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you to ax me wot I tinks about ole miss gwine away an' comin' back. I begs you, Mahs' Junius, don' ax me dat." Master Junius rose to his feet. "All right, Isham," he said; "I shall not worry your good old heart with questions." And he went into the house. The next day this quiet gentleman and good walker went to see old Aunt Patsy, who had apparently consented to live a day or two longer; gave her a little money in lieu of pieces for her crazy bed-quilt; and told her he was going away to stay

. He told Uncle Isham he was going away to stay away; and he said the same thing to Letty, and to Plez, and to two colored women of the neighborhood whom he happened to see. Then he took his valise, which was not a very large one, and departed. He refused to be conveyed to the distant station in the spring wagon, saying that he much preferred to walk. Uncle Isham took leave of him with much sadness, but did not ask him to stay; and Letty and Plez looked after him wistfully, still holding in thei

r hands the coins he had placed there. With the exception of these coins, the only thing he left behind him was a sealed letter on the parlor table, directed to the mistress of the house. Toward the end of that afternoon, two women came along the public road which passed the outer gate. One came from the south, and rode in an open carriage, evidently hired at the railroad station; the other was on foot, and came from the north; she wore a purple sun-bonnet, and carried an umbrella of the same c

olor. When this latter individual caught sight of the approaching carriage, then at some distance, she stopped short and gazed at it. She did not retire behind a bush, as she had done on a former occasion, but she stood in the shade of a tree on the side of the road, and waited. As the carriage came nearer to the gate the surprise upon her face became rapidly mingled with indignation. The driver had checked the speed of his horses, and, without doubt, intended to stop at the gate. This might not

have been sufficient to excite her emotions, but she now saw clearly, having not been quite certain of it before, that the occupant of the carriage was a lady, and, apparently, a young one, for she wore in her hat some bright-colored flowers. The driver stopped, got down, opened the gate, and then, mounting to his seat, drove through, leaving the gate standing wide open. This contempt of ordinary proprietary requirements made the old lady spring out from the shelter of the shade. Brandishing h

er umbrella, she was about to cry out to the man to stop and shut the gate, but she restrained herself. The distance was too great, and, besides, she thought better of it. She went again into the shade, and waited. In about ten minutes the carriage came back, but without the lady. This time the driver got down, shut the gate after him, and drove rapidly away. If blazing eyes could crack glass, the spectacles of the old lady would have been splintered into many pieces as she stood by the roadsid

e, the end of her umbrella jabbed an inch or two into the ground. After standing thus for some five minutes, she suddenly turned and walked vigorously away in the direction from which she had come. Uncle Isham, Letty, and the boy Plez, were very much surprised at the arrival of the lady in the carriage. She had asked for the mistress of the house, and on being assured that she was expected to return very soon, had alighted, paid and dismissed her driver, and had taken a seat in the parlor. Her

valise, rather larger than that of the previous visitor, was brought in and put in the hall. She waited for an hour or two, during which time Letty made several attempts to account for the non-appearance of her mistress, who, she said, was away on a visit, but was expected back every minute; and when supper was ready she partook of that meal alone, and after a short evening spent in reading she went to bed in the chamber which Letty prepared for her. Before she retired, Letty, who had shown her

self a very capable attendant, said to her: "Wot's your name, miss? I allus likes to know the names o' ladies I waits on.'' "My name," said the lady, "is Mrs Null." CHAPTER IV. The Autumn sun was shining very pleasantly when, about nine o'clock in the morning, Mrs Null came out on the porch, and, standing at the top of the steps, looked about her. She had on her hat with the red flowers, and she wore a short jacket, into the pockets of which her hands were thrust with an air which indicat

ed satisfaction with the circumstances surrounding her. The old dog, lying on the grass at the bottom of the steps, looked up at her and flopped his tail upon the ground. Mrs Null called to him in a cheerful tone and the dog arose, and, hesitatingly, put his forefeet on the bottom step; then, when she held out her hand and spoke to him again, he determined that, come what might, he would go up those forbidden steps, and let her pat his head. This he did, and after looking about him to assure him

self that this was reality and not a dog dream, he lay down upon the door-mat, and, with a sigh of relief, composed himself to sleep. A black turkey gobbler, who looked as if he had been charred in a fire, followed by five turkey hens, also suggesting the idea that water had been thrown over them before anything but their surfaces had been burned, came timidly around the house and stopped before venturing upon the greensward in front of the porch; then, seeing nobody but Mrs Null, they advanced

with bobbing heads and swaying bodies to look into the resources of this seldom explored region. Plez, who was coming from the spring with a pail of water on his head, saw the dog on the porch and the turkeys on the grass, and stopped to regard the spectacle. He looked at them, and he looked at Mrs Null, and a grin of amused interest spread itself over his face. Mrs Null went down the steps and approached the boy. "Plez," said she, "if your mistress, or anybody, should come here this morning, y

ou must run over to Pine Top Hill and call me. I'm going there to read." "Don' you want me to go wid yer, and show you de way, Miss Null?" asked Plez, preparing to set down his pail. "Oh, no," said she, "I know the way." And with her hands still in her pockets, from one of which protruded a rolled-up novel, she walked down to the little stream which ran from the spring, crossed the plank and took the path which led by the side of the vineyard to Pine Top Hill. This lady visitor had now been h

ere two days waiting for the return of the mistress of the little estate; and the sojourn had evidently been of benefit to her. Good air, the good meals with which Letty had provided her, and a sort of sympathy which had sprung up in a very sudden way between her and everything on the place, had given brightness to her eyes. She even looked a little plumper than when she came, and certainly very pretty. She climbed Pine Top Hill without making any mistake as to the best path, and went directly t

o a low piece of sun-warmed rock which cropped out from the ground not far from the bases of the cluster of pines which gave the name to the hill. An extended and very pretty view could be had from this spot, and Mrs Null seemed to enjoy it, looking about her with quick turns of the head as if she wanted to satisfy herself that all of the scenery was there. Apparently satisfied that it was, she stretched out her feet, withdrew her gaze from the surrounding country, and regarded the toes of her b

oots. Now she smiled a little and began to speak. "Freddy," said she, "I must think over matters, and have a talk with you about them. Nothing could be more proper than this, since we are on our wedding tour. You keep beautifully in the background, which is very nice of you, for that's what I married you for. But we must have a talk now, for we haven't said a word to each other, nor, perhaps, thought of each other during the whole three nights and two days that we have been here. I expect these

people think it very queer that I should keep on waiting for their mistress to come back, but I can't help it; I must stay till she comes, or he comes, and they must continue to think it funny. And as for Mr Croft, I suppose I should get a letter from him if he knew where to write, but you know, Freddy, we are travelling about on this wedding tour without letting anybody, especially Mr Croft, know exactly where we are. He must think it an awfully wonderful piece of good luck that a young marrie

d couple should happen to be journeying in the very direction taken by a gentleman whom he wants to find, and that they are willing to look for the gentleman without charging anything but the extra expenses to which they may be put. We wouldn't charge him a cent, you know, Freddy Null, but for the fear that he would think we would not truly act as his agents if we were not paid, and so would employ somebody else. We don't want him to employ anybody else. We want to find Junius Keswick before he

does, and then, maybe, we won't want Mr Croft to find him at all. But I hope it will not turn out that way. He said, it was neither crime nor relationship and, of course, it couldn't be. What I hope is, that it is good fortune; but that's doubtful. At any rate, I must see Junius first, if I can possibly manage it. If she would only come back and open her letter, there might be no more trouble about it, for I don't believe he would go away without leaving her his address. Isn't all this charming,

Freddy? And don't you feel glad that we came here for our wedding tour? Of course you don't enjoy it as much as I do, for it can't seem so natural to you; but you are bound to like it. The very fact of my being here should make the place delightful in your eyes, Mr Null, even if I have forgotten all about you ever since I came." That afternoon, as Mrs Null was occupying some of her continuous leisure in feeding the turkeys at the back of the house, she noticed two colored men in earnest conver

sation with Isham. When they had gone she called to the old man. "Uncle Isham," she said, "what did those men want?" "Tell you what 'tis, Miss Null," said Isham, removing his shapeless felt hat, "dis yere place is gittin' wus an' wus on de careen, an' wat's gwine to happen if ole miss don' come back is more'n I kin tell. Dar's no groun' ploughed yit for wheat, an' dem two han's been 'gaged to come do it, an' dey put it off, an' put it off till ole miss got as mad as hot coals, an' now at las' d

ey've come, an' she's not h'yar, an' nuffin' can be done. De wheat'll be free inches high on ebery oder farm 'fore ole miss git dem plough han's agin." "That is too bad, Uncle Isham," said Mrs Null. "When land that ought to be ploughed isn't ploughed, it all grows up in old field pines, don't it?" "It don' do dat straight off, Miss Null," said the old negro, his gray face relaxing into a smile. "No, I suppose not," said she. "I have heard that it takes thirty years for a whole forest of old f

ield pines to grow up. But they will do it if the land isn't ploughed. Now, Uncle Isham, I don't intend to let everything be at a standstill here just because your mistress is away. That is one reason why I feed the turkeys. If they died, or the farm all went wrong, I should feel that it was partly my fault." "Yaas'm," said Uncle Isham, passing his hat from one hand to the other, as he delivered himself a little hesitatingly--"yaas'm, if you wasn't h'yar p'raps ole miss mought come back." "Now

, Uncle Isham," said Mrs Null, "you mustn't think your mistress is staying away on account of me. She left home, as Letty has told me over and over, because your Master Junius came. Of course she thinks he's here yet, and she don't know anything about me. But if her affairs should go to rack and ruin while I am here and able to prevent it, I should think it was my fault. That's what I mean, Uncle Isham. And now this is what I want you to do. I want you to go right after those men, and tell them

to come here as soon as they can, and begin to plough. Do you know where the ploughing is to be done?" "Oh, yaas'm," said Uncle Isham, "dar ain't on'y one place fur dat. It's de clober fiel', ober dar, on de udder side ob de gyarden." "And what is to be planted in it?" asked Mrs Null. "Ob course dey's gwine to plough for wheat," answered Uncle Isham, a little surprised at the question. "I don't altogether like that," said Mrs Null, her brows slightly contracting. "I've read a great deal abou

t the foolishness of Southern people planting wheat. They can't compete with the great wheat farms of the West, which sometimes cover a whole county, and, of course, having so much, they can afford to sell it a great deal cheaper than you can here. And yet you go on, year after year, paying every cent you can rake and scrape for fertilizing drugs, and getting about a teacupful of wheat,--that is, proportionately speaking. I don't think this sort of thing should continue, Uncle Isham. It would be

a great deal better to plough that field for pickles. Now there is a steady market for pickles, and, so far as I know, there are no pickle farms in the West." "Pickles!" ejaculated the astonished Isham. "Do you mean, Miss Null, to put dat fiel' down in kukumbers at dis time o' yeah?" "Well," said Mrs Null, thoughtfully, "I don't know that I feel authorized to make the change at present, but I do know that the things that pay most are small fruits, and if you people down here would pay more at

tention to them you would make more money. But the land must be ploughed, and then we'll see about planting it afterward; your mistress will, probably, be home in time for that. You go after the men, and tell them I shall expect them to begin the first thing in the morning. And if there is anything else to be done on the farm, you come and tell me about it to-morrow. I'm going to take the responsibility on myself to see that matters go on properly until your mistress returns." Letty and her son

, Plez, occupied a cabin not far from the house, while Uncle Isham lived alone in a much smaller tenement, near the barn and chicken house. That evening he went over to Letty's, taking with him, as a burnt offering, a partially consumed and still glowing log of hickory wood from his own hearth-stone. "Jes' lemme tell you dis h'yar, Letty," said he, after making up the fire and seating himself on a stool near by, "ef you want to see ole miss come back rarin' an' chargin', jes' you let her know da

t Miss Null is gwine ter plough de clober fiel' for pickles." "Wot's dat fool talk?" asked Letty. "Miss Null's gwine to boss dis farm, dat's all," said Isham. "She tole me so herse'f, an' ef she's lef' alone she's gwine ter do it city fashion. But one thing's sartin shuh, Letty, if ole miss do fin' out wot's gwine on, she'll be back h'yar in no time! She know well 'nuf dat dat Miss Null ain't got no right to come an' boss dis h'yar farm. Who's she, anyway?" "Dunno," answered Letty. "I done ax

her six or seben time, but 'pears like I dunno wot she mean when she tell me. P'raps she's one o' ole miss' little gal babies growed up. I tell you, Uncle Isham, she know dis place jes as ef she bawn h'yar." Uncle Isham looked steadily into the fire and rubbed the sides of his head with his big black fingers. "Ole miss nebber had no gal baby 'cept one, an' dat died when 'twas mighty little." "Does you reckon she kill her ef she come back an' fin' her no kin?" asked Letty. Uncle Isham pushed

his stool back and started to his feet with a noise which woke Plez, who had been soundly sleeping on the other side of the fireplace; and striding to the door, the old man went out into the open air. Returning in less than a minute, he put his head into the doorway and addressed the astonished woman who had turned around to look after him. "Look h'yar, you Letty, I don' want to hear no sech fool talk 'bout ole miss. You dunno ole miss, nohow. You only come h'yar seben year ago when dat Plez was

trottin' roun' wid nuffin but a little meal bag for clothes. Mahs' John had been dead a long time den; you nebber knowed Mahs' John. You nebber was woke up at two o'clock in the mawnin wid de crack ob a pistol, an' run out 'spectin' 'twas somebody stealin' chickens an' Mahs' John firin' at 'em, an' see ole miss a cuttin' for de road gate wid her white night-gown a floppin' in de win' behind her, an' when we got out to de gate dar we see Mahs' John a stannin' up agin de pos', not de pos' wid de

hinges on, but de pos' wid de hook on, an' a hole in de top ob de head which he made hese'f wid de pistol. One-eyed Jim see de whole thing. He war stealin' cohn in de fiel' on de udder side de road. He see Mahs' John come out wid de pistol, an' he lay low. Not dat it war Mahs' John's cohn dat he was stealin', but he knowed well 'nuf dat Mahs' John take jes' as much car' o' he neighbus cohn as he own. An' den he see Mahs' John stan' up agin de pos' an' shoot de pistol, an' he see Mahs' John's sou

l come right out de hole in de top ob his head an' go straight up to heben like a sky-racket." "Wid a whizz?" asked the open-eyed Letty." "Like a sky-racket, I tell you," continued the old man, "an' den me an' ole miss come up. She jes' tuk one look at him and then she said in a wice, not like she own wice, but like Mahs' John's wice, wot had done gone forebber: 'You Jim, come out o' dat cohn and help carry him in!' And we free carried him in. An' you dunno ole miss, nohow, an' I don' want to

hear no fool talk from you, Letty, 'bout her. Jes' you 'member dat!" And with this Uncle Isham betook himself to the solitude of his own cabin. "Well," said Letty to herself, as she rose and approached the bed in the corner of the room, "Ise pow'ful glad dat somebody's gwine to take de key bahsket, for I nebber goes inter dat sto'-room by myse'f widout tremblin' all froo my back bone fear ole miss come back, an' fin' me dar 'lone." CHAPTER V. When Lawrence Croft now took his afternoon wa

lks in the city, he was very glad to wear a light overcoat, and to button it, too. But, although the air was getting a little nipping in New York, he knew that it must still be balmy and enjoyable in Virginia. He had never been down there at this season, but he had heard about the Virginia autumns, and, besides he had seen a lady who had had a letter from Roberta March. In this letter Miss March had written that as her father intended making a trip to Texas, and, therefore, would not come to New

York as early as usual, she would stay at least a month longer with her Uncle Brandon; and she was glad to do it, for the weather was perfectly lovely, and she could stay out-of-doors all day if she wanted to. Lawrence's walks, although very invigorating on account of the fine, sharp air, were not entirely cheering, for they gave him an opportunity to think that he was making no progress whatever in his attempt to study the character of Junius Keswick. He had entrusted the search for that gent

leman's address to Mr Candy's cashier, who had informed him, most opportunely, that she was about to set out on a wedding tour, and that she had possessed herself of clues of much value which could be readily followed up in connection with the projected journey. But a fortnight or more had elapsed without his hearing anything from her, and he had come to the conclusion that hymeneal joys must have driven all thoughts of business out of her little head. After hearing that Roberta March intended

protracting her stay in the country the desire came to him to go down there himself. He would like to have the novel experience of that region in autumn, and he would like to see Roberta, but he could not help acknowledging to himself that the proceeding would scarcely be a wise one, especially as he must go without the desired safeguard of knowing what kind of man Miss March had once been willing to accept. He felt that if he went down to the neighborhood of Midbranch one of the battles of his

life would begin, and that when he held up before him his figurative shield, he would see in its inner mirror that, on account of his own disposition toward the lady, he was in a condition of great peril. But, for all that, he wanted very much to go, and no one will be surprised to learn that he did go. He was a little embarrassed at first in regard to the pretext which he should make to himself for such a journey. Whatever satisfactory excuse he could make to himself in this case would, of cou

rse, do for other people. Although he was not prone to make excuses for his conduct to other people in general, he knew he would have to give some reason to Mr Brandon and Miss Roberta for his return to Virginia so soon after having left it. He determined to make a visit to the mountains of North Carolina, and as Midbranch would lie in his way, of course he would stop there. This he assured himself was not a subterfuge. It was a very sensible thing to do. He had a good deal of time on his hands

before the city season, at least for him, would begin, and he had read that the autumn was an admirable time to visit the country of the French Broad. How long a stop he would make at Midbranch would be determined by circumstances. He was sorry that he would not be able to look upon Miss Roberta with the advantage of knowing her former lover, but it was something to know that she had had a lover. With this fact in his mind he would be able to form a better estimate of her than he had formed befo

re. The man who lived in the cottage at the Green Sulphur Springs was somewhat surprised when Mr Croft arrived there, and desired to make arrangements, as before, for board, and the use of a saddle horse. But, although it was not generally conceded, this man knew very well that there was no water in the world so suitable to remedy the wear and tear of a city life as that of the Green Sulphur Springs, and therefore nobody could consider the young gentleman foolish for coming back again while the

season permitted. Lawrence arrived at his cottage in the morning; and early in the afternoon of the same day he rode over to Midbranch. He found the country a good deal changed, and he did not like the changes. His road, which ran for much of its distance through the woods, was covered with leaves, some green, and some red and yellow, and he did not fancy the peculiar smell of these leaves, which reminded him, in some way, of that gathering together of the characters in old-fashioned comedies

shortly before the fall of the curtain. In many places where there used to be a thick shade, the foliage was now quite thin, and through it he could see a good deal of the sky. The Virginia creepers, or "poison oaks," whichever they were, were growing red upon the trunks of the trees as if they had been at table too long and showed it, and when he rode out of the woods he saw that the fields, which he remembered as wide, swelling slopes of green, with cattle and colts feeding here and there, wer

e now being ploughed into corrugated stretches of monotonous drab and brown. If he had been there through all the gradual changes of the season, he, probably, would have enjoyed them as much as people ordinarily do; but coming back in this way, the altered landscape slightly shocked him. When he had turned into the Midbranch gate, but was still a considerable distance from the house, he involuntarily stopped his horse. He could see the broad steps which crossed the fence of the lawn, and on one

side of the platform on the top sat a lady whom he instantly recognized as Miss Roberta; and on the other side of the platform sat a gentleman. These two occupied very much the same positions as Lawrence, himself, and Miss March had occupied when we first became acquainted with them. Lawrence looked very sharply and earnestly at the gentleman. Could it be Mr Brandon? No, it was a much younger person. His first impulse was to turn and ride away, but this would be silly and unmanly, and he conti

nued his way to the stile. His disposition to treat the matter with contempt made him feel how important the matter was to him. The gentleman on the platform first saw Lawrence, and announced to the lady that some one was coming. Miss March turned around, and then rose to her feet. "Upon my word!" she exclaimed, elevating her eyebrows a good deal more than was usual with her, "if that isn't Mr Croft!" "Who is he?" asked the other, also rising. "He is a New York gentleman whom I know very well

. He was down here last summer, but I can't imagine what brings him here again." Lawrence dismounted, tied his horse, and approached the steps. Miss Roberta welcomed him cordially, coming down a little way to shake hands with him. Then she introduced the two gentlemen. "Mr Croft," she said, "let me make you acquainted with Mr Keswick." The afternoon, or the portion of it that was left, was spent on the porch, Mr Brandon joining the party. It was to him that Lawrence chiefly talked, for the mo

st part about the game and scenery of North Carolina, with which the old gentleman was quite familiar. But Lawrence had sufficient regard for himself and his position in the eyes of this family, to help make a good deal of general conversation. What he said or heard, however, occupied only the extreme corners of his mind, the main portion of which was entirely filled with the chilling fear that that man might be the Keswick he was looking for. Of course, there was a bare chance that it was not,

for there might be a numerous family, but even this little stupid glimmer of comfort was extinguished when Mr Brandon familiarly addressed the gentleman as "Junius." Lawrence took a good look at the man he was anxious to study, and as far as outward appearances were concerned he could find no fault with Roberta for having accepted him. He was taller than Croft, and not so correctly dressed. He seemed to be a person whom one would select as a companion for a hunt, a sail, or a talk upon Politica

l Economy. There was about him an air of present laziness, but it was also evident that this was a disposition that could easily be thrown off. Lawrence's mind was not only very much occupied, but very much perturbed. It must have been all a mistake about the engagement having been broken off. If this had been the case, the easy friendliness of the relations between Keswick and the old gentleman and his niece would have been impossible. Once or twice the thought came to Lawrence that he should

congratulate himself for not having avowed his feelings toward Miss Roberta when he had an opportunity of doing so; but his predominant emotion was one of disgust with his previous mode of action. If he had not weighed and considered the matter so carefully, and had been willing to take his chances as other men take them, he would, at least, have known in what relation he stood to Roberta, and would not have occupied the ridiculous position in which he now felt himself to be. When he took his l

eave, Roberta went with him to the stile. As they walked together across the smooth, short grass, a new set of emotions arose in Lawrence's mind which drove out every other. They were grief, chagrin, and even rage, at not having won this woman. As to actual speech, there was nothing he could say, although his soul boiled and bubbled within him in his desire to speak. But if he had anything to say, now was his chance, for he had told them that he would proceed with his journey the next day. Miss

Roberta had a way of looking up, and looking down at the same time, particularly when she had asked a question and was waiting for the answer. Her face would be turned a little down, but her eyes would look up and give a very charming expression to those upturned eyes; and if she happened to allow the smile, with which she ceased speaking, to remain upon her pretty lips, she generally had an answer of some sort very soon. If for no other reason, it would be given that she might ask another ques

tion. It was in this manner she said to Lawrence: "Do you really go away from us to-morrow?" "Yes," said he, "I shall push on." "Do you not find the country very beautiful at this season?" asked Miss Roberta, after a few steps in silence. "I don't like autumn," answered Lawrence. "Everything is drying up and dying. I would rather see things dead." Roberta looked at him without turning her head. "But it will be just as bad in North Carolina," she said. "There is an autumn in ourselves," he a

nswered, "just as much as there is in Nature. I won't see so much of that down there." "In some cases," said Roberta, slowly, "autumn is impossible." They had reached the bottom of the steps, and Lawrence turned and looked toward her. "Do you mean," he asked, "when there has been no real summer?" Roberta laughed. "Of course," said she, "if there has been no summer there can be no autumn. But you know there are places where it is summer all the time. Would you like to live in such a clime?" L

awrence Croft put one foot on the step, and then he drew it back. "Miss March," said he, "my train does not leave until the afternoon, and I am coming over here in the morning to have one more walk in the woods with you. May I?" "Certainly," she said, "I shall be delighted; that is, if you can overlook the fact that it is autumn." When Miss Roberta returned to the house she found Junius Keswick sitting on a bench on the porch. She went over to him, and took a seat at the other end of the bench

. "So your gentleman is gone," he said. "Yes," she answered, "but only for the present. He is coming back in the morning." "What for?" asked Keswick, a little abruptly. Miss Roberta took off her hat, for there was no need of a hat on a shaded porch, and holding it by the ribbons, she let it gently slide down toward her feet. "He is coming," she said, speaking rather slowly, "to take a walk with me, and I know very well that when we have reached some place where he is sure there is no one to

hear him, he is going to tell me that he loves me; that he did not intend to speak quite so soon, but that circumstances have made it impossible for him to restrain himself any longer, and he will ask me to be his wife." "And what are you going to say to him?" asked Keswick. "I don't know," replied Roberta, her eyes fixed upon the hat which she still held by its long ribbons. The next morning Junius Keswick, who had been up a long, long time before breakfast, sat, after that meal, looking at

Roberta who was reading a book in the parlor. "She is a strange girl," thought he. "I cannot understand her. How is it possible that she can sit there so placidly reading that volume of Huxley, which I know she never saw before and which she has opened just about the middle, on a morning when she is expecting a man who will say things to her which may change her whole life. I could almost imagine that she has forgotten all about it." Peggy, who had just entered the room to inform her mistress t

hat Aunt Judy was ready for her, stood in rigid uprightness, her torpid eyes settled upon the lady. "I reckon," so ran the thought within the mazes of her dark little interior, "dat Miss Rob's wuss disgruntled dan she was dat ebenin' when I make my cake, fur she got two dif'ent kinds o' shoes on." The morning went on, and Keswick found that he must go out again for a walk, although he had rambled several miles before breakfast. After her household duties had been completed, Miss Roberta took he

r book out to the porch; and about noon when her uncle came out and made some remarks upon the beauty of the day, she turned over the page at which she had opened the volume just after breakfast. An hour later Peggy brought her some luncheon, and felt it to be her duty to inform Miss Rob that she still wore one old boot and a new one. When Roberta returned to the porch after making a suitable change, she found Keswick there looking a little tired. "Has your friend gone?" he asked, in a very qui

et tone. "He has not come yet," she answered. "Not come!" exclaimed Keswick. "That's odd! However, there are two hours yet before dinner." The two hours passed and no Lawrence Croft appeared; nor came he at all that day. About dusk the man at the Green Sulphur Springs rode over with a note from Mr Croft. The note was to Miss March, of course, and it simply stated that the writer was very sorry he could not keep the appointment he had made with her, but that it had suddenly become necessary fo

r him to return to the North without continuing the journey he had planned; that he was much grieved to be deprived of the opportunity of seeing her again; but that he would give himself the pleasure, at the earliest possible moment, of calling on Miss March when she arrived in New York. When Miss Roberta had read this note she handed it to Keswick, who, when he returned it, asked: "Does that suit you?" "No," said she, "it does not suit me at all." CHAPTER VI. It was mail day at the very

small village known as Howlett's, and to the fence in front of the post-office were attached three mules and a horse. Inside the yard, tied to the low bough of a tree, was a very lean and melancholy horse, on which had lately arrived Wesley Green, the negro man who, twice a week, brought the mail from Pocohontas, a railway station, twenty miles away. There was a station not six miles from Howlett's, but, for some reason, the mail bag was always brought from and carried to Pocohontas; Wesley Gre

en requiring a whole day for a deliberate transit between the two points. In the post-office, which was the front room of a small wooden house approached by a high flight of steps, was the postmistress, Miss Harriet Corvey, who sat on the floor in one corner, while before her extended a semicircle of men and boys. In this little assemblage certain elderly men occupied seats which were considered to belong to them quite as much as if they had been hired pews in a church, and behind them stood up

a row of tall young men and barefooted boys of the neighborhood, while, farthest in the rear, were some quiet little darkies with mail bags slung across their shoulders. On a chair to the right, and most convenient to Miss Harriet, sat old Madison Chalkley, the biggest and most venerable citizen of the neighborhood. Mr Chalkley never, by any chance, got a letter, the only mail matter he received being, "The Southern Baptist Recorder," which came on Saturdays, but, like most of the people pres

ent, he was at the post-office every mail day to see who got anything. Next to him sat Colonel Iston, a tall, lean, quiet old gentleman, who had, for a long series of years, occupied the position of a last apple on a tree. He had no relatives, no friends with whom he corresponded, no business that was not conducted by word of mouth. In the last fifteen years he had received but one letter, and that had so surprised him that he carried it about with him three days before he opened it, and then he

found that it was really intended for a gentleman of the same name in another county. And yet everybody knew that if Colonel Iston failed to appear in his place on mail day, it would be because he was dead or prostrated by sickness. With the mail bag on the floor at her left, Miss Harriet, totally oblivious of any law forbidding the opening of the mails in public, would put her hand into its open mouth, draw forth a letter or a paper, hold it up in front of her spectacles, and call out the nam

e of its owner. Most of the letters went to the black boys with the mail bags who came from country houses in the neighborhood, but whoever received letter, journal, or agricultural circular, received also at the same time the earnest gaze of everybody else in the room. Sometimes there was a letter for which there was no applicant present and then Miss Harriet would say: "Is anybody going past Mrs Willis Summerses?" And if anybody was, he would take the letter, and it is to be hoped he remembere

d to deliver it in the course of a week. In spite of the precautions of the postmistress uncalled for letters would gradually accumulate, and there was a little bundle of these in one of the few pigeon holes in a small desk in the corner of the room, in the drawer of which the postage stamps were kept. Now and then a registered letter would arrive, and this always created considerable sensation in the room, and if the legal recipient did not happen to be present, Miss Harriet never breathed a q

uiet breath until he or she had been sent for, had taken the letter, and given her a receipt. Sometimes she sat up as late as eleven o'clock at night on mail days, hoping that some one who had been sent for would arrive to relieve her of a registered letter. All the mail matter had been distributed, everybody but Mr Madison Chalkley had left the room; and when the old gentleman, as was his wont on the first day of the month, had gone up to the desk, untied the bundle of uncalled-for letters, th

e outer ones permanently rounded by the tightness of the cord, and after carefully looking over them, one by one, had made his usual remark about the folly of people who wouldn't stay in a place until their letters could get to them, had tied up the bundle and taken his departure; then Miss Harriet put the empty mail bag under the desk, and went up-stairs where an old lady sat by the window, sewing in the fading light. "No letters for you to-day, Mrs Keswick," said she. "Of course not," was th

e answer, "I didn't expect any." "Don't you think," said Miss Harriet, taking a seat opposite the old lady, "that it is about time for you to go home and attend to your affairs?" "Well, upon my word!" said Mrs Keswick, letting her hands and her work fall in her lap, "that's truly hospitable. I didn't expect it of you, Harriet Corvey." "I wouldn't have said it," returned the postmistress, "if I hadn't felt dead certain that you knew you were always welcome here. But Tony Miles told me, just be

fore the mail came in, that the lady who's at your place is running it herself, and that she's going to use pickle brine for a fertilizer." "Very likely," said Mrs Keswick, her face totally unmoved by this intelligence--"very likely. That's the way they used to do in ancient times, or something of the same kind. They used to sow salt over their enemy's land so that nothing would ever grow there. That woman's family has sowed salt over the lands of me and mine for three generations, and it's qui

te natural she should come here to finish up." There was a little silence after this, and then Miss Harriet remarked: "Your people must know where you are. Why don't they come and tell you about these things?" "They know better," answered Mrs Keswick, with a grim smile. "I went away once before, and Uncle Isham hunted me up, and he got a lesson that he'll never forget. When I want them to know where I am, I'll tell them." "But really and truly"--said Miss Harriet "and you know I only speak t

o you for your own good, for you pay your board here, and if you didn't you'd be just as welcome--do you intend to keep away from your own house as long as that lady chooses to stay there?" "Exactly so long," answered the old lady. "I shall not keep them out of my house if they choose to come to it. No member of my family ever did that. There is the house, and they are free to enter it, but they shall not find me there. If there was any reason to believe that everything was dropped and done wit

h, I would be as glad to see him as anybody could be, but I knew from his letter just what he was going to say when he came, and as things have turned out, I see that it was all worse than I expected. He and Roberta March were both coming, and they thought that together they could talk me down, and make me forgive and be happy, and all that stuff. But as I wasn't there, of course he wouldn't stay, and so there she is now by herself. She thinks I must come home after a while, and the minute I do

that, back he'll come, and then they'll have just what they wanted. But I reckon she'll find that I can stick it out just as long as she can. If Roberta March turns things upside down there, it'll be because she can't keep her hands out of mischief, and that proves that she belongs to her own family. If there's any harm done, it don't matter so much to me, and it will be worse for him in the end. And now, Harriet Corvey, if you've got to make up the mail to go away early in the morning, you'd be

tter have supper over and get about it." Meanwhile, at Mrs Keswick's house Mrs Null was acting just as conscientiously as she knew how. She had had some conversations with Freddy on the subject, and she had assured him, and at the same time herself, that what she was doing was the only thing that could be done. "It was dreadfully hard for me to get the money to come down here," she said to him,--"you not helping me a bit, as ordinary husbands do--and I can't afford to go back until I have accom

plished something. It's very strange that she stays away so long, without telling anybody where she has gone to, but I know she is queer, and I suppose she has her own reasons for what she does. She can't be staying away on my account, for she doesn't know who I am, and wouldn't have any objections to me if she did know. I suspect it is something about Junius which keeps her away, and I suppose she thinks he is still here. But one of them must soon come back, and if I can see him, or find out fr

om her where he is, it will be all right. It seems to me, Freddy, that if I could have a good talk with Junius things would begin to look better for you and me. And then I want to put him on his guard about this gentleman who is looking for him. By the way, I suppose I ought to write a letter to Mr Croft, or he'll think I have given up the job, and will set somebody else on the track, and that is what I don't want him to do. I can't say that I have positively anything to report, but I can say th

at I have strong hopes of success, considering where I am. As soon as I found that Junius had really left the North, I concluded that this would be the best place to come to for him. And now, Freddy, there's nothing for us to do but to wait, and if we can make ourselves useful here I'm sure we will be glad to do it. We both hate being lazy, and a little housekeeping and farm managing will be good practice for us during our honeymoon." Putting on her hat, she went down into the garden where uncl

e Isham was at work. She could find little to do there, for he was merely pulling turnips, and she could see nothing to suggest in regard to his method of work. She had found, too, that the old negro had not much respect for her agricultural opinions. He attended to his work as if his mistress had been at home, and although, in regard to the ploughing, he had carried out the orders of Mrs Null, he had done it because it ought to be done, and because he was very glad for some one else to take the

responsibility. "Uncle Isham," said she, after she had watched the process of turnip pulling for a few minutes, "if you haven't anything else to do when you get through with this, you might come up to the house, and I will talk to you about the flower beds, I suppose they ought to be made ready for the winter." "Miss Null," said the old man, slowly unbending his back, and getting himself upright, "dar's allus sumfin' else to do. Eber sence I was fus' bawn dar was sumfin else to do, an' I spec

's it'll keep on dat ar way till de day I dies." "Of course there will be nothing else to do then but to die," observed Mrs Null; "but I hope that day is far off, Uncle Isham." "Dunno 'bout dat, Miss Null," said he. "But den some people do lib dreffle long. Look at ole Aun' Patsy. Ise got to live a long time afore I's as ole as Aun' Patsy is now." "You don't mean to say," exclaimed Mrs Null, "that Aunt Patsy is alive yet!" "Ob course she is. Miss Null," said Uncle Isham. "If she'd died sence

you've been here we'd a tole you, sartin. She was gwine to die las' week, but two or free days don' make much dif'rence to Aun' Patsy, she done lib so long anyhow." "Aunt Patsy alive!" exclaimed Mrs Null again. "I'm going straight off to see her." When she had reached the house, and had informed Letty where she was going, the rotund maid expressed high approbation of the visit, and offered to send Plez to show Miss Null the way. "I don't need any one to go with me," said that lady, and away

she started. "She don' neber want nobody to show her nowhar," said Plez, returning with looks of much disapprobation to his business of peeling potatoes for dinner. When Mrs Null reached the cabin of Aunt Patsy, after about fifteen minutes' walk, she entered without ceremony, and found the old woman sitting on a very low chair by the window, with the much-talked-of, many-colored quilt in her lap. Her white woolly head was partially covered with a red and yellow handkerchief, and an immense pai

r of iron-bound spectacles obstructed the view of her small black face, lined and seamed in such a way that it appeared to have shrunk to half its former size. In her long, bony fingers, rusty black on the outside, and a very pale tan on the inside, she held a coarse needle and thread and a corner of the quilt. Near by, in front of a brick-paved fireplace, was one of her great-granddaughters, a girl about eighteen years old, who was down upon her hands and knees, engaged with lungs, more powerfu

l than ordinary bellows, in blowing into flame a coal upon the hearth. "How d'ye Aunt Patsy?" said Mrs Null. "I didn't expect to see you looking so well." "Dat's Miss Null," said the girl, raising her eyes from the fire, and addressing her ancestor. The old woman stuck her needle into the quilt, and reached out her hand to her visitor, who took it cordially. "How d'ye, miss?" said Aunt Patsy, in a thin but quite firm voice, while the young woman got up and brought Mrs Null a chair, very shor

t in the legs, very high in the back, and with its split-oak bottom very much sunken. "How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Patsy?" asked Mrs Null, gazing with much interest on the aged face. "'Bout as common," replied the old woman. "I didn't spec' to be libin' dis week, but I ain't got my quilt done yit, an' I can't go 'mong de angels wrop in a shroud wid one corner off." "Certainly not," answered Mrs Null. "Haven't you pieces enough to finish it?" "Oh, yaas, I got bits enough, but de trouble

is to sew 'em up. I can't sew very fas' nowadays." "It's a pity for you to have to do it yourself," said Mrs Null. "Can't this young person, your daughter, do it for you?" "Dat's not my darter," said the old woman. "Dat's my son Tom's yaller boy Bob's chile. Bob's dead. She can't do no sewin' for me. I'm 'not gwine ter hab folks sayin', Aun' Patsy done got so ole she can't do her own sewin'." "If you are not going to die till you get your quilt finished, Aunt Patsy," said Mrs Null, "I hope it

won't be done for a long time." "Don' do to be waitin' too long, Miss. De fus' thing you know some udder culled pusson'll be dyin' wrop up in a quilt like dis, and git dar fus'." Mrs Null now looked about her with much interest, and asked many questions in regard to the old woman's comfort and ailments. To these the answers, though on the whole satisfactory, were quite short, Aunt Patsy, apparently, much preferring to look at her visitor than to talk to her. And a very pretty young woman she

was to look at, with a face which had grown brighter and plumper during every day of her country sojourn. When Mrs Null had gone, promising to send Aunt Patsy something nice to eat, the old woman turned to her great-grand-daughter, and said, "Did anybody come wid her?" "Nobody comed," said the girl. "Reckon' she done git herse'f los' some o' dese days." The old woman made no answer, but folding up the maniac coverlid, she handed it to the girl, and told her to put it away. That night Uncle I

sham, by Mrs Null's orders, carried to Aunt Patsy a basket, containing various good things considered suitable for an aged colored woman without teeth. "Miss Annie sen' dese h'yar?" asked the old woman, taking the basket and lifting the lid. "Miss Annie!" exclaimed Uncle Isham. "Who she?" "Git out, Uncle Isham!" said Aunt Patsy, somewhat impatiently. "She was h'yar dis mawnin'." "Dat was Miss Null," said Isham. "Miss Annie all de same," said Aunt Patsy, "on'y growed up an' married. D'ye mea

n to stan' dar, Uncle Isham, an' tell me you don' know de little gal wot Mahs' John use ter carry in he arms ter feed de tukkies?" "She and she mudder dead long ago," said Isham. "You is pow'ful ole, Aun' Patsy, an' you done forgit dese things." "Done forgit nuffin," curtly replied the old woman. "Don' tell me no moh' fool stuff. Dat Miss Annie, growed up an' married." "Did she tell you dat?" asked Isham. "She didn't tell me nuffin'. She kep' her mouf shet 'bout dat, an' I kep' my mouf shet.

Don' talk to me! Dat's Miss Annie, shuh as shootin'. Ef she hadn't fotch nuffin' 'long wid her but her eyes I'd a knowed dem; same ole eyes dey all had. An' 'sides dat, you fool Isham, ef she not Miss Annie, wot she come down h'yar fur?" "Neber thinked o' dat!" said Uncle Isham, reflectively. "Ef you's so pow'ful shuh, Aun' Patsy, I reckon dat _is_ Miss Annie. Couldn't 'spec me to 'member her. I wasn't much up at de house in dem times, an' she was took away 'fore I give much 'tention ter her."

"Don' ole miss know she dar?" asked Aunt Patsy. '"She dunno nuffin' 'bout it," answered Isham. "She's stayin' away cos she think Mahs' Junius dar yit." "Why don' you tell her, now you knows it's Miss Annie wot's dar?" "You don' ketch me tellin her nuffin'," replied the old man shaking his head. "Wish you was spry 'nuf ter go, Aun' Patsy. She'd b'lieve you; an' she couldn't rar an' charge inter a ole pusson like you, nohow." "Ain't dar nobody else in dis h'yar place to go tell her?" asked A