night, but are really the most kindly creatures."

Judithe de Caron had walked to the windows opening on the veranda and was looking out across the lawn, light almost as day under the high moon, a really lovely view, though both houses and grounds were on a more modest scale than those of Loringwood. They lacked the grandeur suggested by the century-old cedars she had observed along the Loring drive. The Terrace was much more modern and, possibly, so much more comfortable. It had in a superlative degree the delightful atmosphere of home, and although the stranger had been within its gates so short a time, she was conscious of the wonder if in all her varied experience she had ever been in so real a home before.

"How still it all is," remarked Mrs. McVeigh, joining her. "Tomorrow, when my little girl gets back, it will be less so; come out on the veranda and I can show you a glimpse of the river; you see, our place is built on a natural terrace sloping to the Salkahatchie. It gives us a very good view."

"Charming! I can see that even in the night time."

"Three miles down the river is the Clarkson place; they are most pleasant friends, and Miss Loring's place, The Pines, joins the Terrace grounds, so we are not so isolated as might appear at first; and fortunately for us our plantation is a favorite gathering place for all of them."

"I can quite believe that. I have been here two—three hours, perhaps, and I know already why your friends would be only too happy to come. You make them a home from the moment they enter your door."

"You could not say anything more pleasing to my vanity, Marquise," said her hostess, laughingly, and then checked herself at sight of an upraised finger. "Oh, I forgot—I do persist in the Marquise."

"Come, let us compromise," suggested her guest, "if Madame Caron sounds too new and strange in your ears, I have another name, Judithe; it may be more easily remembered."

"In Europe and England," she continued, "where there are so many royal paupers, titles do not always mean what they are supposed to. I have seen a Russian prince who was a hostler, an English lord who was an attendant in a gambling house, and an Italian count porter on a railway. Over here, where titles are rare, they make one conspicuous; I perceived that in New Orleans. I have no desire to be especially conspicuous. I only want to enjoy myself."

"You can't help people noticing you a great deal, with or without a title," and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at her understandingly. "You cannot hope to escape being distinguished, but you shall be whatever you like at the Terrace."

They walked arm in arm the length of the veranda, chatting lightly of Parisian days and people until ten o'clock sounded from the tall clock in the library. Mrs. McVeigh counted the strokes and exclaimed at the lateness.

"I certainly am a poor enough hostess to weary you the first evening with chatter instead of sending you to rest, after such a drive," she said, in self accusation. "But you are such a temptation—Judithe."

They both laughed at her slight hesitation over the first attempt at the name.

"Never mind; you will get used to it in time," promised the Marquise, "I am glad you call me 'Judithe.'"

Then they said good night; she acknowledged she did feel sleepy—a little—though she had forgotten it until the clock struck.

Mrs. McVeigh left her at the door and went on down the hall to her own apartment—a little regretful lest Judithe should be over wearied by the journey and the evening's gossip.

But she really looked a very alert, wide-awake young lady as she divested herself of the dark green travelling dress and slipped into the luxurious lounging robe Mademoiselle Louise held ready.

Her brows were bent in a frown of perplexity very different from the gay smile with which she had parted from her hostess. She glanced at her attendant and read there anxiety, even distress.

"Courage, Louise," she said, cheerily; "all is not lost that's in danger. Horrors! What a long face! Look at yourself in the mirror. I have not seen such a mournful countenance since the taking of New Orleans."

"And it was not your mirror showed a mournful countenance that day, Marquise," returned the other. "I am glad some one can laugh; but for me, I feel more like crying, and that's the truth. Heavens! How long that time seemed until you came."

"I know," and the glance of her mistress was very kind. "I could feel that you were walking the floor and waiting, but it was not possible to get away sooner. Get the other brush, child; there are wrinkles in my head as well as my hair this evening; you must help me to smooth them."

But the maid was not to be comforted by even that suggestion, though she brushed the wavy, dusky mane with loving hands—one could not but read tenderness in every touch she gave the shining tresses. But her sighs were frequent for all that.

"Me of help?" she said, hopelessly. "I tell you true, Marquise, I am no use to anybody, I'm that nervous. I was afraid of this journey all the time. I told you so before you left Mobile; you only laughed at my superstitious fears, and now, even before we reach the place, you see what happened."

"I see," asserted the Marquise, smiling at her, teasingly, "but then the reasons you gave were ridiculous, Louise; you had dreams, and a coffin in a teacup. Come, come; it is not so bad as you fear, despite the prophetic tea grounds; there is always a way out if you look for paths; so we will look."

"It is all well for you, Marquise, to scoff at the omens; you are too learned to believe in them; but it is in our blood, perhaps, and it's no use us fighting against presentiments, for they're stronger than we are. I had no heart to get ready for the journey—not a bit. We are cut off from the world, and even suppose you could accomplish anything here, it will be more difficult than in the cities, and the danger so much greater."

"Then the excitement will provide an attraction, child, and the late weeks have really been very dull."

The hair dressing ceased because the maid could not manipulate the brush and express sufficient surprise at the same time.

"Heavens, Madame! What then would you call lively if this has been dull? I'm patriotic enough—or revengeful enough, perhaps—for any human sort of work; but you fairly frighten me sometimes the way you dash into things, and laughing at it all the time as if it was only a joke to you, just as you are doing this minute. You are harder than iron in some things and yet you look so delicately lovely—so like a beautiful flower—that every one loves you, and—"

"Every one? Oh, Louise, child, do you fancy, then, that you are the whole world?"

The maid lifted the hand of the mistress and touched it to her cheek.

"I don't only love you, I worship you," she murmured. "You took me when I was nothing, you trusted me, you taught me, you made a new woman of me. I wouldn't ever mind slavery if I was your slave."

"There, there, Louise;" and she laid her hand gently on the head of the girl who had sunk on the floor beside her. "We are all slaves, more or less, to something in this world. Our hearts arrange that without appeal to the law-makers."

"All but yours," said the maid, looking up at her fondly and half questioningly, "I don't believe your heart is allowed to arrange anything for you. Your head does it all; that is why I say you are hard as iron in some things. I don't honestly believe your heart is even in this cause you take such risks for. You think it over, decide it is wrong, and deliberately outstrip every one else in your endeavor to right it. That is all because you are very learned and very superior to the emotions of most people;" and she touched the hand of the Marquise caressingly. "That is how I have thought it all out; for I see that the motives others are moved by never touch you; the others—even the high officials—do not understand you, or only one did."

Her listener had drifted from attention to the soft caressing tones of the one time Parisian figurante, whose devotion was so apparent and whose nature required a certain amount of demonstration. The Marquise had, from the first, comprehended her wonderfully well, and knew that back of those feminine, almost childish cravings for expression, there lived an affectionate nature too long debarred from worthy objects, and now absolutely adoring the one she deemed her benefactress; all the more adoring because of the courage and daring, that to her had a fascinating touch of masculinity about it; no woman less masterful, nor less beautiful, could have held the pretty Kora so completely. The dramatic side of her nature was appealed to by the luxurious surroundings of the Marquise, and the delightful uncertainty, as each day's curtain of dawn was lifted, whether she was to see comedy or tragedy enacted before the night fell. She had been audience to both, many times, since the Marquise had been her mistress.

Just now the mistress was in some perplexed quandary of her own, and gave little heed to the flattering opinions of the maid, and only aroused to the last remark at which she turned with questioning eyes, not entirely approving:

"Whom do you mean?" she asked, with a trifle of constraint, and the maid sighed as she selected a ribbon to bind the braid she had finished.

"No one you would remember, Marquise," she said, shaking her head; "the trouble is you remember none of them, though you make it impossible that they should forget you. Many of those fine gallants of Orleans I was jealous of and glad to see go; but this one, truly now, he seemed to me well worth keeping."

"Had he a name?" asked the Marquise, removing some rings, and yawning slightly.

"He had," said the girl, who was unfolding a night robe and shaking the wrinkles from the very Parisian confection of lawn and lace and tiny pink ribbons accenting neck and wrist. When she walked one perceived a slight halt in her step—a reminder of the injury through which her career in Paris had been brought to an end. "He had, my Marquise. I mean the Federal officer, Monroe—Captain Jack, the men called him. Of all the Orleans gentlemen he was the only one I thought fit for a mate for you—the only one I was sorry to see you send away."

"Send? What an imaginative romancer you are! He went where his duty called him, no doubt. I do not remember that I was responsible. And your choice of him shows you are at least not worldly in your selections, for he was a reckless sort of ranger, I believe, with his sword and his assurance as chief belongings."

"You forget, Marquise, his courage."

"Oh, that!" and Judithe made a little gesture of dismissal; "it is nothing in a man, all men should have courage. But, to change the subject, which of the two men have most interest for us tonight, Captain Jack or Dr. Delaven? The latter, I fancy. While you have been chattering I have been making plans."

The maid ceased her movements about the room in the preparations for the night, and, drawing a low stool closer, listened with all attention.

"Since you are afraid here and too much oppressed by your presentiments to be useful"—she accompanied this derogatory statement with an amused smile—"I conclude it best for you to return to the sea-board at once—before Dr. Delaven and the rest pay their duty visit here.

"I had hoped the change in your appearance would place you beyond danger of recognition, and so it would with any one who had not known you personally. Madame McVeigh has been vaguely impressed with your resemblance to Monsieur Dumaresque's picture. But the impression of Dr. Delaven would probably be less vague—his remembrance of you not having been entirely the memory of a canvas."

"That is quite true," agreed the other, with a regretful sigh. "I have spoken with him many times. He came with—with his friend Trouvelot to see me when I was injured. It was he who told me the physicians were propping me up with falsehoods, and taking my money for curing a lameness they knew was incurable. Yes, he was my good friend in that. He would surely remember me," and she looked troubled.

"So I supposed; and with rumors abroad of an unknown in the heart of the South, who is a secret agent for the Federals, it is as well not to meet any one who could suggest that the name you use is an assumed one, it might interfere with your usefulness even more than your dismal presentiments," and she arched her brows quizzically at the maid, who sighed forlornly over the complications suggested. "So, you must leave at once."

"Leave, alone—without you?" and the girl's agitation was very apparent. "Madame, I beg you to find some reason for going with me, or for following at once. I could send a dispatch from Savannah, you could make some excuse! You, oh, Marquise! if I leave you here alone I would be in despair; I would fear I should never, never see you again!"

"Nonsense, child! There is absolutely no ground for your fears. If you should meet trouble in any way you have only to send me word and I will be with you. But your imaginary terrors you must yourself subdue. Come, now, be reasonable. You must go back—it is decided. Take note of all landmarks as we did in coming; if messengers are needed it is much better that you inform yourself of all approaches here. Wait for the yacht at Savannah. Buy anything needed for its refurnishing, and see that a certain amount of repairing is done there while you wait further orders. I shall probably have it brought to Beaufort, later, which would be most convenient if I should desire to give my good friends here a little salt water excursion. So, you perceive, it is all very natural, and it is all decided."

"Heavens, Marquise, how fast you move! I had only got so far I was afraid to remain, and afraid to excite wonder by leaving; and while I lament, you arrange a campaign."

"Exactly; so you see how easily it is all to be done, and how little use your fears."

"I am so much more contented that I will see everything as you wish," promised the girl, brightly. "Savannah, after all, is not very far, and Beaufort is nearer still. But after all, you must own, my presentiments were not all wrong, Marquise. It really was unlucky—this journey."

"We have heretofore had only good fortune; why should we complain because of a few obstacles now?" asked her mistress. "To become a diplomat one needs to be first a philosopher, and prepared at all times for the worst."

"I could be more of a philosopher myself over these complications," agreed the girl, smiling, "if I were a foreigner of rank seeking amusement and adventure. But the troubles of all this country have come so close home to the people of my race that we fear even to think what the worst might be."

The Marquise held up an admonishing finger and glanced towards the door.

"Of course no one hears, but it is best never to allow yourself the habit of referring to family or personal affairs. Even though we speak a language not generally understood in this country, do not—even to me—speak of your race. I know all, understand it all, without words; and, for the people we have met, they do not doubt you are a San Domingo Creole. You must be careful lest they think differently."

"You are right; what a fool I am! My tongue ever runs ahead of my wit. Marquise, sometimes I laugh when I remember how capable I thought myself on leaving Paris, what great things I was to do—I!" and she shrugged her plump shoulders in self derision. "Why, I should have been discovered a dozen times had I depended on my own wit. I am a good enough orderly, but only under a capable general," and she made a smiling courtesy to the Marquise.

"Chatterbox! If I am the general of your distinguished selection, I shall issue an order at once for your immediate retirement."

"Oh, Marquise!"

"To bed," concluded her mistress, gayly, "go; I shall not need you. I have work to do."

The girl first unlaced the dark boots and substituted a pair of soft pink slippers, and touched her cheek to the slender foot.

"I shall envy the maid who does even that for you when I am gone," she said, softly. "Now, good rest to you, my general, and pleasant dreams."

"Thanks; but my dreams are never formidable nor important," was the teasing reply as the maid vanished. The careless smile gave way to a quick sigh of relief as the door closed. She arose and walked back and forth across the room with nervous, rapid steps, her hands clasped back of her head and the wide sleeves of the robe slipped back, showing the perfect arms. She seemed a trifle taller than when in Paris that first springtime, and the open robe revealed a figure statuesque, perfect as a sculptor's ideal, yet without the statue's coldness; for the uncovered throat and bosom held delicious dimples where the robe fell apart and was swept aside by her restless movements.

But her own appearance was evidently far from her thoughts at that moment. Several of Mrs. McVeigh's very affectionate words and glances had recurred to her and brought her a momentary restlessness. It was utterly absurd that it should be so, especially when she had encouraged the fondness, and meant to continue doing so. But she had not counted on being susceptible to the same feeling for Kenneth McVeigh's mother—yet she had come very near it, and felt it necessary to lay down the limits as to just how far she would allow such a fondness to lead her.

And the fact that she was in the home of her one-time lover gave rise to other complex fancies. How would they meet if chance should send him there during her stay? He had had time for many more such boyish fancies since those days, and back of them all was the home sweetheart she heard spoken of so often—Gertrude Loring.

How very, very long ago it seemed since the meetings at Fontainbleau; what an impulsive fool she had been, and how childish it all seemed now!

But Judithe de Caron told herself she was not the sort of person to allow memories of bygone sentiment to interfere for long with practical affairs. She drew up a chair to the little stand by the window and plunged into the work she had spoken of, and for an hour her pen moved rapidly over the paper until page after page was laid aside.

But after the last bit of memoranda was completed she leaned back, looking out into the blue mists of the night—across his lands luxuriant in all the beauty of summer time and moonlight, the fields over which he had ridden, the trees under which he had walked, with, perhaps, an occasional angry thought of her—never dreaming that she, also, would walk there some day.

"But to think that I am actually here—here above all!" she murmured softly. "Maman, once I said I would be Judithe indeed to that man if he was ever delivered into my hands. Yet, when he came I ran away from him—ran away because I was afraid of him! But now—"

Her beautiful eyes half closed in a smile not mirthful, and the sentence was left unfinished.



CHAPTER XVIII.

What embraces, ejaculations and caresses, when Evilena, accompanied by Pluto and the delighted Raquel, arrived at the Terrace next morning! Judithe, who saw from the veranda the rapturous meeting of mother and daughter, sighed, a quick, impatient catching of the breath, and turned to enter the library through the open French windows. Reconsidering her intention, she halted, and waited at the head of the broad steps where Kenneth's sister saw her for the first time and came to her with a pleased, half shy greeting, and where Kenneth's mother slipped one arm around each as they entered the house, and between the two she felt welcomed into the very heart of the McVeigh family feminine.

"Oh, and mama!"—thus exclaimed Evilena as she was comfortably ensconced in the same chair with that lady—"there is so much news to tell you I don't know where to begin. But Gertrude sends love—please don't go, Madame Caron—I am only going to talk about the neighbors. And they are all coming over very soon, and the best of all is, Gertrude has at last coaxed Uncle Matthew (a roguish grimace at the title) to give up Loringwood entirely and come to the Pines. And Dr. Delaven—he's delightful, mama, when he isn't teasing folks—he strongly advises them to make the change soon; and, oh, won't you ask them all over for a few weeks until the Pines is ready? And did you hear about two of their field hands running off? Well, they did. Scip and Aleck; isn't it too bad? and Mr. Loring doesn't know it yet, no one dares tell him; and Masterson's Cynthia had a boy run off, too, and went to the Yankees, they suppose. And old Nelse he got scared sick at a ghost last night while they were 'possum hunting. And, oh, mama, have you heard from Ken?—not a word has come here, and he never even saw Gertrude over there. He must be powerful busy if he could not stop long enough to hunt friends up and say 'howdy.'"

"Lena, Lena, child!" and the mother sank back in her chair, laughing. "Have they enforced some silent system of existence on you since I have been down at Mobile? I declare, you fairly make my head swim with your torrent of news and questions. Judithe, does not this young lady fulfill the foreign idea of the American girl—a combination of the exclamation and interrogation point?"

Evilena stopped further criticism by kisses.

"I will be good as goodness rather than have Madame Caron make up her mind I am silly the very first day," she promised, "but, oh, mama, it is so good to have you to talk to, and so delightful of Madame to come with you"—this with a swift, admiring side glance at their visitor—"and, altogether, I'm just in love with the world today."

Later she informed them that Judge Clarkson would probably drive over that evening, as he was going to Columbia or Savannah—she had forgotten which—and had to go home first. He would have come with her but for a business talk he wanted to have, if Mr. Loring was able, this morning.

"Gertrude coaxed him to stop over and settle something about selling Loringwood. She's just grieving over the wreck and ruin there, and Mr. Loring never will be able to manage it again. They've been offered a lot of money for it by some Orleans people, and Gertrude wants it settled. Aunt Sajane is going to stay until they all come to the Pines."

"If Judge Clarkson should be going to Savannah you could send your maid in his charge, since she is determined to leave us," suggested Mrs. McVeigh.

"She would, no doubt, be delighted to go under such escort," said Judithe, "but her arrangements are made to start early in the morning; it is not likely your friend would be leaving so soon. Then, mademoiselle has said she is not sure but that it is to some other place he goes."

"Columbia?—yes; and more than likely it is Columbia," assented Mrs. McVeigh. "He is there a great deal during these troublous times."

A slight sigh accompanied the words, and Judithe noticed, as she had done often before, the lack of complaint or bewailings of the disasters so appalling to the South, for even the victories were so dearly bought. There was an intense eagerness for news from the front, and when it was read, the tears were silent ones. The women smiled bravely and were sure of victory in the end. Their faith in their men was adorable.

Evilena undertook to show the Marquise around the Terrace, eagerly anxious to become better acquainted with the stranger whose beauty had won her quite as quickly as it had won her brother. Looking at her, and listening to the soft tones with the delicious accent of France, she wondered if Ken had ever really dared to fall in love with this star from a foreign sky, or if Dr. Delaven had only been teasing her. Of course one could not help the loving; but brave as she believed Ken to be, she wondered if he had ever dared even whisper of it to Judithe, Marquise de Caron; for she refused to think of her as simply Madame Caron even though she did have to say it. The courtesy shown to her own democratic country by the disclaiming of titles was altogether thrown away on Evilena, and she comforted herself by whispering softly the given name Zhu-dette—Zhudette, delighted to find that the French could make of the stately name a musical one as well.

Raquel came breathlessly to them on the lawn with the information that "Mistress McVeigh ast them to please come in de house right off case that maid lady, Miss Weesa, she done slip on stairs an' hurt her foot powerful."

"Thanks, yes; I will come at once," said Miss Weesa's mistress in so clear and even a tone that Evilena, who was startled at the news, was oppressed by a sudden fear that all the warmth in the nature of her fascinating Marquise was centered in the luminous golden brown eyes.

As Judithe followed the servant into the house there came a swift remembrance of those lamentable presentiments. Was there, after all, something in the blood akin to the prescience through which birds and wild things scent the coming storms?—some atavism outgrown by the people of intellectual advancement, but yet a power to the children of the near sun?

Miss Louisa's foot certainly was hurt; it had been twisted by a fall on the stairs, and the ankle refused to bear the weight; the attempt to step on it caused her such agony that she had called for help, and the entire household had responded.

It was Pluto who reached her first, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to a bed. She had almost fainted from pain or fright, and when she opened her eyes again it was to meet those of her mistress in one wild appeal. Pluto had not moved after placing her on the bed, though the other darkies had retired into the hall, and Judithe's first impression of the scene was the huge black eyes fairly devouring the girl's face with his curious gaze. He stepped back as Mrs. McVeigh entered with camphor and bandages, but he saw that pleading, frightened glance.

"Never mind, Louise, it will all be well," said her mistress, soothingly; "this has happened before," she added, turning to Mrs. McVeigh. "It needs stout bandages and perfect rest; in a week it will be forgotten."

"A week!"—moaned the girl with pale lips, "but tomorrow—I must go tomorrow!"

"Patience, patience! You shall so soon as you are able, Louise, and the less you fret the sooner that may be."

Judithe herself knelt by the bed and removed tenderly the coquettish shoe of soft kid, and, to the horror of the assembled maids at the door, deliberately cut off the silk stocking, over which their wonder had been aroused when the short skirts of Louise had made visible those superfine articles. The pieces of stocking, needless to say, were captured as souvenirs and for many a day shown to the scoffers of neighboring plantations, who doubted the wild tales of luxury ascribed to the foreign magnate whose servants were even dressed like sure enough ladies.

"We must bandage it to keep down the swelling," said Judithe, working deftly as she spoke; "it happened once in New Orleans—this, and though painful, is not really serious, but she is so eager to commence the refurnishing of the yacht that she laments even a day's delay."

Louise did not speak again—only showed by a look her comprehension of the statement, and bore patiently the binding of the ankle.

It was three days before she could move about the room with help of a cane, and during those days of feverish anxiety her mistress had an opportunity to observe the very pointed and musical interest Pluto showed in the invalid whose language he could not speak. He was seldom out of hearing or her call and was plainly disturbed when word came from Loringwood that the folks would all be over in a few days. He even ventured to ask Evilena if Mr. Loring's eyesight hadn't failed some since his long sickness, and was well satisfied, apparently, by an affirmative reply. He even went so far as to give Louise a slight warning, which she repeated to her mistress one day after the Judge and Delaven had called, and Louise had promptly gone to bed and to sleep, professing herself too well now for a doctor's attention.

"Pluto is either trying to lay a trap for me to see if I do know English, or else he is better informed than we guess—which it is, I cannot say, Marquise," she confided, nervously. "When he heard his mistress say I was to start Thursday, he watched his chance and whispered: 'Go Wednesday—don't wait till visitors come, go Wednesday.'"

"Visitors?—then he means the Lorings, they are to be here Thursday," and Judithe closed the book she had been reading, and looked thoughtfully out of the window. Louise was moving about the room with the aid of a cane, glancing at her mistress now and then and waiting to hear her opinion.

"I believe I would take his advice, Louise," she said at last. "I have not noticed the man much beyond the fact that he has been wonderfully attentive to your wants. What do you think of him—or of his motives?"

"I believe they are good," said the girl, promptly. "He is dissatisfied; I can see that—one of the insurrection sort who are always restless. He's entirely bound up in the issue of the war, as regards his own people. He suspects me and because he suspects me tries to warn me—to be my friend. When I am gone you may need some one here, and of all I see he is the one to be most trusted, though, perhaps, Dr. Delaven—"

"Is out of the question," and Judithe's decision was emphatic. "These people are his friends."

"They are yours, too, Marquise," said the girl, smiling a little; but no smile answered her, a slight shade of annoyance—a tiny frown—bent the dark brows.

"Yes, I remember that sometimes, but I possess an antidote," she replied, lightly. "You know—or perhaps you do not know—that it is counted a virtue in a Gypsy to deceive a Georgio—well, I am fancying myself a Gypsy. In the Mohammedan it is a virtue to deceive the Christian, and I am a Mohammedan for the moment. In the Christian it was counted for centuries a mark of special grace if he despoil the Jew, until generations of oppression showed the wanderer the real God held sacred by his foes—money, my child, which he proceeded to garner that he might purchase the privileges of other races. So, with my Jewish name as a foundation, I have created an imaginary Jewish ancestor whose wrongs I take up against the people of a Christian land; I add all this debt to the debt Africa owes this enlightened nation, and I shall help to pay it."

The eyes of Louise widened at this fantastical reason. She was often puzzled to determine whether the Marquise was entirely serious, or only amusing herself with wild fancies when she touched on pondrous questions with gay mockery.

Just now she laughed as she read dismay in the maid's face.

"Oh, it is quite true, Louise, it is a Christian land—and more, it is the most Christian portion of a Christian land, because the South is entirely orthodox; only in the North will you find a majority of skeptics, atheists, and agnostics. Though they may be scarcely conscious of it themselves, it is because of their independent heterodox tendencies that they are marching today by thousands to war against a slavery not their own—the most righteous motive for a war in the world's history; but it cannot be denied that they are making war against an eminently Christian institution." And she smiled across at Louise, whose philosophy did not extend to the intricacies of such questions.

"I don't understand even half the reasons back of the war," she confessed, "but the thing I do understand is that the black man is likely to have a chance for freedom if the North wins, and that's the one question to me. Miss Evilena said yesterday it was all a turmoil got up by Yankee politicians who will fill their pockets by it."

"Oh, that was after Judge Clarkson's call; she only quoted him in that, and he is right in a way," she added; "there is a great deal of political jugglery there without a vestige of patriotism in it, but they do not in the least represent the great heart of the people of the North; they are essentially humanitarians. So you see I weigh all this, with my head, not my heart," she added, quizzically, "and having done so—having chosen my part—I can't turn back in the face of the enemy, even when met by smiles, though I confess they are hard weapons to face. It is a battle where the end to be gained justifies the methods used."

"Ma belle, Marquise," murmured the girl, in the untranslatable caress of voice and eyes. "Sometimes I grow afraid, and you scatter the fear by your own fearlessness. Sometimes I grow weak, and you strengthen me with reasons, reasons, reasons!"

"That is because the heart is not allowed to hamper the head."

"Oh, you tease me. You speak to me like a guardian angel of my people; your voice is like a trumpet, it stirs echoes in my heart, and the next minute you laugh as though it were all a play, and I were a child to be amused."

"'And each man in his time plays many parts,'" quoted Judithe, thoughtfully, then with a mocking glance she added: "But not so many as women do."

"There—that is what I mean. One moment you are all seriousness and the next—"

"But, my child, it is criminal to be serious all the time; it kills the real life and leads to melancholia. You would grow morbid through your fears if I did not laugh at them sometimes, and it would never—never do for me to approve them."

She touched the girl's hand softly with her own and looked at her with a certain affectionate chiding.

"You are going away from me, Louise, and you must not go in dread or despondency. It may not be for long, perhaps, but even if it should be, you must remember that I love you—I trust you. I pity you for the childhood and youth whose fate was no choice of yours. Never forget my trust in you; when we are apart it may comfort you to remember it."

The girl looked at her with wide black eyes, into which the tears crept.

"Marquise," she whispered, "you talk as if you might be sending me away for always. Oh, Marquise—"

Judithe raised her hand warningly.

"Be a soldier, child," she said, softly, "each time we separate for even a day—you and I—we do not know that we will ever meet again. These are war times, you know."

"I know—but I never dreaded a separation so much; I wish you were not to remain. Perhaps that Pluto's words made me more nervous—it is so hard to tell how much he guesses, and those people—the Lorings—"

"I think I shall be able to manage the Lorings," said her mistress, with a reassuring smile, "even the redoubtable Matthew—the tyrannical terror of the county; so cheer up, Louise. Even the longest parting need only be a lifetime, and I should find you at the end of it."

"And find me still your slave," said the girl, looking at her affectionately. "That's a sort of comfort to think, Marquise; I'm glad you said it. I'll think of it until me meet again."

She repeated it Wednesday morning when she entered the boat for the first stage of her journey to Savannah, and the Marquise nodded her comprehension, murmured kindly words of adieu, and watched the little vessel until a bend in the river hid it from view, when she walked slowly back to the house. Since her arrival in America this was the first time she had been separated from the devoted girl for more than a day, and she realized the great loss it would be to her, though she knew it to be an absolutely necessary one.

As for Louise, she watched to the last the slight elevation of the Terrace grounds rising like an island of green from the level lands by the river. When it finally disappeared—barred out by the nearer green of drooping branches, she wept silently, and with a heavy heart went downward to Pocotaligo, oppressed by the seemingly groundless fear that some unknown evil threatened herself or the Marquise—the dread lest they never meet again.



CHAPTER XIX.

"Hurrah! Hurrah! for Southern rights Hurrah! Hurrah! for the bonney blue flag, That bears the single star!"

Evilena was singing this stirring ditty at the top of her voice, a very sweet voice when not overtaxed, but Dilsey, the cook, put both hands to her ears and vowed cooking school would close at once if that "yapping" was not stopped; she could not for the life of her see why Miss Lena would sing that special song so powerful loud.

"Why, Dilsey, it is my shout of defiance," explained the girl, stirring vigorously at a mass in a wooden bowl which she fondly hoped would develop into cookies for that evening's tea, when the party from Loringwood were expected. "It does not reach very far, but I comfort myself by saying it good and loud, anyway. That Yankee general who has marched his followers into Orleans fines everybody—even if its a lady—who sings that song. I can't make him hear me that far off, but I do my best."

"Good Lawd knows you does," agreed Dilsey. "But when you want to sing in this heah cookhouse I be 'bleeged if yo' fine some song what ain't got no battles in it. Praise the Lawd, we fur 'nough away so that Yankee can't trouble we all."

"Madam Caron saw him once," said the amateur cook, tasting a bit of the sweetened dough with apparent pleasure, "but she left Orleans quick, after the Yankees came. Of course it wouldn't be a place for a lady, then. She shut her house up and went straight to Mobile, and I just love her for it."

"Seems to me like she jest 'bout witched yo' all," remarked Dilsey; "every blessed nigger in the house go fallen' ovah theyselves when her bell rings, fo' feah they won't git thah fust; an' Pluto, he like to be no use to any one till aftah her maid, Miss Louise, get away, he jest waited on her, han' an' foot."

Dilsey had heretofore been the very head and front of importance in the servants' quarters on that plantation, and it was apparent that she resented the comparative grandeur of the Marquise's maid, and especially resented it because her fellow servants bowed down and paid enthusiastic tribute to the new divinity.

"Well, Dilsey, I'm sure she needed waiting on hand and foot while she was so crippled. I know mama was mighty well pleased he was so attentive; reckon maybe that's why she let him go riding with Madame Caron this morning."

"Pluto, he think plenty o' hisself 'thout so much pamperen," grumbled Dilsey. "Seem like he counted the whole 'pendence o' the family since Mahs Ken gone."

Evilena prudently refrained from expressing an opinion on the subject, though she clearly perceived that Dilsey was possessed of a fit of jealousy; so she proceeded to flatter the old soul into a more sunny humor lest dinner should go awry in some way, more particularly as regarded the special dishes to which her own little hands had added interest.

She was yet in the cookhouse when the guests arrived, and doffing the huge apron in which she was enveloped, skurried into the house, carrying with her the fragrance of cinnamon and sweet spices, while a dust of flower on curls and chin gave her a novel appearance, and the confession that she had been cooking was not received with the acclamation she had expected, though there was considerable laughter about it. No one appeared to take the statement seriously except Matthew Loring, who took it seriously enough to warn Margeret he would expect her to supervise all dishes he was to partake of. His meals were affairs not to be trifled with.

Margeret and Ben had accompanied the party. Others of the more reliable house servants of Loringwood, were to commence at once work at the Pines, and Gertrude was almost enthusiastic over the change.

"You folks really live over here," she declared to Mrs. McVeigh, "while at Loringwood—well, they tell me life used to be very gay there—but I can't remember the time. It seems to me that since the day they carried papa in from his last hunting field the place has been under a cloud. Nothing prospers there, nobody laughs or sings; I can't be fond of it, and I am so glad to get away from it again."

"Still, it is a magnificent estate," said Mrs. McVeigh, thoughtfully; "the associations of the past—the history of your family—is so intimately connected with it, I should think you would be sorry to part with it."

"I should not!" said Gertrude, promptly, "the money just now would do me a great deal more good than family records of extravagance which all the Lorings but Uncle Matthew seem to have been addicted to; and he is the exact opposite, you know."

Mrs. McVeigh did know. She remembered hearing of him as a one-time gamester long ago in New Orleans, a man without the conviviality of his father or his brother Tom; a man who spent money in dissipations purely selfish, carrying the spirit of a speculator even into his pursuit of social enjoyment. Then, all at once, he came back to Loringwood, settled down and became a model in deportment and plantation management, so close a calculator of dimes as well as dollars that it was difficult to believe he ever had squandered a penny, and a great many people refused to credit those ancient Orleans stories at all. Kenneth's father was one of them.

"I don't believe I am very much of a Loring, anyway," continued Gertrude with a little sigh. "They were a wild, reckless lot so far back as I can learn, and I—well, you couldn't call me wild and reckless, could you?"

Mrs. McVeigh smiled at the query and shook her head. "Not the least little bit, and we are glad of it." She walked over to the window looking across the far fields where the road showed a glimpse of itself as it wound by the river. "I thought I saw some one on horseback over there, and every horseman coming our way is of special interest just now. I look for word from Kenneth daily—if not from the boy himself; he has had time to be home now. His stay has already been longer than he expected."

Gertrude joined her and gave her attention to the head of the road.

"It may be your visitor from France, Evilena said she had gone riding. Of course you know we are all eager to meet her. Dr. Delaven sings her praises to us until it has become tantalizing."

"We should have driven over to see you but for that accident to her maid—the poor thing, except a few words, could only speak her own language, and we could not leave her entirely to the servants. Madame Caron seemed quite impressed with the brief glance she got of Loringwood, and when she heard it was likely to be sold she asked a great many interested questions concerning it. She is wealthy enough to humor her fancies, and her latest one is a Carolina plantation near enough to water for her yacht, which Mobile folks say is the most beautiful thing—and the Combahee would always be navigable for so small a craft, and the Salkahatchie for most of the year."

"She certainly must be able to humor any sort of fancy if she keeps a yacht of her own; that will be a new departure for a woman in Carolina. It sounds very magnificent."

"It is; and it suits her. That is one reason why I thought she might be the very best possible purchaser for Loringwood. She would resurrect all its former glories, and establish new ones."

Matthew Loring entered the sitting room, moving somewhat haltingly with the help of a cane. Gertrude arranged a chair near the window, in which he seated himself slowly.

"Do you feel tired after the ride, Uncle?"

"No," he said, fidgetting with the cushion back of his head, and failing to adjust it to suit him, either let it fall or threw it on the floor. Gertrude replaced it without a word, and Mrs. McVeigh smiled quietly, and pretended not to see.

"I think I can promise you a pleasant visitor, Mr. Loring," she remarked, turning from the window. "A gentleman just turned in at our gate, and he does look like Judge Clarkson."

Gertrude left the room to join the others who were talking and laughing in the arbor, a few steps across the lawn. Mrs. McVeigh busied herself cutting some yellowing leaves from the plants on the stand by the window. Loring watched her with a peculiar peering gaze. His failing sight caused him to pucker his brows in a frown when he desired to inspect anything intently, and it was that regard he was now directing toward Mrs. McVeigh, who certainly was worth looking at by any man.

The dainty lace cap she wore had tiny bows of violet showing among the lace, and it someway had the effect of making her appear more youthful instead of adding matronliness. The lawn she wore had violet lines through it, and the flowing sleeves had undersleeves of sheer white gathered at the wrist. The wide lace collar circled a throat scarcely less white, and altogether made a picture worth study, though Matthew Loring's view of it was rather blurred because of the failure of vision which he denied whenever opportunity offered; next to paralysis there was nothing he dreaded so much as blindness, and even to Delaven he denied—uselessly—any tendency in that direction.

"Hum!" he grunted, at last, with a cynical smile; "if Gid Clarkson keeps up his habit of visiting you regularly, as he has done for the past ten years, you ought to know him a mile away by this time."

"Oh!"—Mrs. McVeigh was refastening her brooch before the mirror, "not ten years, quite."

"Well, long enough to be refused three times to my certain knowledge; why, he doesn't deny it—proud to let the country know his devotion to the most charming of her sex," and he gave an ironical little nod for which she exchanged one of her sweetest smiles.

"Glad you looked at me when you said that," she remarked, lightly; "and we do depend on Judge Clarkson so much these days I don't know what I ever would do if his devotion dwindled in the least. But I fancy his visit this morning is on your account instead of mine."

At that moment the white hat of Clarkson could be seen above the veranda railing, and Mrs. McVeigh threw open the glass doors as he appeared at the top of the steps with an immense boquet held with especial care—the Judge's one hobby in the realm of earth-grown things was flowers.

He bowed when he caught sight of the mistress of the Terrace, who bestowed on him a quaint courtesy such as the good nuns of Orleans taught their pupils thirty years before, she also extended her hand, which he kissed—an addition to fine manners the nuns had omitted—probably they knew how superfluous such training would be, all Southern girls being possessed of that knowledge by right of birth.

"Good morning, Judge."

"Mistress McVeigh!" Loring uttered an inarticulate exclamation which was first cousin to a grunt, as the Judge's tone reached his ear, and the profound bow was robbed of its full value by the Judge straightening, and glancing sideways.

"My delight, Madame, at being invited over this morning is only to be expressed in the silent language of the blossoms I bring. You will honor me by accepting them?"

"With very great pleasure, Judge; here is Mr. Loring."

"Heartily pleased to see you have arrived," and the Judge moved over and shook hands. "I came within bowing distance of Miss Gertrude as I entered, so I presume she has induced you to come over to the Pines for good. Your position, Mr. Loring, is one to be envied in that respect. Your hours are never lonely for lack of womanly grace and beauty in your household;" he glanced at Mrs. McVeigh, who was arranging the flowers in a vase, "I envy you, sir, I envy you."

"Oh, Gertrude is well enough, though we don't unite to spoil each other with flattering demonstrations," and he smiled cynically at the other two, and peered quizzically at Mrs. McVeigh, who presented him with a crimson beauty of a rose, for which he returned a very gracious, "Thank you," and continued: "Yes, Gertrude's a very good girl, though it's a pity it wasn't a boy, instead, who came into the Loring family that day to keep up the old name. And what about that boy of yours, Mistress McVeigh? When do you expect him home?"

"Very soon, now. His last message said they hoped to reach Charleston by the twentieth—so you see the time is short. I am naturally intensely anxious—the dread of that blockade oppresses me."

"No need, no need," and Loring's tone was decided and reassuring. "We got out through it, and back through it, and never a Yankee in sight; and those men on a special commission will be given double care, you may be sure."

"Certainly; the run from Nassau has kept the mail service open almost without a break," assented Clarkson, "and we have little reason for anxiety now that the more doubtful part of the undertaking has been successfully arranged."

"Most successfully; he writes that the English treat our people with extreme consideration, and heartily approve our seceding."

"Of course they do, and why shouldn't they?" demanded Loring. "I tell you, they would do much more than give silent sympathy to our cause if it were not that Russia has chosen to send her warships into Yankee harbors just now on guard against the interference of any of our friends, especially against Great Britain's interference, which would be most certain and most valuable."

"Quite true, quite true," assented the Judge, with a soothing tone, calculated to allay any combative or excited mood concerning that or any other subject; "but even their moral support has been a wonderful help, my dear sir, and the securing of an important addition to our navy from them just now means a very great deal I assure you; once let us gain a foothold in the North—get into Washington—and she will be the first to acknowledge us as a power—a sovereign power, sir!"

"I don't understand the political reasons of things," confessed their hostess, "but I fear Kenneth has imbibed the skepticism of the age since these years of military associations; he suggests that England's motive is really not for our advantage so much as her own. I dislike to have my illusions dispelled in that respect; yet I wonder if it is all commercialism on their part."

"Most assuredly," said the Judge. "England's policy has always been one of selfishness where our country was concerned. We must not forget she was the bitterest foe of our fathers. She has been sent home from our shores badly whipped too often to feel much of the brotherly love she effects just now for her own purposes. We must not expect anything else. She is of help to us now for purposes of revenue, only, and we will have to pay heavy interest for all favors. The only thought of comfort to us in the matter is that our cause is worth paying that interest for."

Loring acknowledged the truth of the statements, and Mrs. McVeigh sighed to think of the duplicity of the nation she had fancied single-hearted. And to a woman of her trustful nature it was a shock to learn that the British policy contained really none of the sweetly domestic and fraternal spirit so persistently advertised.

To change the conversation the Judge produced a letter just received—a proposal for Loringwood at Mr. Loring's own price.

"Already?" asked Mrs. McVeigh; and Loring, who realized that his own price was a remarkably high one, showed surprise at the ready acceptance of it.

"The offer is made by a law firm in New Orleans, Hart & Logan," continued Clarkson. "But the real purchaser is evidently some client of theirs."

"Well, I certainly hope the client will prove a pleasant personage if he is to locate at Loringwood," remarked Mrs. McVeigh. "Some one in New Orleans? Possibly we know them."

"I am led to believe that the property is desired for some educational institution," said Clarkson, handing the letter to Loring, who could not decipher two lines of the fine script, but refrained from acknowledging it.

"I must say the offer pleases me greatly." He nodded his head and uttered a sigh of satisfaction; "a school or seminary, no doubt, I like that; so will Gertrude. Speak to her, and then write or telegraph the acceptance, as they prefer. This is remarkably quick work; I feared it would be a long while before a purchaser could be found. This is most fortunate."

"Then I congratulate you, Mr. Loring," said Mrs. McVeigh, who was grateful to the Judge for bringing news likely to make the entertainment of the invalid an easier affair. "But your fortunate offer from New Orleans dispels a hope I had that my friend, Madame Caron, might buy it. She seemed quite impressed with it. I was just saying so to Gertrude."