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 color. 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 her 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 roadside, 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 herself 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 indicated 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 himself 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, you 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 here 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 to 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 boots. 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 married 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 conversation 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' dey'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 field 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 about 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 attention 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 dat 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 soul 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 walks 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
gentleman'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 course, 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 before.

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, were 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 continued 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 most 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 Political 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 leave, 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 question. 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 answered, "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?"

Lawrence 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 that 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 her 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 quiet 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 for 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 Green 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
present, 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 name 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
remembered 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 quiet 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, the 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 the 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 before 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 quite 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 to
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 with, 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 better 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 accomplished 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 from 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 that 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 uncle 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 pair 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 powerful
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 short 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 Isham, 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 mean 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 Aunt
Patsy.

"Not a pusson," was Isham's decided answer.

"Well den I _is_ spry 'nuf!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, with a vigorous nod
of her head which sent her spectacles down to her mouth, displaying a
pair of little eyes sparkling with a fire, long thought to be extinct.
"Ef you'll carry me dar, to Miss Harriet Corvey's, I'll tell ole miss
myse'f. I didn't 'spec to go out dat dohr till de fun'ral, but I'll go
dis time. I spected dar was sumfin' crooked when Miss Annie didn't tole
me who she was. Ise not 'feared to tell ole miss, an' you jes' carry me
up dar, Uncle Isham."

"I'll do dat," said the old man, much delighted with the idea of doing
something which he supposed would remove the clouds which overhung the
household of his mistress. "I'll fotch de hoss an' de spring waggin an'
dribe you ober dar."

"No, you don' do no sech thing!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, angrily. "I ain't
gwine to hab no hosses to run away, an' chuck me out on de road. Ef you
kin fotch de oxen an' de cart, I go 'long wid you, but I don' want no
hosses."

"Dat's fus' rate," said Isham. "I'll fotch de ox cart, an' carry you
ober. When you want ter go?"

"Dunno jes' now," said Aunt Patsy, pushing away a block of wood which
served for a footstool, and making elaborate preparations to rise from
her chair. "I'll sen' fur you when I's ready."