SOUTHWORTM LIBRARY 
 
 NO. 172 P 
 
 SWEET LOVE’S 
 
 ATONEMENT 
 
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 173—Zenobia's Suitors.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Sweet Love's Atonement.* 
 
 172—Sweet Love’s Atonement-.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 171—When Shadows Die. .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Love's Bitterest Cup.” 
 
 i70 —Love’s Bitterest Cup, 
 
 Sequel to “Her Mother's Secret.” 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 *0 
 
 169—Her Mother's Secret, 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 \ 168—The Mysterious Marriage..By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 Sequel to “A Leap in the Dark.” 
 
 167—A Leap in 'he Dark.By Mrs. E. D. E N. Southworth 
 
 166—Fulfilling Her Destiny.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “When Love Commands.” 
 
 165—When Love Commands...By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 Sequel to “The Widows of Widowville.” 
 
 164—The Widows of Widowville, 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
THE SOUTH WORTH ; LIBRARY 
 
 163—Unrequited Love.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “For Woman's Love.” 
 
 162—For Woman’s Love.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 161—To His Fate.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret.” 
 
 160—Dorothy Harcourt's Secret, 
 
 Sequel to “A Deed Without a Name.” 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 159—A Deed Without a Name.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 158—Brandon Coyle’s Wife, 
 
 Sequel to “A Skeleton in the Closet.” 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 157—A Skeleton in the Closet, 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 156—For Whose Sake?. . By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 Sequel to “Why Did He Wed Her?” 
 
 155—Why Did He Wed Her? 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 154—David Lindsay.By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Gloria.” 
 
 153—Gloria.By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 
 152—The Test of Love.. .By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “A Tortured Heart.” 
 
 151—A Tortured Heart. .By Mrs. E. D. E. IT. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Trail of the Serpent.” 
 
 J50—The Trail of the Serpent. .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 149—The Struggle of a Soul...By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Lost Lady of Lone.” 
 
 148—The Lost Lady of Lone. . .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 147—Her Love or Her Life?. .. .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Bride’s Ordeal.” 
 
 146—The Bride’s Ordeal.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 145—Lilith.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Soifthworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Unloved Wife.” 
 
 *44—The Unloved Wife.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 143—Em’s Husband.By Mrs. E. D, E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to "Em.” 
 
THE SOUTH WORTH LIBRARY 
 
 142—Em.By Mrs. E. D. E. N, Southworth 
 
 141—Reunited.By Mrs. E. D. E.' N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Gertrude Haddon.” 
 
 140—Gertrude Haddon. .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “A Husband's Devotion." 
 
 139—A Husband’s Devotion, 
 
 Sequel to “The Rejected Bride." 
 
 By Mi's. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 136— The Rejected Bride.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Gertrude’s Sacrifice.” 
 
 137— Gertrude's Sacrifice.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Only a Girl’s Heart.” 
 
 136—Only a Girl's Heart.By Mrs. E. D. E N. Southworth 
 
 134—Little Nea’s Engagement, 
 
 Sequel to “Nearest and Dearest.’’ 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 133—Nearest and Dearest, 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 81—The Artist’s Love. .By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 53—Capitola’s Peril.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Hidden Hand.” ^ 
 
 5a—The Hidden Hand . By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 42 —The Mystery of Raven Rocks.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “Unknown." 
 
 41—Unknown. ’. .By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 40—Tried for Her Life.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. II. The Holloweve Mystery) 
 
 Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.” 
 
 39—Cruel as the Grave.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. I. The Holloweve Mystery) 
 
 38—Victor’s Triumph.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend." 
 
 37—A Beautiful Fiend.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 36—A Noble Lord.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.” 
 
 35—The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 34—The Lady of the Isle .By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 33—The Bride’s Fate....By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Changed Brides.” 
 
 32—The Changed Brides.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 (Vol. II. Winning Her Way. 
 
THE SOUTHWORTH LIBRARY 
 
 31—The Doom of Beville.By Mrs. E. D. E. W. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. I. Winning Her Way) 
 
 30—The Broken Engagement.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 29—The Three Beauties; or, Shannondale. By Mrs". Southworth 
 
 28—How He Won Her.By Mrs. E. D, E. N. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. II. Britomarte) 
 
 Sequel to “Fair Play.” 
 
 27—Fair Play.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. I. Britomarte) 
 
 26—Love’s Labor Won..By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 25—Eudora; or, The False Princess,\ 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 24—The Two Sisters.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 23—The Bridal Eve.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 22—The Bride of Llewellyn, 
 
 (Vol. II. Left Alone 'By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 Sequel to ‘The Widow’s Son.” 
 
 21 —The Widow’s Son... By Mrs. E. D. E. If. Southworth 
 
 (Vol. I. Left Alone) 
 
 ^ 20 —The Bride’s Dowry.By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 19—The Gipsy’s Prophecy.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 18—The Maiden Widow .By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 Sequel to “The Family Doom.” 
 
 I 7 —The Family Doom. .By Mrs. E. D. E. H. Southworth 
 16 —The Fortune Seeker, 
 
 By Mrs. E. B. E. N. Southworth 
 
 15—The Haunted Homestead../.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 14—The Christmas Guest.Bv Mrs. Southworth 
 
 13 — 1 he T hr^e Sisters. By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 12—The Wife’s Virtory. By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 11—The Deserted Wife.By Mrs. Southwoith 
 
 10—The Mother-in-Law; or, Married in Haste, 
 
 By Mrs. Southwoith 
 
 9—The Discarded Daughter; or, The Children of the 
 
 Bv Mrs Southworth 
 
 8—The lost Heiress.. .By Mrs. E. D. E. K. Southworth 
 7 —Vivia; or, The Secret of Power, 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 6—The Curse of Clifton, > 7 T 
 
 By Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth 
 
 5 —The Missing Bride.By Mrs Southworth 
 
 4—Tndia ; or. The Pearl of Pearl River. .. .By Mrs Southwc ith 
 
 3—^elf-raised.By Mrs Southworth 
 
 Sequel to Tshmael.” 
 
 2— TshrryuL.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
 1 Retribution.By Mrs. Southworth 
 
SWEET LOVE’S ATONEMENT 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 •‘Unknown,” “The Unloved Wife,” “The Lost Lady of Lone,” “Em,” 
 “Em’s Husband,” “David Lindsay,” “For Woman’s Love,” etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 STREET & SMITH, Publishers. 
 
 m * / 
 
 79-89 Seventh Avenue 
 
 / 
 
So many non-copyright Southworth novels 
 have been issued by various publishers, that 
 we take occasion to advise the reading public 
 that this novel is protected and can be read in 
 no other edition* 
 
 STREET & SMITH* 
 
 Copyright, 1904 
 By STREET & SMITH 
 
 Sweet Love's Atonement 
 
 <s. 
 
SWEET LOVE’S ATONEMENT, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 O L D II O UAH HALL. 
 
 O’er that house there hangs a sullen gloom. 
 
 The footfalls fearful in each murky room, 
 
 Baleful, forbidding as some prison pile, 
 
 Where guards keep watch—a home without a smile. 
 
 —Bulwer. 
 
 In the heart of the Alleghany Mountains, in a deep, 
 rocky, thickly wooded glen, stands a huge, old colonial 
 manor house. 
 
 It was built for strength and endurance, rather than 
 for elegance, of rough-hewn red sandstone. It is an ob¬ 
 long, double-fronted house, of two stories, with basement 
 and garret, steep roof, and tall chimneys at each gable 
 end. A heavy portico of black oak in the middle of the 
 front wall on the ground floor, having four tall windows 
 on each side of it, and nine on the second story above it, 
 and nine low dormer windows in the roof. In the rear 
 were long stretches of lower buildings; and under the 
 basement were deep cellars, dug out of the solid rock, and 
 communicating with the winding caverns of the moun¬ 
 tain ranges, which were inaccessible from any outside 
 (point. 
 
 The old trees that crowded around the house, over¬ 
 grown and untrimmed, pressed so near that their branches 
 touched the moldering walls and lay upon the musty roof. 
 
 Beyond this gloomy grove lay a neglected garden, over¬ 
 grown with weeds ^nd briers; a vineyard, with torn, 
 trading vines; an orchard, with diseased and dying fruit 
 tu .*3. Beyond these, again, lay desolate old fields, skirted 
 by a thicket of stunted pines, cedars and firs, that filled 
 
6 Old Horah Hall. 
 
 the remainder of the glen, and straggled up the encircling 
 mountain sides. . 
 
 It was a gloomy, repellent, depressing scene. 
 
 Yet time had been, and not so long ago, when Horah 
 Hall had been the scene of lavish hospitality, luxurious 
 feasting and reckless extravagance. 
 
 Horah Hall—or “Hurrah Hall,” as the country people 
 chose to pronounce the name, on account of the gomess 
 revels held there day and night; roystering orgies, whose 
 songs and shouts so often startled the echoes of those 
 gloomy gorges, and not unfrequently ended in rioting 
 and bloodshed; and once, indeed, in a horrible tragedy 
 that condemned the old mansion to the deeper degrada¬ 
 tion of having its ancient name corrupted from Horah 
 Hall to '‘Horror Hall.” 
 
 Horah Hall, I say, had been in the possession of the 
 family whose name it bears since the earliest settlement 
 of that part of the country, when the manor had been 
 granted by royal letters patent from Charles I. to one 
 Murdok Helman Horah, who was the bu’lder of Horah 
 Hall, and the founder of that rather evil-famed family, 
 and whose name in full was borne by the eldest son in 
 every succeeding generation. 
 
 They were all men and women of great mental and 
 physical strength and beauty, so that marriage did very 
 little to modify the peculiar family traits, which were po¬ 
 tently impressed upon all their descendants. But they 
 gave the less desirable tra’ts to their progeny—inordinate 
 pride, extravagant tastes, and ungovernable passions. 
 
 In this world there occasionally appears—at long in¬ 
 tervals of time and distance of space, let us thank Heaven 
 —a creature whom irresponsible power and unrestrained 
 passions have combined to develop into a monster, more 
 like unto a prehistoric savage of the earth's chaotic in¬ 
 fancy, or unto some incarnate fiend from the bottomless 
 pit of mythical fable, than unto a man of the nineteenth 
 century, and a citizen of a Christian arid civilized country. 
 
 . Such a one was Mad Murdok Horah; or, to give him 
 his full name and style, Murdok Helman Horah, Esquire, 
 Horah Hall, Mistyrock, Virginia. • Y11 
 
 He was the youngest child and only son of his parents. 
 Elder sisters he had in plenty, but these were married 
 
7 
 
 Old Horah Hall. 
 
 and scattered all over the country, so that when, by the 
 death ol ins parents, he came into the possession of his 
 estate, there was no one left in the house to be any sort 
 Oi moral restraint upon him, though it .s doubtlul w nether 
 in any house where he was ma^er anyone else could have 
 had the least iniiuence. 
 
 He began a recKiess career of dissipation; indulged 
 in every pleasure wealth could purchase; in every vice 
 the law could ignore; and inaugurated at Horah Hall a 
 series of orgies that scandalized and terrified the neigh¬ 
 borhood. He made the sweet, bright summer time hideous 
 and horrible with his diabolical saturnalias. 
 
 Early in winter, however, he relieved the neighborhood 
 of his baleful presence, and went to Wash ngton City, 
 and took a handsome suit of apartments at the most fash¬ 
 ionable hotel in the national capital. 
 
 Here his rank, riches, handsome person and plausible 
 address, won his way into society—never, from the very 
 character of its organization, very difficult to enter by tine 
 humblest of the sovereign people, if he could command 
 an even’ng dress. 
 
 These personal and circumstantial advantages also in 
 due time won for him the heart and hand of one of the 
 prettiest, wealthiest and most admired of the young debu¬ 
 tantes of the season—Isabella, the orphan daughter of 
 Gen. Argyl, of the United States Army. 
 
 The young couple were married in the spring, with 
 great pomp and ceremony. The marriage was the most 
 distinguished event of that social season. 
 
 The presents were magn’ficent. The society columns of 
 the papers of the day were full of the details of the wed¬ 
 ding. 
 
 o 
 
 The ceremony was celebrated at old St. Patrick’s 
 Church, and was followed by a magnificent reception 
 and sumptuous breakfast at the house of the bride’s 
 guardian. 
 
 On the afternoon of the same day the newly married 
 pair left Washington to go on their wedding tour. 
 
 They traveled first through various sections of our own 
 country, and then sailed for Europe, where they spent a 
 year in going over that continent. 
 
8 
 
 Old Horah Hall. 
 
 in the second summer after their marriage they re¬ 
 turned to their own country, and went down to Horah 
 Hall, bringing with them their infant son, then aged about 
 two months. 
 
 During the absence of its master, “Hurrah Hall” had 
 enjoyed such a long interval of profound peace under 
 the easy rule of old Mammy Dozia, the mulatto house¬ 
 keeper of the mansion; such a rest from hard labor and 
 harassing anxiety, under the merciful government of Mr. 
 Miles, the good-natured overseer of the held hands, that 
 when the news came by letter to the old man, announcing 
 the speedy arrival of their master, it acted on the men and 
 women of the house and plantation like a moral earth¬ 
 quake, shaking their souls into chaos. 
 
 That night a little group of frightened and disgusted 
 darkies assembled before “Uncle Si's house,” as a little, 
 rough-hewn stone hut in the thicket under the shadow 
 of the woodedmountain range was called. 
 
 Old Si, a slight, jet-black negro of fifty years, was the 
 colored minstrel of the neighborhood ; and a gifted man, 
 as well as a character in his way. He had a rare talent 
 for improvisation and a quaint sense of humor, and his 
 impromptu and burlesque songs to the accompaniment 
 of the banjo made him almost as much a terror to evil¬ 
 doers sail the plantation as was his iniquitous master to all 
 God-fearing and law-abiding citizens of the county. 
 
 He ridiculed the faults and foibles of man or woman, 
 white or black, without fear or favor, by “puttin' ’em on 
 de banjo,” as he called his performances, which meant 
 reciting their misdeeds and the consequences, near or 
 remote, in a musical burlesque of his own composition, 
 and executing it on his favorite instrument. 
 
 Old Si had to be extremely cautious when he risked the 
 rage of his wild and furious young master “by putting 
 him on de banjo,” as he did on this occasion. 
 
 But there was no danger to-night; so he tuned up his 
 instrument, played a prelude, and sang: 
 
 “He’ll fotch his wife to ‘Hurrah Hall/ 
 
 But he’ll not mend his ways at all; 
 
 He’ll keep it up bofe night and day, 
 
 In a willful an’ mos’ wicked way; 
 
Old Horah Hall. 
 
 9 
 
 As all him daddies did afore, 
 
 Only more, an’ more, an’ more; 
 
 Playin’ high an’ drinkiir deep, 
 
 Sowin’ win’, whirlwin’ to reap. 
 
 Sins as brack as chimley sweep, 
 
 Keepin’ sarvint men from sleep; 
 
 An’ sellin’ niggers now an’ den, 
 
 For pay him t’ievin’, gamblin' men. 
 
 But bymeby Ole Sam’ll git him, 
 
 An’ in de hottes’ fires sit 'im. 
 
 Den we darkies all be please, 
 
 Sing, an’ dance, an’ take us ease. 
 
 Soun’ de banjo on de breeze, 
 
 Dance to banjo under trees, 
 
 Dance to banjo, darkies all, 
 
 Dance to banjo till we fall; 
 
 Den jump up an’ dance again, 
 
 Whedder sunshine, whedder rain; 
 
 In Sunday lubfeasf praise an’ pray, 
 
 Dat’s de ’ligious, happy way.” 
 
 By this time all the negroes were dancing and singing 
 in a madly hilarious style; and how long this might have 
 lasted there is no telling—probably until the performers 
 actually would have dropped down from exhaustion—had 
 .they not been interrupted by the arrival of a colored girl 
 from the house, who came running in hot haste to warn 
 them of the approach of the master and his party. 
 
 “Dey’s cornin’, deys almos’ 'riv, dey is! Dev’s jus* 
 turnin’ youn* de Souf Yidge into de house road, an’ dev il 
 be yere To’ ver kin git to de gate. Uncle Si, an' de fat’ll be 
 in de fire sho ’nough!” she cried, throwing up her hands 
 in wild terror. 
 
 “Oh, Lor*! Oh, Lor’! Oh, Lor’!” cried the minstrel, 
 dropping his banjo, and making off to the lodge gate to 
 open it and receive his master. 
 
 The other negroes dispersed in groups, whispering their 
 misgivings. 
 
 Old Si was just in time to open the great double iron 
 gates, and swing them back to admit the heavy traveling 
 carriage that had been sent to Misty rock depot to meet 
 the party. 
 
 The carriage contained the master and mistress, and a 
 pretty young mulatto nurse, who carried the baby on her 
 lap. The valet of Mr. Horah sat on the box beside the 
 coachman. 
 
IO 
 
 Old Hordh Hall. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Old Si stood holding one wing of the gate open with 
 one hand, and his battered straw hat in the other, bowing 
 as the carriage rolled along the avenue of oaks on its way 
 to the house. 
 
 But no one responded to the old man’s civilities except 
 the pretty mulatto nurse, who returned them with a 
 gracious nod a: . lovely smile, that immediately pierced 
 Old Si’s susceptible heart, so that he found himself in 
 * love for the first time—that summer. 
 
 He followed the carriage with a doglike devotedness, 
 given not at all to master or mistress, but to that yellow 
 enchantress who held the baby on her lap. He was 
 already composing verses in her praise and honor. 
 
 When the carriage drew up before the portico, they 
 found the whole front of the house brilliantly lighted up 
 in honor of the arrival of the master and mistress. And 
 as the window shutters were left open, and the crimson 
 curtains were festooned back, the effect was that of a 
 splendid illumination. 
 
 Murdok Horah alighted, and handed his beautiful wife 
 to the pavement at the foot of the steps leading to^the 
 portico. 
 
 Old Si ran up before them and sounded a tremendous 
 alarm on the heavy old iron lion’s head that stood for a 
 knocker, an unnecessary summons, as all the house 
 servants were assembled in the front hall, await'ng the 
 arrival of their master and mistress, so that the doors 
 flew open simultaneously with the halt of the carriage, 
 and the old housekeeper, Aunt Dozia, appeared courtesy- 
 ing at the entrance with all her‘handmaidens courtesying 
 behind her. 
 
 The fair young wife smiled on the welcoming group; 
 but the husband only gruffly demanded: 
 
 u Is supper ready? Have all the rooms in this infernal 
 old barracks been well aired ? Have all my orders been 
 strictly obeyed?” 
 
 4 All ob dem, Marse Murdok, sir. De rooms am all nice, 
 an’ sweet, an’ cool as dey kin be. An’ de supper am 
 ready to go on de table wheneber yo’ an’ de young madam 
 am,” replied Dozia, as with another courtesy she opened 
 the door of the drawing room on the right, and held it 
 open while her master led his wife in. 
 
Old H or all Hall. 
 
 II 
 
 The interior of the old house did not correspond with 
 the brilliancy of the outside show of illumination on this 
 occasion. The hall was bare of furniture, except for a 
 pair of leather-covered armchairs on each side of the 
 entrance door, and a few ugly fresco paintings of battle 
 scenes, the work of a traveling artist of the previous cen¬ 
 tury. f 
 
 The vast drawing room was lighted by a large chan¬ 
 delier that hung from the ceiling, and revealed a scene of 
 poverty-stricken or neglected grandeur in the old oak 
 panelings that lined the lofty walls, inJ;he richly carved 
 oak mantelpieces that surmounted the fireplace, in the 
 massive doors and window seats, in the dingy, black 
 walnut floors, in the frayed and faded crimson damask 
 curtains that hung from the high windows, and in the 
 i oldering Turkey rugs that lay before the broad marble 
 hearth, and beside the old mahogany damask-covered sofa. 
 There w£Te no lounging chairs scattered through the 
 ro m, no center tables covered with IWoks and prints, no 
 cabinets filled with bric-a-brac, such as adorn modern 
 drawing rooms. 
 
 All here was old, bare and stiff. Rows ;of high-backed 
 crimson damask-covered chairs stood against the walls, 
 straight tables, with deep, folding leaves, stood at each 
 end of the apartment. Over the mantelpiece, which was 
 opposite the door, hung a large, smoke-dried oil painting, 
 said to be one of the “old masters,” probably for no other 
 reason than because no human being could form a con¬ 
 jecture as to its subject, or even 3s to whether it was 
 intended for a landscape or a historical piece, or even 
 would unless the painting could be “restored,” as the 
 phrase goes. 
 
 But it is time to give my readers some idea of the 
 personal appearance of the young pair who had just come 
 into this dreary old home. 
 
 This Murdok Horah was like all the men of his race, 
 so that to describe him is to describe all. 
 
 He was six feet in height, and stalwart in proportion. 
 He had Roman features, a swarthy complexion, iet-black 
 hair and beard, je^-black eves, arched with heavy, black 
 brows. He wore a suit of dark gray tweed. His air was 
 
r 
 
 12 Old Horali Hall. 
 
 arrogant and supercilious; his tone, abrupt and peremp¬ 
 tory. 
 
 His wife was his opposite in all respects. She was as 
 much below the average height of women as he was above 
 that of men, yet she was so perfectly proportioned that her 
 admirers called her “a liliputian Venus.” Her features 
 were regular and delicate, her complexion fair, with a 
 faint rose flush on cheeks and lips. Her eyes were as 
 blue as harebells, fringed by dark brown lashes, and 
 arched by slender brows. ^ All around her forehead curled 
 light yellow hair, that was so bright and shining that it 
 would be no mere poetic figure to call it “golden.” Her 
 face and head were beautiful and bright, yet of dainty 
 coloring. When Old Si put her beauty “on de banjo,” he 
 compared that lovely face to a “posey of lilies, roses, vio¬ 
 lets and daffodils,” for it had all these colors in it. She 
 now wore a simple traveling suit of fine, dark green cash¬ 
 mere, that set off the dainty style of her “posey” beauty. 
 
 As her husband&led her to a chair, and bent tenderly 
 over her, and she looked up smilingly into his face, it was 
 obvious to all the servants present that the young pair 
 were still quite “madly in love with each other.” 
 
 “Shall I show you to your room, my Belle? Or will 
 you go to supper first ?” he inquired. 
 
 “Oh, to supper,” she answered, gayly; for, although 
 she really would have liked to get some of the railway 
 dust off her face and out of her eyes, vet she knew the 
 hungry haste of her husband to satisfy his appetite, even 
 at the expense of cleanliness, and she was already accus¬ 
 tomed to divine his wishes and to defer to them. 
 
 He was too dull, or too selfish, to see through any sacri¬ 
 fice she might make for him, so without hesitation he 
 turned to the waiting housekeeper and gave orders that 
 the supper should be placed on the table*at once. Then, 
 with a sudden recollection of his wife’s position in the 
 household, he turned again to her, and said: 
 
 “After to-night, my 1 Belle, you will give the only orders 
 to your housekeeper and waiting women.” And he gave 
 her his arm and led her out to the dining room. 
 
 Such was the bringing home of the young wife and in¬ 
 fant son to Horah Hall. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 HORROR AT HORAH IJALL. 
 
 Twice it called, so, so loudly called. 
 
 With horrid strength beyond the pitch of nature. 
 
 And “Murder! Murder!" was the dreadful cry. 
 
 A third time it returned with feeble strength, 
 
 But on a sudden ceased, as though the words 
 Were smothered rudely in the grappled throat, 
 
 And all was still again save the wild blast 
 Which at a distance growled. 
 
 Oh, it will never from my mind depart, 
 
 That dreadful cry, all in the instant stilled!— Baillie. 
 
 But neither marriage nor paternity, neither the beautiful* 
 young wife nor the pretty baby bov—both of whom he 
 loved as well as he was capable of loving anybody, or any¬ 
 thing blit himself—had power to win him from the wicked¬ 
 ness of his ways, or in the very least degree restrain his 
 passion for riotous living, deep drinking and high playing. 
 
 In the midst of the sublime and beautiful scenery of, 
 his mountain home, in the glorious summer time, he t > 
 vived all those godless revels for which “Hurrah Hah” 
 had been famous, or, rather, infamous. 
 
 He filled the house with male guests. He gave “sta •” 
 suppers, which were really gambling parties, every alter¬ 
 nate night. 
 
 Very few of his evil companions were drawn from his 
 neighborhood, however. As has been hinted, the TTorahs, 
 of Horah Hall, were disliked, disapproved and dreaded in 
 their own county. Mothers deprecated their example for 
 sons, wives for husbands, and sisters for brothers; so 
 none of the county men who had any respect for their 
 womenkind would have anything to do with “Hur rah 
 Hall,” or anything to say to Murdok Horah. 
 
 And yet, here and there, in the vicinity of the hall, 
 might be found one or two young men, rebels against 
 parental authority, or, recusants to connubial confidence, 
 who had permitted themselves to lie corrupted bv the evil 
 owners of the hall, and who were now habitues of its 
 nightly orgies. 
 
 But the majority of Murdok Horah s fellow friends 
 
Horror at Horati Hall. 
 
 14 
 
 were drawn from the neighboring towns and distant 
 cities*. These men came in squads, and stayed days and 
 weeks, feasting noisily, drinking excessively, and gam¬ 
 bling ruinously; and then went away, to be succeeded by 
 another “squad” as bad or worse than themselves. 
 
 But what did the young wife think of all this—say to 
 all this? She thought little, and said less. In fact, she 
 had seen in her father's lifetime something like high liv¬ 
 ing, but nothing approaching these saturnalias. These 
 were much higher than anything she had heard of in her 
 father’s house. For, though the late and widowed gen¬ 
 eral kept a sort of bachelor’s hall in his house in Wash¬ 
 ington, and gave frequent gentlemen’s parties, they were 
 decorous even while convivial. But as Isabel had never 
 been present at either her father’s or her husband’s “stag” 
 parties, she could not appreciate all the difference there 
 was between them, it was all right, she supposed. If it 
 seemed rather excessive, it was only a country gentle¬ 
 man’s way of living. She knew little of what happened 
 at these “stag” suppers—these orgies held almost every 
 night in the long dining room on the ground floor of the 
 left side of the halt, and which the servants who waited on 
 them characterized as “disgraceful carryings on” of the 
 master and his evil companions. Her chamber was on the 
 second floor of the right side, and as she usually retired 
 with the child before the nightly saturnalia began, she 
 could scarcely hear a sound of revelry so far off. 
 
 Besides this, she loved and confided in her handsome 
 husband, and could see no fault in him, especially as he 
 was one of those exceptional men, who, because of vigor¬ 
 ous health, can drink deeply without becoming intoxicated. 
 
 Every night after these excesses he came to her sober, 
 and—as he generally won at cards—cheerful. While 
 every night several of his boon companions would have 
 to be carried off to bed by the menservants. Of this the 
 mistress knew nothing. It would have been as much as 
 the life, or as the skin, of any ^servant was worth to tell 
 tales of their master or his comrades, even if love and 
 respect for their young mistress had not held them silent 
 011 a f!y Sll bj ec t which would certainly have distressed and 
 humiliated her. She always met her husband’s guests at 
 the breakfast table. And if one or two of them failed to 
 
Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 put in an appearance at the breakfast table, “a sick head¬ 
 ache” or “a bad cold” was a sufficient excuse for the ab¬ 
 sentee. 
 
 Sometimes the young wife wondered why there were 
 only male guests in the house, why none of the county 
 ladies ever called on her—a stranger bride, come to their 
 neighborhood—as etiquette, kindness, and even Christian 
 fellowship, demanded that they should. When she men¬ 
 tioned the subject to her husband, he carelessly answered: 
 
 “Oh, there are really no neighbors of any account very 
 near us. The most considerable family here is the furthest 
 off. They are the Pryors, of The Notches; but there are 
 no ladies there. And the roads are in a shocking con¬ 
 dition since the spring freshets, you know, and the road 
 commissioners in this Heaven-forsaken place never do 
 their duty, even if they understand it, which I doubt.” 
 
 His explanation quite satisfied her. Sometimes, when 
 she looked lonely, he would add: 
 
 “This perfect rest from all social duties will do you 
 good, my Belle. This winter, when we go to Washing¬ 
 ton, you will be as fresh as any new rosebud that may 
 bloom in society for the season.” 
 
 So she made the best of her social isolation; gave her¬ 
 self up to the care of her child, her household and her 
 husband—when she could have his company, which was 
 seldom more than an hour or two out of the twenty-four. 
 
 She was beautiful and fond of dress, and she possessed 
 a fine, artiste taste; but she adorned herself only for the 
 eyes of her husband and her child. 
 
 She had not even been to the parish church. She 
 wished to go thither on the first Sabbath after her return, 
 but Mr. Horah told her that the roads were quite im¬ 
 passable. 
 
 It was a falsehood, of course. A11 enemy of all religion, 
 he was very much opposed to her goiitg to church : but, 
 being still very much infatuated with her, he shrank from 
 openly opposing her wish, especially in this matter, wlrch 
 he shrewdly supposed she would make an afifair of con¬ 
 science. So he made it appear that the gratification of 
 her desire was next to a physical impossibility on account 
 of the bad condition of the roads. 
 
 In her blind adoration of her husband she believed him, 
 
 \ 
 
x6 
 
 Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 and was satisfied. From this feeling of self-complacency 
 she was destined to have a cruel awakening. There was 
 nothing to prepare her for the terrible shock. Ah! there 
 never is any warning of that which is destined to lay waste 
 our fortunes, or our happiness, or to alter the whole course 
 of our lives. 
 
 It was a lovely evening in July. The full moon was 
 silvering the top of the pine-clothed mountains and spar¬ 
 kling on the rills and springs that trickled dow T n their 
 steeps, and filling the vale with a soft, bright light. 
 
 The young mother had retired to her chamber, attended 
 by the nurse, who carried the baby in her arms. As soon 
 as they reached the room, the young mother took her seat 
 in the rocking-chair and held out her arms for the babe. 
 She undressed him, put on his nightgown, and then began 
 to rock and sing him to sleep, after the manner of fond 
 voting mothers. 
 
 m/ O 
 
 Delphine, or Delphie, as the young nurse was commonly 
 called, busied herself with folding up the garments and 
 “tidying up” the room. 
 
 At length the young mother laid her ‘sleeping babe in 
 ks cradle, gently touched the rocker, and sang a few low 
 notes of the nursery song in a voice that slowly fell lower, 
 and lower, and lower, until it ceased in silence as she 
 withdrew her foot from the rocker and let the cradle sway 
 to stillness. Then she glided to her easy-chair by the open, 
 moonlit window, and sat looking out on the lovely scene 
 and taking in its deep beauty. 
 
 She knew that there was a gentleman's party, as, in 
 her ignorance, she called the disreputable “stag” suppers, 
 going on in the long dining room. Only the distant j 
 sound of laughter came faintly on her ear at times, as 
 some more than usually evil jest roused their mirthfulness j 
 to noisy hilarity. J 
 
 Beguiled by the beauty and glory of the moonlit moun¬ 
 tains and valley, she sat gazing in pleasant reverie on the 1 
 scene, forgetful of the passing time, until suddenly the 
 sound of the banjo under her window stole softly on her 
 ear. \ 
 
 Delphine, with a giggle, rose from her sitting posture on 
 the floor, and passed her mistress, stepping through .the j 
 open window out upon the roof of the piazza. 
 
Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 *7 
 
 “Where are you going, Delphine?” she inquired, in sur¬ 
 prise. 
 
 “On’y outside de windy, Miss Belle, ,, she answered, with 
 another conscious giggle. 
 
 “You will risk your life.” 
 
 ; * “Oh, no, Miss Belle; de ruff ain’t sloping ’nuff fo' dat. ' 
 
 “But what are you doing there at all?” 
 
 “He, he lie ! It’s on’y dat fool nigger, Si,” she an¬ 
 swered, as the notes of the prelude softly sank, and the 
 deep, rich voice of the plantation minstrel rose, and, to the 
 accompaniment of his banjo, he sang the following im¬ 
 provised serenade to the mistress of his soul: 
 
 “Delphie, darlin’ ob my heart, 
 
 List to me whilst 1 impart — 
 
 Hear me kindly while 1 play — 
 
 De far-chu-lou ! de foo-cluglay! 
 
 ‘‘I hah neider house nor Ian’s — 
 
 Hear me kindly while 1 play — 
 
 But lubbin’ heart an’ willin’ ban’s, 
 De far-chu-lou ! de foo-chu-lay ! 
 
 “I hab neider fame nor gole — 
 Lissen kindly while I play — 
 
 But my lub will ne’er grow cole— 
 De far-chu-lou ! de foo-chu-lay! 
 
 “Delphie, darlin’ ob my life — 
 Lissen kindly while I play — 
 
 Will you be my lubbin’ wife? 
 
 De far-chu-lou! de foo-chu-lay!” 
 
 How tragedy and comedy, burlesque and catastrophe 
 tread on each other’s heels. An ocean steamer, full of 
 prosperous voyagers enjoying life every day, strikes a 
 sunken rock and goes down with all on hoard. A train of 
 cars, full of passengers* bent on business or enjoyment, 
 suddenly, “in the twinkling of an eye,’’ collides with a 
 freight train, and goes to destruction. A theater, full of 
 gav pleasure seekers, absorbed in the comedy or tragedy 
 of the mimic scene on the stage, and with not the faintest 
 provision of the more tremendous tragedy at hand, sud¬ 
 denly takes fire, and, in the wild terror and confusion that 
 [ensues, the frenzied struggle for escape, some arc 
 .trampled, some smothered, and some burn to death. 
 
Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 x8 
 
 It was while lovesick Si .was still sighing out his soul in 
 song to the accompaniment of his tuneful banjo—while 
 Delphie was listening in flattered vanity, if not m respon¬ 
 sive passion—and the young mistress was enjoying the 
 scene in quietly laughing at both—that a pistol shot rang 
 through the air, startling the quiet party into w Id terror, 
 for it was followed by another, and another in quick suc¬ 
 cession, and by loud and angry voices and rushing steps. 
 
 The minstrel dropped his banjo; Delphia ran into the 
 room, and the young wife sprang to' her feet. 
 
 All hurried without a word spoken—for they were too 
 terror-stricken for words—toward the-scene of the un¬ 
 known horror. 
 
 Isabel was hi advance. Out of the room, down the 
 stairs, across the hall, and to the door of the lon^ dining 
 room, where the noise and confusion was now rising to a 
 tempest. • 
 
 “Doane go in dar, young mist’ess! Oh, fu de Lor’ 
 a’mighty sake, doane yer go, young mist’ess, honey r * 
 pleaded Brush, the butler, standing before the close: 7 door 
 of the dining room, where the storm still raged, and hold¬ 
 ing cut both arms deprecatingly toward her. 
 
 But Isabel, frenzied by terror, and w : th the strength of 
 frenzy, hurled the man aside, burst open the door and 
 rushed into the awful scene. 
 
 The storm, which was at its height when she appeared, 
 suddenly fell into a boding calm. Men looked at her in 
 silent pity and dismay. They crowded around some 
 objects in the center of the room, as if they would Inve 
 hidden it from her sight. One or two took gentle hold of 
 her, as if they would have led her from the room ; but she 
 broke from them and pushed through the group, saw what 
 lay upon the carpet, and, with a piercing shriek, fell prone 
 to the floor. % * 
 
 And well she might. On the carpet lay the bodies of 
 two men in a little lake of blood. They were quite dead. 
 One of them was Murdok Horah. The other was a 
 stranger. Around them was a crowd of half-sobered rev¬ 
 elers, talking, disputing and swearing about the catastro¬ 
 phe, as to who was to blame, or the most to be blamed. 
 
 The negro butler, assisted by Delphie, lifted the poor 
 lady from the floor, while the half-drunken men shrank 
 
Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 19 
 
 back as if afraid to touch her, and bore her upstairs, where 
 Brush left her in charge of Delphie and Doz;a, while he 
 himself went downstairs, out to the stables, saddled the 
 fastest horse, and rode off to Mistyrock, the mountain vil¬ 
 lage, to ’wake up the family physician, and summon the 
 county constable. 
 
 It was midnight when the old man started on his er¬ 
 rand. The distance between Horah Hall and Mistyrock 
 was thirteen miles, oven and up and down the steeps, and 
 through the most rugged of mountain passes. 
 
 Thus it was sunrise when the three horsemen—the doc¬ 
 tor, the constable and the old negro—rode into the yard. 
 They dismounted, and gave the horsesi into the charge of 
 old Si, and walked into the hall. 
 
 But all the guests had departed, like evil birds of night, 
 frightened off by the daylight. There was no one to be 
 seen but the terrified, half-paralyzed servants, who were 
 huddled together in the front hall, with the front door 
 open as if for their better protection while keeping guard 
 in thekevil house. 
 
 “How is your mistress ?” was the first question asked 
 by the physician. 
 
 “She hasn't spoke since she fainted away in the dinin’ 
 room, sah. I just dis minit come down yere to see if you 
 had 'riv, sah,” replied the girl, Delphie, who had been sent 
 by the housekeeper, Aunt Dozia, to watch for the arrival 
 of the doctor and to bring him immediately to the bedside 
 of the unconscious lady, where she herself kept anxious 
 guard. 
 
 “In a moment,” said Dr. Hawkins, as he followed the 
 constable and the old butler into the fatal d’ning room, to 
 look at the prostrate forms. He could then make but a 
 very cursory examination. He knelt down beside each 
 corpse, in turn felt the pulse and heart, but neither pulse 
 nor heart responded by the weakest motion. 
 
 “But it was scarcely necessary to do that, Mr. Bowen,” 
 be said, turning to the constable, and pointing to the shat¬ 
 tered skulls of the victims of their own evil passions; “for 
 when the brains are out the man is dead, beyond a doubt, 
 you know. Now we must not disturb these bodies until 
 they shall be viewed by the coroner. My good girl, show 
 
20 
 
 Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 me the way to your mistress' room," he added, turning 
 suddenly to the horror-stricken Delphine, who courtesied 
 
 and obeyed. 
 
 The doctor found his patient in a deathlike swoon. The 
 only sign of life was the feeble, almost intangible pulse. 
 He sat by her side and labored with her until at length 
 she partially recovered consciousness, but almost imme¬ 
 diately fell into convulsions; a new phase of her malady, 
 which the doctor had to combat as well as he could. He 
 remained beside the poor lady until the demands of bis 
 many other patients compelled him to leave her to the 
 care of her old housekeeper, in whose skill and fidelity he 
 had great confidence, and with whom he left careful direc¬ 
 tions for the treatment of the sufferer. 
 
 The house of the tragedy was now in the possession of 
 the legal authorities. The coroner, who had Been notified 
 by the constable, arrived in the course of the morning, 
 and found no difficulty in impaneling a jury, as the news 
 of the tragedy, spreading through the neighborhood, drew 
 crowds to the house. 
 
 But it was impossible to hold an inquest that day, owing 
 to the difficulty of summoning witnesses from among the 
 guests who were present at the time of the tragedy, but 
 who were now dispersed in all directions. So the room of 
 crime and death was put under the guard of a couple of 
 deputy constables, and locked up for the night. 
 
 The coroner's inquest was held the next day. 
 
 T he facts of the case, as they came out in evidence, 
 were, briefly, these: This particular “stag’’ party had been 
 gotten up especially for the fleecing of a foolish young 
 fellow named Harland, who had just come into his estate, 
 and had more money than he knew what to do with, and 
 was possessed by an insane desire to figure as a fast young 
 man—a man of the world—meaning the worst half of the 
 world. He had heard of the famous frolics at “Hurrah 
 Hall/ and was very anxious to be one of the favored 
 guests. This came to the ears of Murdok Horah, to¬ 
 gether with the information that the poor, young simple¬ 
 ton was burdened with an immense fortune that he was 
 eager to g r et rid of. This drew forth an invitation from 
 Mr. Horah that brought the young man down from Rich- 
 
Horror at Horah Hall. 
 
 21 
 
 tiiond in the company of a mutual “friend/’ who escorted 
 him to the hall, and presented him to the master of the 
 house on the evening of that fatal party. 
 
 The supper that night had been more prolonged than 
 usual; the drinking had been deeper, and, after supper, 
 gambling had been higher and more ruinous to the vic¬ 
 tims than ever before. Much money was lost and won. 
 Success seemed, with the help of brandy, to make even 
 the cautious sharpers perfectly reckless in their dishon¬ 
 esty and artifices. There was not a man present who was 
 sober except Murdok Horah, whom no amount of spiritu¬ 
 ous liquors could intoxicate. Murdok Horah was per¬ 
 fectly sober, if, indeed, he could be called sober whose in¬ 
 herited temperament was a powder magazine, which any 
 accidental spark might ignite and explode, with more or 
 less disaster to those concerned. 
 
 That night, while Murdok Horah was not in the least 
 degree under the influence of alcohol, young Wilful Har- 
 land was the most intoxicated man present. He was also 
 a man who was very quarrelsome and insulting when 
 maddened by strong drink. He was in just such a condi¬ 
 tion then. He had lost a large sum of money—more even 
 than he could well afford—and he had lost it to his v host. 
 He grew very angry, insolent and accusatory. He scarcely 
 knew what he said. He called Murdok Horah a sharper, 
 a rogue and a blackleg. He said that Horah Hall was 
 no better than a gambling hell. 
 
 I his roused all the ungovernable fury of the family 
 temper. In an instant of madness, Murdok Horah jerked 
 his revolver from his pocket and shot his assailant dead. 
 Then, as the victim dropped to the floor, like lightning 
 flashe^upon the murderer pictures in fire of all the con¬ 
 sequences that must follow his evil deed. Arrest, impris¬ 
 onment, trial, conviction, the State’s prison, or the gal¬ 
 lows. He, with all his evils, was no coward, but he was 
 too proud, haughty and arrogant to submit to the disgrace 
 of arrest and imprisonment, which he knew must be his 
 next experience, whatever might be the final result of the 
 trial, for a murderer is not a bailable criminal. Death 
 rather—instant death ! Tn one second, before his horror- 
 stricken companions, who had started to their feet, could 
 spring forward to prevent him, he had turned the deadly 
 
22 
 
 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 weapon upon himself, fired two shots in rapid succession, 
 and had fallen beside his victim. 
 
 The coroner’s jury brought in a verdict in accordance 
 with the evidence, namely, “that Wilful Harland came to 
 his death by a bullet shot into his brain from a pistol held 
 in the hand of Murdok Helman Horah; and that Murdok 
 Helman Horah came to his death by two bullets in his 
 body, shot from a pistol held in his own hand.” 
 
 The body of the murderer and suicide was finally laid 
 in the family vault of the Horahs at the Church of St. 
 Ignatius, at Mistyrock, and that of his victim was sent 
 to his friends in Richmond. 
 
 Ail this time the wretched young widow had lain un¬ 
 conscious of all that had been going on around her. Her 
 deathlike swoon had been followed by a brain fever that 
 had lasted all through the coroner’s inquest, and all 
 through the funeral ceremonies that followed. These cere¬ 
 monies were conducted by the rector of St. Ignatius, under 
 the direction of the family physican. There was really no 
 relative of the Horahs in the neighborhood, and no ac¬ 
 quaintance intimate enough to take direction of the affair. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CELIA AND'YOUNG MURDOK. 
 
 This should have been a noble creature. She 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 
 Had they been wisely mingled. As it is, 
 
 It is an awful chaos—light and darkness, **** 
 
 And mind and dust—and passions and pure thoughts, 
 Mi v ed and contending, without end or order, 
 
 All dormant, or destructive. She will perish; 
 
 And yet she must not. Such are worth redemption. 
 
 % —Byron. 
 
 Isabel Horah’s illness proved to be long and tedious. 
 Her neighbors, who had almost cruelly ignored the young 
 wife who had come a stranger to their neighborhood, now 
 called at the hall with interested inquiries as to the condi¬ 
 tion of the hapless widow, with friendly offers of service. 
 
23 
 
 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 But there was no one except the servants to receive them 
 there, unless they chanced to meet the family physician on 
 one of his daily visits. There were only the housekeeper 
 and the maids to take care of her. 
 
 Doubtless the poor young sufferer had friends and rela¬ 
 tions at a distance^ who would have been summoned, and 
 who world have flown to her ad, but no one knew where 
 to address them. So isolated had been her life at Horah 
 Hall that no one in the vicinity knew anything whatever 
 about her family or kindred, or any human being upon 
 whom she might have claim in this, her time of sorrow and 
 desolation. 
 
 But she had a skillful physician, a tra’ned nurse, and 
 youth and a good constitution on her side, and so she be¬ 
 gan to recover. Her first conscious cry was a call for her 
 babe; and when the child was put in her arms, as she lav 
 on the bed, although she had not strength enough to clasp 
 him to her heart, she smiled, for the first time since her 
 sore affliction, to see how wonderfully plump and rosy the 
 baby was. 
 
 “Murdok Horah’s son!’’ she murmured, fondlv; “Mur- 
 dck Horah’s dear son. All that is left me of Murclbk 
 Ift>rah !” ’ • 
 
 Here the child began to cry. 
 
 “He doesn’t know me! My baby doesn’t know me!” 
 wailed the poor invalid, with the petulance of illness. “He 
 is afraid of me!” 
 
 “Oh, no, he isn't, young mist’ess, but you see he hasn’t 
 seed yo’ so long, and yo’s pale now, an’ de room’s dark, 
 an’ he wants some ’tention,” said Aunt Dozia, as she gently 
 withdrew the babe from the invalid’s failing arms, and 
 carried him from the room. 
 
 But the child did not seem to get over his repugnance to 
 the pale lady, or to the dark room, but cried more or less 
 every t : me he was brought to her bed. 
 
 She was yet much too ill to ask questions, or to think of 
 any questions to ask; but a few days later, while she was 
 caressing and trying to pacify the fine, heartv-looking 
 baby, she inquired of Aunt Dozia how they fed him, since 
 they had taken him away from her bosom while she was 
 so very ill, that now he was thriving so well. 
 
j 24 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 I 
 
 “ ‘Celia nusses ob him, young mistress,” replied the 
 I housekeeper. 
 
 ‘'Celia?” inquired Isabel, lifting her eyebrows, 
 j “Yes, young mist’ess, Celia, Aa’on’s widdy, you know.” 
 
 “No, I don’t know; I never heard of her.” 
 
 \ “Well, now, sho' miff ; how would you ? Aa’on was one 
 ob de fiel’ han’s, an’ Celia is de poultry ’oman, an’ libs in 
 dat little log house back ob de barnyard,” Aunt Dozia ex¬ 
 plained. 
 
 “And she nurses my child, Murdok Horah's son!” ex- 
 
 j 7 
 
 j claimed the lady, in displeasure. 
 
 “Dere wan’t nobody else to do it, young mist’ess; it was 
 de doctor’s own orders. An' which Cely’s a fine, healfy, 
 hansom' young ’oman as yo’d see in hund’ed years.” 
 
 “And the child has been sent to that log house to be 
 nursed !” again indignantly exclaimed the lady. 
 
 “Lor' bress you, no, young mist’ess. Cely done come 
 an' stop in de house eber sence you was took ill, an’ she 
 had to take care ob de young mars’er. An’, oh, doane dat 
 baby frive on her milk? An' ain’t he just ’woted to her!" 
 
 “But the woman’s own child? What becomes of it? 
 Or, has she milk enough for both?" inquired the lady. 
 
 ‘Ah, young mist’ess, dat oder chile, he's gone to glory- 
 playin' on de golden harp ’long ob de cherrybeams and 
 saryfines,” replied old Dozia. 
 
 “Dead!” sighed Isabel, in a low, sympathetic tone. 
 
 ‘Lor’, no, mist’ess! I’se a poor, ignoran’ darky, but I 
 aine sich a headen as to call dat little angil dead ’cause lie’s 
 gone away an’ us can't see him yere. No, dat chile’s gone 
 to glory, singin’ on de golden harp.” 
 
 “When did that child die? What did he die of?” in¬ 
 quired little Murdok's mother, uneasily—for he might 
 have had some contagious disease which, if the death was 
 recent, her child might have contracted, she thought. 
 
 “He wur tuk jes two or three days arter yo ’ was tuk 
 ill young mist’ess. An’ de messinger wat was sent to 
 fetch him home was a information on de brain. Leas'- 
 wpys dat wur what de doctor say it wur.” 
 
 “Poor Celia! poor, bereaved mother! to lose her baby 
 and then have to take another child!” 
 
 “It is a comfort dat de chile is vour'n, mist’ess.” 
 
Celia and Young Murdolc. 25 
 
 “Go and call Celia to me. 1 wish to see mv child’s 
 nurse.” 
 
 Aunt Dozia went out and soon returned with the young 
 woman. 
 
 Isabel raised her eyes and saw before her a tall, finely 
 developed, handsome quadroon, who might have passed 
 for a Spanish or an Italian beauty of high rank, so perfect 
 was her form and face, so rich her complexion, so queenly 
 her carriage. 
 
 But what held the lady spellbound for a moment was the 
 woman's amazing likeness to Murdok Horah. For that 
 moment she could not speak while the woman stood cour- 
 tesying. 
 
 “You are Celia?” questioned the lady, when she had re¬ 
 covered her power of speaking. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am,” replied the woman, with another cour¬ 
 tesy. 
 
 “Who are your father and mother. Celia?” wistfullv in¬ 
 quired the lady. 
 
 “My mother is Judith, ma’am.” 
 
 “And your father?” more pointedly inquired the widow. 
 
 I he rich, red life current rushed up, crimsoning bosom, 
 throat and face. Her head drooped as she answered, in a 
 low tone: 
 
 “My father died three years ago, ma’am.” 
 
 Some instinct warned the lady not to press the question 
 further. 
 
 The child, too, who had been uneasy all this time, now 
 began to cry and struggle, and hold out its arms to his 
 foster mother. 
 
 “lake him!” cred the invalid, impatiently. “You have 
 won his love from me, and now I cannot satisfy him.” 
 
 “Oh, no, indeed, ma’am, I have not won his love from 
 yon. He only wants his dinner. Little babies are like 
 little animals, you know, ma’am,” said the woman, as she 
 received the child from her mistress’ arms and began to 
 soothe him tenderly. 
 
 Isabel watched them with a jealous pang, saw the child 
 nestle to the woman’s bosom, saw the woman bend her 
 head down till it touched the child’s head. Then suddenly 
 she remembered the poor woman’s bereavement, and pity 
 cast out jealousy. 
 
%6 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 “I am sorry to hear that you have lost your own child, 
 my poor Celia,” she said. * 
 
 The woman burst into tears. Then Aunt Dozia came 
 forward with all a sick nurse's authority, and said: 
 
 “Now, really, young mist’ess, you mus’ let Cely take de 
 chile out o’ dis room. Dis yere ’citement is gwine fo’ to 
 make yo’ wuz. An’ de doctor’ll blame me.” 
 
 Dozia had her way, for her mistress fell back exhausted 
 on her pillow, weeping, and the nurse carried her little 
 charge away. 
 
 Dozia’s fears were not without foundation. Isabel had 
 a slight relapse that required the repose of the next few 
 days. During this time she was troubled by the striking 
 likeness between the handsome quadroon and the late 
 Murdok Horah, and also by the consequent likeness of 
 her own dear boy to the'same quadroon; for the little 
 Murdok, if not “the image of his father,” as the servants 
 called him, was, certainly, as much like that father as an 
 infant could possibly be to a man. 
 
 When she was well enough to question the servants as 
 to all that had happened during her illness, she did not 
 hear the terrible truth. Not one of them had the courage, 
 or the cruelty, to tell her about the coroner’s inquest, or 
 the verdict that left so deep a stain on the memory of her 
 husband. They talked of the splendor of the funeral, and 
 of the kindness of the neighbors. When, later, she ques¬ 
 tioned Dr. Hawkins, her physician, on the same subject, 
 he mercifully and most skillfully evaded her inquiries by 
 telling her that the tragedy was the result of a quarrel 
 over a game of cards, in which Mr. Wilful Harland had 
 accused her husband of false play. Thus, without saying 
 so in plain words, the doctor left the widow under the 
 impression that the antagonists had settled their quarrel 
 on the spot by fighting a duel with pistols across the table. 
 She questioned no one else on the subject, and so she never 
 learned the horrible truth—at least, not then—from her 
 household, or from the neighbors. But she was firmly 
 convinced, by her blind worship of Murdok Horah, that 
 the murderer and suicide was in reality a hero and a 
 martyr, the victim of an assassin, who fastened a quarrel 
 upon him with premeditated murder in his heart, and who 
 was, therefore, as bloodthirsty an assassin as if he had 
 
27 
 
 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 waylaid his victim in the dark and stabbed him to death 
 in the back. The only consolation she had was the sin- 
 fukreflection that the assassin had also fallen by his vic¬ 
 tim’s bullet. 
 
 And still that likeness of the handsome quadroon to her 
 deceased husband troubled her. 
 
 She was rather too proud a woman to make confidants 
 of her servants, for~it never occurred to her that they 
 were neighbors—indeed, sisters and brothers. But her in¬ 
 terest and curiosity got the better of her pride and pru¬ 
 dence, and, one day, when she found herself alone W'th 
 old Aunt Dozia, she suddenly inquired, as if she could 
 not trust herself to wait, lest she should shrink from the 
 question : 
 
 “Who was Celia’s father?” 
 
 Dozia started and looked scared. 
 
 The lady repeated the question. 
 
 “Lor’ A’mighty knows, youn’ mist’ess, for I doane.” 
 
 Mrs. Horah gave her a penetrating look, and then re¬ 
 marked : 
 
 “There are some strange resemblances in this world. 
 Accidental, of course. Now, here is my son’s nurse, who 
 bears a most wonderful likeness to my husband. They 
 seem about the same age.” 
 
 This involuntary allusion to the dead, of whom she 
 could not yet speak with composure, completely overcame 
 the young widow, so that it was some time before she 
 spoke again. Then she asked : 
 
 “If you have been on the plantation all your life, as 
 well as Celia and her mother, you must know who her 
 father was.” 
 
 “Well, den, I doane, young mist’ess. What one ’spects, 
 one doane kno’, yo’ sec,” stubbornly replied the old 
 woman. 
 
 “What do you mean by that?” 
 
 “Youn’ mist’ess, if yo’ was to take yo’ walks ober dis 
 yere plantashun, yo’d see mo’ gals an’ boys, an’ men an’ 
 women, too, as is de bbbin’ images oh dc’Horahs, dan dere 
 ebber was real Horahs in de work. An’ dey doane look 
 like we, dem darkies, an’ dey doane talk like we, neder. 
 Dere’s Cely talks like any white lady. An’ she nebber had 
 
28 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 a day's schoolin' in her life, ob course, ca’se it is agin’ de. 
 law ob de State." 
 
 Isabel spoke no further, but thought more. 
 
 The young widow, in the bitterness of a rebellious and 
 vengeful spirit, retired from the world, secluded herself 
 even from her now kindly disposed neighbors, and de¬ 
 voted herself to nursing her sorrow and hatred, and to 
 petting and spoiling her son—“Murdok Horah's son," as 
 in her fond idolatry of her departed “hero" she called the 
 
 boy. 
 
 * 
 
 That poor child! I have a very deep pity for him, and 
 for all like him. What chance had he, indeed, to de¬ 
 velop into anything but a little devil ? When I think of 
 him, and of such as he was, I am inspired to hope that 
 there is a world of probation beyond this, or a reincarna¬ 
 tion here to give the bound, starved, ill-used soul further 
 opportunity for redemption. This unfortunate child, with 
 all his inherited evils, and with the wealth and power to 
 which he was born, required the wisest teaching and the 
 firmest restraint. But he received neither from his doting 
 mother. She loved him as her own child, but-she wor¬ 
 shiped him as Murdok Horah’s son. 
 
 Very soon—as soon as the doctor would consent to the 
 change—she sent his nursing mother back to her cabin and 
 to the care of the poultry yard, and she herself assumed 
 the sole charge of the child, with no assistance than that 
 of Delphie. But the little one fretted and pined, and re¬ 
 fused to be soothed, so that Celia had to be recalled. 
 
 “I must gradually separate them. It is too hard to lose 
 mv husband in that-cruel way, and then to lose the love 
 of my child as well!’’ she complained. 
 
 But, with all her natural longing, and all her sweet, ma¬ 
 ternal arts, she failed to detach the child from his nursing 
 mother, whom he loved with passionate devotion even 
 after the baby had developed into the romping boy. 
 
 Young tigers, bears and lions do not always show their 
 ferocity in their cubhood; neither did young Murdok 
 Horah. The little beasts of prey are often playful and en- 
 gaging; so was little Murdok Horah. He was a very 
 beautiful boy, and his doting mother and loving nurse 
 thought him just the most wonderful and enchanting 
 creature the sun ever shone upon. 
 
29 
 
 Celia and Young Murdok. 
 
 But then what else should Murdok Horah’s son be? 
 
 So she was totally blind to those first small develop¬ 
 ments of evil that might have warned her that she was 
 training—not a little angel, but a little demon. The mother 
 thought her son not only a beauty, but also a saint and a 
 genius. 
 
 When he reached the age at which he should be taught 
 to read, she would not send him to school, but engaged a 
 tutor to give him private instruction at home. I should 
 rather say tutors, for though they came one at a time, yet 
 there was quite a procession of them, coming and going 
 in absurdly rapid succession. These tutors were obtained 
 by advertisement, and were selected from the rank and 
 file of that honorable army of self-helping young grad¬ 
 uates of the public schools who go to the Southern plan¬ 
 tations to become tutors in planters’ families, to eSrn 
 money to pay for their future college courses. They are 
 the class from which many of our great statesmen, jurists, 
 divines and other lights of the world come, who seldom 
 or never spring from the wealthy classes. 
 
 But no tutor with the slightest respect for himself, or 
 regard for his duties, could remain long at Horah Hall. 
 For the pupil of seven years old was an untamed young 
 savage, an irreclaimable little rebel. Tie had not the 
 slightest idea of duty or obedience. After the fun and 
 novelty wore off, he would «c »;:y moment, when the fancy 
 struck him, seize his primer in his teeth and tear it up, 
 fling the fragments on the floor, then burst out laughing, 
 turn a somersault, and thus literally kick up his heels in 
 the face of authority, and scamper away from the room 
 and off to the woods, in company with some of the negro 
 boys, to set traps for rabbits, or look for those already 
 caught in the snares. 
 
 In vain would the tutor talk to the boy or appeal to the 
 mother. She would not permit any coercion to be broug ht 
 to bear upon the young rebel. Nothing but moral suasion 
 should be exercised to influence Murdok HoralTs son. 
 
 But how was moral suasion to be understood bv a boy 
 whose moral sense had never been developed? 
 
 So tutor after tutor, unable to perform his duty by the 
 young pupil under these trying circumstances, resigned 
 his charge and left Ilorah Hall. 
 
30 
 
 At the Old Godfrey Farm. 
 
 * 
 
 It was when this wild and headstrong boy was in his 
 eleventh year that an event happened which was dest’ned 
 to exercise a powerful influence on the young savage and 
 all connected with him. 
 
 * • . * ' » ‘ , , * jfeS 
 
 y 
 
 . if HI 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AT THE OLD GODFREY FARM. 
 
 Oh, poverty is a bitter tiling. It burdeneth the brain; 
 
 It causes even the little child to murmur and complain. 
 
 —Mary Howitt. 
 
 The old Godfrey farm is situated on the south bank of 
 the Patuxent River; its grounds running down to the 
 water’s edge, and back to what colored people called “de 
 big woods,” which was a part of the primeval forest of 
 St. Mary’s County, in Maryland. 
 
 The estate consisted of an old tumble-down farmhouse, 
 built of brick and wood, and about twenty acres of much- 
 worn land. Once the estate covered a thousand ac r es of 
 field and forest, with a long frontage of fish’ng ground on 
 the river. Then could the master of the manor stand on 
 the highest hill of his land and say that all around, from 
 the center to the circumference of his vision, was his 
 property. He might have said with truth, ts I am lord of 
 all I survey!” 
 
 But these prosperous days were long past, and now the 
 family were very poor, unable to repair their decaying 
 homestead, unable to pay their honest debts—nay, eyen 
 worse than that, they were obliged to contract new ones 
 in order to live from day to day. 
 
 From generation to generation, little bv little, they had 
 parted with portions of their land, till now nothing was 
 left but the small tract mentioned. 
 
 What had brought them to this pass? 
 
 Not vice, certainly; but a rather liberal hospitality, 
 carelessness of money and inattention to business. Slight 
 faults, but, like moths, eating slowly into their substance. 
 And the land in every instance was sold to save the slaves,, 
 
3* 
 
 At the Old, Godfrey Farm. 
 
 No Godfrey ever sold a slave. He or she would almost as 
 soon have sold one of their own children. They had been 
 slaveholders, indeed, from father to son; from mother to 
 daughter, from the introduction of slavery into the coun¬ 
 try. They inherited their position of ownership and au¬ 
 thority over their dark brethren, and received it as the in¬ 
 evitable matter of course in the order of events. * < 
 
 And yet the word slave was odious to the Godfreys. 
 
 Much deserved ridicule has been cast upon that so- 
 called ‘‘patriarchal institution,” but the home rule of the 
 Godfreys was, indeed, and in truth, patriarchal. 
 
 They never called their human property “slaves” or 
 “negroes,” but ever alluded to them almost affectionately 
 as “our colored people,” or, if they were employed in the 
 house, “our maids,” or “our menservants,” or if in the 
 field, “our hands.” 
 
 The darkies of the plantation always called the elder 
 members of the family “ole marsa,” or “ole miss,” as the 
 case might be; and the younger ones as “young Marse” or 
 “young Miss” So-and-so, according to their Christ’an 
 names, but always with a tender, almost patronizing tone, 
 as if service meant protection. 
 
 Whenever any Godfrey came to die, young or old, there 
 were nowhere any more sincere or inconsolable mourners 
 than the colored people, those children of pass : on and emo¬ 
 tion, who can seldom assume and never control feeling. 
 
 A hereditary bond of strong affection, coming down the 
 generations, bound the masters and servants of this es¬ 
 tate with bonds deeper and stronger than any law could 
 forge. 
 
 A woeful crisis was at hand at the old Godfrey farm. 
 Creditors were importunate. The house and land were 
 mortgaged to their full value, or so near it that not an¬ 
 other dollar could be raised upon it. The holders of the 
 mortgages threatened to foreclose if the long arrears were 
 not pa ; d. The general storekeeper talked of obtaining an 
 execution to satisfy the debt owing to him of several years 
 standing. 
 
 The Godfrey family now consisted of an aged couple 
 and two bachelor sons. There was no daughter, but there 
 was a mulatto girl who was like a daughter to her dear 
 old mistress. 
 
32 At the Old Godfrey Farm. 
 
 One word of this girl: About seventeen years before, 
 one of the colored women, named Servia, the daughter of 
 one of the field hands, and living in a cabin on the planta¬ 
 tion, gave birth to a mulatto child and died. Such an 
 event was very rare on that estate, and the only reason 
 the frail mother was forgiven by her fellow servants was 
 because she died. The old lady, Mrs. Grace Godfrey, took 
 the tiny, motherless babe into the house and made a pet 
 of it. She called it Servia, after its mother, and brought 
 it up at her knee. 
 
 Servia grew and thrived, and became the greatest help 
 and comfort of the poor, daughterless old lady’s life. The 
 lady began to teach the child, as soon as she was old 
 enough to learn, such useful accomplishments as might 
 fit her for a lady's maid. She not only taught her to do 
 plain and fine needlework, lace making and embroidery, 
 but also to read and write, and to cast accounts. 
 
 Thus, at the age of seventeen, Servia was Mrs. God¬ 
 frey’s right-hand and inseparable companion. She si ept 
 on a cot in her mistress’ chamber, as, indeed, she had done 
 from infancy—with this difference—that then she was to 
 be taken care of by her mistress, now she was to take care 
 of that mistress. She made and repaired all the old lady’s 
 caps and gowns, and in their impoverished days there 
 was much more skillful repairing and making up to be 
 done. She wrote all her mistress’ notes and letters, kept 
 all her accounts, and read to her whenever they could get 
 anything to read. That, however, was very seldom, for 
 books at that time and place were rare and costly. She 
 went with her mistress wherever the latter had occasion 
 to go, whether it was to church, shop or a neighbor’s 
 house. She might enter a shop with her mistress, of 
 course, but at the church vestibule she had to leave the 
 lady to go alone to her pew, while she climbed up to the 
 colored people’s gallery; and at a neighbor’s house she 
 had to leave her mistress as the latter passed into the par¬ 
 lor, while she went to the kitchen. There was no great 
 hardship in these things, nor did Servia consider it so. 
 
 Meanwhile, from constant and intimate association with 
 her mistress, and from her reading, she had contracted 
 a refinement of Speech and manner very unusual among 
 Tier Hass. 
 
At the Old Godfrey Farm. 
 
 33 
 
 At seventeen, also, Servia was a very attractive young 
 woman. She was not exactly beautiful, but she was some¬ 
 thing even better than that. 
 
 She was tall, strong, finely proportioned and handsome, 
 with a healthy, cream-colored complexion, dark brown 
 hair and brown eyes, and full, red lips. One of her pleas¬ 
 ures, not to call it by a stronger word—passions—was her 
 love for the water. When she was still a child, whenever 
 lier mistress would send her out into the fresh air to play, 
 she would go down to the river side, pull off her shoes 
 and stockings, and tuck up her skirts, and wade into the 
 water; or, if she were sure that no one was looking, she 
 would take oft her clothes and plunge into the water. 
 
 In this way, it must have been, that she learned, without 
 any instruction, the art of swimming, as animals learn it. 
 And as she grew up it became her custom to go down to 
 the river every summer evening and take a swim. If, as 
 sometimes happened, the tide was high and the water 
 rough, she delighted in it all the more. It was to this 
 habit that she owed her robust health and great muscular 
 vigor. And to this she also owed, as one of its results, 
 the greatest happiness of her life. Her mistress knew that 
 she took a bath in the river every evening, and approved 
 the cleanly and healthful habit, but she did not know 
 her as the strong and skillful swimmer that she was. 
 
 Servia’s fine form and face and Stately carriage had at¬ 
 tracted much attention in the neighborhood,- and, unhap¬ 
 pily, at this crisis, fell under the notice of a slave trader. 
 
 This man, Wharton by name, was canvassing the local¬ 
 ity to gather his peculiar merchandise. So when he 
 heard of the sheriff’s sale on the Godfrey farm, he was 
 among* the first to attend. A wink and a tip to the auc¬ 
 tioneer caused the mulatto girl, Servia, to be put up early 
 in the proceedings. Wharton outbid every competitor, 
 for he was sure of a large profit on bis investment, and 
 he became the proud possessor of the statelv mulatto girl. 
 
 Poor Servia, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow, was 
 permitted the sad privilege of going to bid good-by to her 
 old mistress. 
 
 Hie girl, like all her emotional race, had little or no. 
 self-control. 
 
 She binst into her mistress bedchamber, where the old 
 
34 At the Old Godfrey Farm. 
 
 lady lay in bed, prostrated by the ruin that had overtaken 
 her house, threw herself on her knees by the bedside, 
 dropped her face on the quilt, and burst into a passion 
 of tears, sobs and lamentations. 
 
 Old Grace Godfrey, who had passed more than her 
 three score and ten years, and was very feeble in body, 
 though strong in spirit, put out her arms and laid her 
 hands on the head of the girl as in silent benediction, 
 while she waited for the hysterical fit to pass. 
 
 “Oh, my mistress! the degradation! the degradation!” 
 exclaimed the girl, with a gasping sob, as she at length 
 rose from her knees and wiped the tears from her eyes. 
 “To be put up at public auction, and stared at, and turned 
 about, and knocked down to the highest bidder, .and he a 
 common ne^ro buyer!” 
 
 “I would have- let out the last few sands in the hour¬ 
 glass of my 1 fe to have saved you from this misery, my 
 poor child!” breathed the old lady. 
 
 “The degradation !” repeated the girl, in a faint tone. 
 
 “No, my child, not that! Were the Christian martyrs 
 degraded when they were sold into slavery, scourged, or 
 thrown alive as food to the wild beasts? No, my child, 
 nothing that can be done to you can degrade you; only 
 what you might be tempted, or frightened, or persecuted 
 into doing yourself. There is no shame but sin. Remem¬ 
 ber that, my child, arid be strong. Suffer—die—rather 
 than sin. Then, child whom I have reared as if of my own 
 flesh and blood, though we may never meet again on this 
 side of the grave, we shall surely meet in our Father’s 
 house.” 
 
 She slipped her hand under her pillow and drew forth 
 a little well-worn book, and handed it to the girl, saying: 
 
 “Take our New Testament, Servia. Oh, you will need 
 it, my child; and need its Christ every hour! You have 
 read it daily for me these many years past. It will be a 
 bond of union between us.” 
 
 Servia, weeping quietly now, took the book and pressed 
 the hand that offered it to her lips. 
 
 “Now, there is another thing. Go, dear, to the closet 
 and take my black silk dress and bring it to me.” 
 
 Servia obeyed. 
 
 The old lady took the garment in her hands, and said: 
 
35 
 
 At tlie Old Godfrey Farm. 
 
 “You made it for me, child, and you have repaired it 
 carefully for me—how many times! Take it, now, and 
 wear it for my sake. It will be another bond of union be¬ 
 tween us.” 
 
 “But, dear mistress, this is your best gown.” 
 
 “That is the reason why I give it to you, my child.” 
 
 “But it is your church gown, mistress.” 
 
 “I shall never have the comfort of going to church 
 again, Servia.” 
 
 The girl’s tears were falling like rain. 
 
 “But that does not matter so much as it seems. We are 
 each of us a ‘temple of the Lord,’ and if a temple, then 
 a church in which we can serve and worship Him wher¬ 
 ever we may be; even on a bed of sickness or in the 
 prison of the slave trader. Mind that, Servia!” 
 
 “Oh, I will! I will!” sobbed the girl. 
 
 At this moment there came a sharp rap at the door. 
 Servia went to open it. One of the negroes stood there 
 and said: 
 
 “Marse Wharton is ready to start fo’ de steamboat, and 
 say how yo’ mus’ com’ right ’long or he’ll hab to come an’ 
 fetch yo’.” 
 
 “Come and bid me good-by, my child,” said the old lady, 
 ris ng with difficulty to a sitting position, and holding out 
 her feeble arms. 
 
 Servia ran to her, threw her arms around her neck, and 
 burst into a fresh paroxysm of sobs and tears. The old 
 lady clasped the girl to her bosom, but said not a word. 
 
 Indeed, she never spoke again. The trials of many 
 years had worn out her heart. Their culmination in this 
 last crash of family ruin had been too much for her feeble 
 condition, and now this last parting from one wdio had 
 been her constant companion for seventeen years, and 
 who had served her with the devotion of a daughter, who 
 had been chciisheo as such, and who was now going* into 
 a slavery that w^as more cruel than any form of death 
 gave old Grace Godfrey her merciful death blow. 
 
 Servia felt the feeble frame tremble as she clasped it, 
 then the weak arms relax, and then the worn body slip 
 from her embrace as the aged sufferer, “with the sigh of 
 a great deliverance,” sank back into her rest. 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 3 6 
 
 “Mistress ! mistress!” cried Servia, in great alarm, bend¬ 
 ing over the still form. 
 
 Servia’s screams roused the household. 
 
 No response came from those stilled lips. 
 
 The room was soon filled with the family and the 
 servants—such of them as had not been sold—-and they 
 crowded around the bed. Her sons were the first on the 
 spot, and pressed nearest to the bed. They thought the 
 motionless woman lying there had only fainted, but the 
 most cursory examination proved, by the still pulse and 
 heart and the glazed eyes, that she had died. 
 
 In the midst of the distress that ensued the voice of 
 Wharton arose—for he had been* drawn to the room by 
 the general excitement—and was now saying: 
 
 “Gentlemen, I am very sorry, but I have to catch the 
 steamboat at Buckstone's Landing, and I must be off. 
 Come, girl. Now t stop that howling, or it will be worse 
 for you.” And so saying he took Servia rudely by the arm 
 and hurried her from the room. 
 
 The assembled family, gathered around the body of the 
 old lady, rubbing her hands and feet, and calling on her 
 sacred names, “mother” or “mistress/’ in the hopeless ef¬ 
 fort to raise the dead, being thus employed, they took no 
 notice of the slave trader, or his property, but let him 
 drag Servia, weeping, from the chamber of death. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ON THE “ERRAND GIRL A 
 
 Oh, many a dream was in that ship, 
 
 An horn* before her death ; 
 
 And sights of home, with sighs, disturbed 
 The sleeper’s long-drawn breath. 
 
 * * He wakes at the vessel’s sudden roll, 
 
 And the rush of waters is in his soul.—W ilson. 
 
 “Come, come now! None o’ that!” growled the rude 
 fellow, who was dragging his prey down the stairs, as she 
 turned and stretched her arms wildly toward the room 
 where the dead body of her mistress lay, as if she would 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 37 
 
 have fled back to her side. ‘‘You just be quiet, will yer? 
 If yer don't want me to knock yer on the head! If you 
 know what's good for yer, yer 11 just come along peace¬ 
 able.” 
 
 With a deep, wailing sigh, Servia dropped her arms and 
 ceased to resist—if that long, appealing gesture of despair 
 could be called resistance—and allowed the man to lead 
 her downstairs to the covered farm wagon he had hired to 
 convey his purchases to the steamboat landing. In it 
 were already seated three young negro men, who had also 
 been bought bv Wharton. 
 
 Around the wagon were gathered about half a dozen 
 other negroes, who had escaped the auctioneer’s hammer, 
 chiefly because they were considered unprofitable servants, 
 being aged, invalid or infantile. ^ 
 
 These were all crying and wringing their hands. Three 
 old mothers were bewailing the three sons whom they 
 could never hope to see, or even hear from again, any 
 more than if they were in their graves. 
 
 Wharton shoved Servia into the wagon, and shouted to 
 the driver: 
 
 ‘‘Go on. Bill! Let’s git out of this infernal raw !" And, 
 to emphasize his words, he snatched the wagon whip out 
 of the man’s hand, and struck it over the head and shoul¬ 
 ders of the nearest of the group of negroes, a poor, de¬ 
 crepit old man who was bent over a stick. 
 
 The wagon was started at as fast a speed as the cum¬ 
 brous vehicle would admit. Wharton pulled out a pair 
 of old-fashioned, clumsy horse pistols, examined them, 
 and replaced them in a leather belt around his waist; then 
 mounted the horse that a sieklv-looking boy held, and 
 started in the wake of the wagon. They passed out of the 
 great farm gate upon the turnpike road. 
 
 There were no seats in the wagon, but its floor was cov¬ 
 ered with straw. Poor Servia was seated flat upon this 
 straw, with her face covered by her hands, and dropped 
 up on her knees. She neither looked up, nor spoke, until 
 she was addressed by one of her fellow suflferers, who 
 6poke cheerfully, as he supposed. 
 
 “Now, doane take on so, Miss Servy, chile ! You’ll he 
 heap better off ’an we. We’s gwinc inter de cotton fiel’, 
 
 ' ' 
 
{ 
 
 38 On tne “Errand Girl.” 
 
 I reckon; but yo’s gwine ter be some rich lady’s own maid! 
 Now, doane yer giv’ up like dat, Miss Servy, honey !” 
 
 “Oh, hush! hush! Ben! I can’t stand it! My heart is 
 broken!” she wailed, without uncovering her face or rais¬ 
 ing her head. 
 
 “Now, doane yer talk like dat ’ere, Miss Servy/honey. 
 Wot make yo’ heart bwoke? Yo’ ain’t lef’ no po’ ole 
 mammy an’ daddy behine you, or sisters or brudders be¬ 
 ll ne, like we has!” 
 
 “My mistress!’' wailed the girl. “My dear, dear mis¬ 
 tress ! w r ho was like a mother to me—the only mother I 
 ever knew !” And with the thought, Servia lost all self- 
 control, and broke into such a storm of sobbing and cry¬ 
 ing that Ben was sorry he had ventured to speak to her, 
 and warned his companions not to try the same experi¬ 
 ment while they were on the road. 
 
 A drive of two hours brought them to Buckstone’s 
 Landing, where they were to embark on the steamboat 
 Errand Girl, for Washington. 
 
 The boat had not yet arrived, nor was it even in sight. 
 Wharton called one of the hostlers, who was lounging 
 around Buckstone’s, as the dilapidated old tavern at the 
 landing was called, and ordered him to go into*the bar¬ 
 room and fetch him a brandy smash, for he did not care 
 to leave his guard over the wagon, lest some of the men 
 should take advantage of the situation by running away. 
 The first brandy smash was brought, and when that was 
 imbibed another was ordered, and then a third. Before 
 this was consumed the boat came in sight, and in ten min¬ 
 utes more it reached the wharf. Then there was a final 
 leave-taking between the colored people, as they carrie out 
 of the wagon, and Bill, the humpbacked driver, who, with 
 the wagon, belonged to Godfrey’s farm, was going back. 
 
 “Gim my lub to mammy and de chillun, Bill. Tell her 
 not to cwy arter me. Tell her I’ll mine wot she say to 
 me, an’ I'll nebber git junk, nor break de Sabber day—no, 
 nor nebber gib de back answer to de oberseer; nebber do 
 nothin’ wot’ld git me inter chiibble, wot’ld grebe her heart 
 if vShe knowed it. Tell her, Bill, as she may ’pen on me 
 to keep straight as a ’ciple ought ’till we meet in Glory. 
 And tell her, Bill, as I shil chy for to git some yittle 
 white chile as will write a letter for me to her. An’, Bill, 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 39 
 
 fotch de ole ’oman a bucket o’ water, sometimes, for my 
 sake, an’ cut her a yarmful ob wood, an’ take her to lub 
 feasts Sunday evenin’s, like I—I—I-” 
 
 Here the poor fellow broke quite down with the thought 
 that he could no longer help the poor old mother, who had 
 no other son. And he cried like a child. 
 
 “ ’Deed, Ben, I’ll do eb’ryt’ing you say, same as ef she 
 was my own mudder, as is in Glory,” said Bill. 
 
 “An’, Bill,” continued Ben, recovering himself, “doane 
 yer let on to de po’ ole woman as I cwyed, doane yer. It 
 would ’mos’ break her heart. Yo’ tell her dat I went off in 
 sech sperrets. I—yes, an’ so I will! Yo’ shan’ tell no lie.” 
 
 “Come, come! Stuff and nonsense ! Enough of this !” 
 roughly exclaimed Wharton, seizing Ben and shoving him 
 toward the gang plank, which the sailors were just laying 
 down. , 
 
 “I’ll mine eb’ry word you say to me, Ben !'' called the 
 driver after his friend. 
 
 “T’anky, Bill; God bress yer!” cried Ben. 
 
 The other two men went up to the driver, to give him 
 more parting messages to the friends they had left behind 
 forever. But these were cut short by Wharton, who 
 took the arm of Servia, and drove the two men on before, 
 across the gang plank, and on board the steamer. 
 
 “Nebber yer mine, Ned an’ Jim! I kno’ wot yer want 
 to send up to de ole folks jes as well as ef I hearn yer say 
 it, an’ I’ll tell ’em ebery word fai’ful, 'deed I will.” 
 
 “Lor, bress yer fo’ dat, Bill!” came in a chorus from the 
 negroes on the deck of the steamer. 
 
 “Hold yer jaws, you black rascals! and go along down 
 witl\ you!” commanded the trader, hustling the little 
 group before him. 
 
 They went as freight; that is, in the hold of the vessel, 
 though with the nrivilege of climbing to the lower deck 
 for a little fresh air—except when the boat touched a 
 landing, when they were rigorously kept below. 
 
 They were all driven down into the hold, to stay until 
 the steamer should start, where they had to look out for 
 themselves by keeping out of the way of*descending bar¬ 
 rels of corn, sacks of wheat and hogsheads of tobacco, that 
 were let down through the hatchway. 
 
40 
 
 On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 After the freight was all stowed, and the boat well 
 under way, they were allowed to come on deck. 
 
 It was now near sunset on a warm September evening. 
 Heavy clouds gathered in the west, and threatened to rise 
 and swallow up the sun before he should drop below the 
 horizon. The three colored men stood at the stern of the 
 steamer, leaning over the bulwarks, and staring in sorrow 
 on the home they were leaving forever. They spoke but 
 little, and that in whispers. 
 
 Servia sat apart on a coil of ropes, with her face buried 
 in her hands. Her companions in misfortune dared not 
 speak to her, lest they should bring on another paroxysm 
 of hysterics. There was no one else on the lower deck, ex¬ 
 cept Wharton, who kept near his property, and two deck 
 hands, who were cleaning the deck and talking of the 
 prospects of the weather. 
 
 “Look at them clouds over yonder, to the west’ard, 
 Dixon! Dirty weather on the bay to-night, I wouldn’t 
 wonder.” 
 
 “Ay, ay!” replied the other; “that’s certain; cap’n 
 have to put into St. Mary’s Bay, I reckon.” 
 
 “He won’t do it, then. Not he. Cap’n Travers never 
 stepped fer stress of weather yet! You’ll see.” 
 
 “Well, yer know the cap’n better'll I do. but I reckon I 
 know what I’m talking about when I tell yer if he don’t 
 put into St. Mary’s Bay to-night, this coming storm will 
 stop us for good and all,” said the last speaker, as they 
 passed out of hearing. 
 
 Servia had heard all, and, oh, how in her heart she 
 hoped that storm might come and wreck the boat, and 
 rescue her from the degradation she felt to be overwhelm¬ 
 ing her, notwithstanding all her mistress had said to the 
 contrary. Then came terror at herself, as she thought of 
 what it really was that she so passionately desired. To be 
 rescued at the price of all the innocent lives on board. At 
 the price of that little child’s life, whose voice and laugh 
 reached her from the upper deck; of that lady, whose 
 sweet tones mingled with it! Of how many others to 
 whom life was lovely! 
 
 ‘1 am just as wicked as anybody else,” she said to her- 
 sc:i. “Lord forgive them and me! The worst wrong 
 they do to me is the wicked state of mind they put me in.” 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 41 
 
 It was growing dark faster than the fall of night would 
 warrant. The clouds had risen above the low, descending 
 sun, and had entirely hidden it and were rapidly rising 
 toward the zenith. Vivid flashes of lightning, accom¬ 
 panied by low mutterings of thunder, came from the 
 mountainous range of black clouds that seemed to touch 
 
 tlie hills of the land that was fast sinking out of sight. A 
 low, sobbing sigh came at intervals across the water. 
 
 Presently, by the orders of Wharton, one of the stew¬ 
 ards came with a wooden tray, on which were arranged 
 four mugs of coffee and four hunks of corn bread, which 
 he distributed to the four colored people. The men took 
 it and ate hungrily. Servia could not touch a morsel. She 
 had always been accustomed to fare just as her old mis¬ 
 tress had; and so she must have been half starved before 
 she could have eaten this coarse food. And in her present 
 condition she could not have swallowed a morsel of the 
 most dainty viands of the earth. 
 
 “Couldn’t yer fetch her a cup o’ tea, youn' marse?” 
 asked Ben, in an humble, coaxing tone, addressing the 
 steward. “She has been raised dainty, she has, alon’ o’ 
 her ole missus. She aine use to dis yer. I aine got 110 
 money, but yere’s a bran’ new silk han’cher’ wot Marse 
 Gilbert gim me fer a keepsake, an’ yer kin hab dat.” 
 
 “I don’t want it.. I'll bring* the tea,” said the boy. 
 
 And he went away, and soon returned with a cup of tea 
 and a plate of white bread and butter, which he placed 
 upon the deck before the girl. 
 
 Servia was feverishly thirsty, and quaffed the tea grate¬ 
 fully, but could not swallow a morsel of solid food. 
 
 Meanwhile the lightning began to flash nearer, and the 
 thunder to roll overhead. There was a noise of sailors 
 running to and fro on the upper deck, trimming the boat 
 and preparing for the coming storm. 
 
 “Here you ! Get down into the hold !’’ exclaimed Whar¬ 
 ton, who had just come from his supper in the saloon to 
 the lower deck. 
 
 “They hadn’t better go down there, sir, if you’ll excuse 
 me for interfering,’’ said Dixon, one of the sailors. 
 
 “And why?” demanded Wharton. 
 
 “Because it 11 blow like blazes afore midnight, sir, and 
 
 the hold is on’y ’bout half full of freight, lifting ’bout 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 42 
 
 with the rollin’ o’ the boat, which’ll mash the creeturs to 
 death all of a sudden, ’fore they can get out. It's safe 
 enough in fair weather, sir.” 
 
 A blaze of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder, 
 and the bustling noise overhead, stopped the conversation 
 for a minute, and then Wharton said: 
 
 “What the devil am I to do with the vermin? I can’t 
 leave them there to be drenched with the rain. They might 
 get their death of cold, and then I would be out thou¬ 
 sands of dollars.” 
 
 “You might speak to the cap’ll, sir. Here’s the steer¬ 
 age, wfith only two pom-white men in it. We don’t ever 
 put niggers in there except when there’s no white people 
 to object; but these men might let ’em come in, seeing it’s 
 the only w r ay to shelter ’em from the storm.” 
 
 Another blaze of lightning and another peal of thunder 
 silenced {he speakers. When it had passed, Wharton said: 
 
 “I will go and speak to the captain.” 
 
 He w r ent and spoke to the captain, but the result was a 
 significant one. The captain was as obliging as a man 
 half distracted by hasty preparations to meet the storm 
 could be expected to be; but the two white men who occu- 
 p : ed the steerage flatly refused to allow the colored people 
 to share it with them, although there were several bunks 
 vacant. ^ 
 
 The cabin was occupied by a Spanish lady and gentle¬ 
 man and their child and nurse. These, hearing all about 
 the difficulty, begged that the girl belonging to the party 
 might be brought into the cabin. 
 
 All this time the storm w as rising in such violence that 
 the people could not always hear each other speak; and 
 the captain was getting ready for a very bad night. 
 
 ' Servia was brought into the cabin. No one took any no¬ 
 tice of her, however. The whole of the kindness of the 
 foreigner^ was expended in giving her shelter. Servia 
 had courtesied on coming into the ladies’ cabin, and then 
 seated herself on the low r est step of the companion way, 
 where she sat with her hands folded on her lap and her 
 eyes fixed upon the floor. Her three companions found 
 shelter at last in the cook’s gallev. 
 
 A terrific storm of thunder, lightning, wind and rain fol¬ 
 lowed. No one w’ent to bed. No one left the cabin for 
 
 f 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 43 
 
 long. The Spaniard walked uneasily up and down, and 
 occasionally wenf out on deck to view the outside; but 
 these visits were unwelcomed by the men on duty, and as 
 the storm rose to higher fury, became impracticable, for 
 the dense darkness of the night prevented him from seeing 
 a foot before his face, while the fury of the winds and 
 waves, and the rolling of the boat, drove him back, 
 drenched by a douche from 'the spray. 
 
 Then the door of the companion way was closed and 
 fastened to prevent the waves, that incessantly dashed 
 over the decks, from rushing down and hooding jthe cabin. 
 
 The Spaniard paced the floor until the increased motion 
 of the boat made it impossible for him to keep his feet, so 
 he sat down beside his wife, who was diligently saying the 
 litany of “Our Lady of the Sea." The awe-stricken nurse 
 sat with the child in her arms, making, in a subdued voice, 
 responses to her mistress’ reading. 
 
 Servia watched the group with a sad interest, which 
 chiefly concerned the child, who was not frightened at all, 
 ‘bi t continued to chatter, and seemed rather to enjoy the 
 flashes of lightning and the rocking of the boat. Servia 
 could not understand, or even remember, the words of her 
 prattle, except two, which she could afterward recall from 
 the frequency of their occurrence—these were “Madre” 
 and “Maisa.” She understood, too, that the father—as he 
 lifted the little one in his arms, and by a sudden lurch of 
 the boat was nearly thrown off his feet with lrs treasure 
 before he could stagger to a seat near his wife—called 
 her “Zenobia,” with the sonorous intonation of his native 
 tongue. 
 
 Even amid her woe, Servia was strangely impressed by 
 the incongruity between the child and the full-toned, im¬ 
 perial name she bore. And from that circumstance re¬ 
 membered it. 
 
 The storm rose to its highest pitch and fury. The boat 
 was driven off her course, and refused to longer obey her 
 helm. All was confusion on deck; all $vas breathless si¬ 
 lence in the cabin. Every thought and feeling of those 
 shrinking in enforced inaction in the cabin was absorbed 
 in awe at the stupendous battle of the elements; the roar¬ 
 ing of the sea, the pealing of the thunder, the howling of 
 
On the “Errand Girl.” 
 
 r 
 
 44 
 
 the wind, the tossing of the boat, the chaos of deafening 
 noise and devastating strife in the pitchy darkness of that 
 awful nighJLwas maddening to the toilers above, paralyz¬ 
 ing to the watchers below. 
 
 , o 
 
 Suddenly the end came. The boat seemed to be thrown 
 skyward, and then dashed downward with a tremendous 
 and stunning crash upon a reef of rocks that parted her 
 amidships in an instant—in the twinkling of an eye—and 
 crew, passengers and freight were in the black and boiling 
 water. 
 
 There had not been a moment of warning in which to 
 get out a lifeboat or to slip on a life-preserver. A scene 
 of wildest and most horrible confusion ensued in that inky 
 hell of waters, amid the leaping waves, tossing objects and 
 struggling human life. A scene indescribable in its inten¬ 
 sity of disaster and despair. Shrieks, cries, groans, 
 prayers and curses mingled with the roaring of the sea 
 and the howling of the wind. Sometimes a voice, sharp¬ 
 ened by anguish, pierced high above the roar of wind and 
 wave, calling upon some beloved one’s name, '“Where 
 are "you ?” But all of these human sounds were soon 
 drowned and stilled forever. 
 
 Servia, who had sinfully longed for the boat to be 
 wrecked, that she might be rescued from “degradation,” 
 now, with the instinct of self-preservation, used her won¬ 
 derful power as a vigorous swimmer and kept herself up 
 as long as possible in the strife of the elements. 
 
 Suddenly, as she spread her fingers out weblike at arms’ 
 length under the water, her hand touched something float¬ 
 ing. She could not see an inch through the black dark¬ 
 ness, but she thought it was the child, and seized it in¬ 
 stantly in the firm grasp of one hand and held its head 
 above the water. 
 
 The next instant a blaze of lightning illumined the 
 pandemonium of destruction, and she saw the face of the 
 little Spanish girl. 
 
 A moment after that—or it may have been an hour— 
 for Servia could never be certain, she fainted and lost con¬ 
 sciousness, commending her soul to God with her last sen¬ 
 tient thought, as the dying do, for she thought her last mo¬ 
 ment had come. 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SERVIA AND HER CHARGE, 
 fell why, oh, Nature, 
 
 Thou macTst me what I am, with all the spin. 
 
 Aspiring thoughts and elegant desires t 
 That fill the happiest mind? Ah! rather, why 
 Pid’st thou not form me sordid as my fate. 
 
 Base-minded, dull and lit to carry burdens? 
 
 Why have I sense to know the curse that’s on me? 
 
 Is this just dealing, Nature?—O tway. 
 
 • 
 
 When Servia recovered consciousness, she found hti- 
 self lying on a mattress on the deck of a schooner. A 
 group of people were around her. doing all they could 
 to restore her. Among them was Wharton, who, as soon 
 as she opened her eyes, placed a glass of whisky to her 
 lips, and told her to drink it. Servia obeyed mechan¬ 
 ically. 
 
 “She's all right now—she'll do," said the man, as lie 
 took the glass from her hand and walked away. 
 
 She breathed more freely, but her mental faculties were 
 slow in returning. She heard a child crying, and, turning 
 her eyes in the direction of the sound, she saw the little 
 girl whom she had rescued, held in the arms of a plainly 
 clothed white woman, who stood in the group around Tier. 
 The child was wailing bitterly, and calling for “ Madrc'* 
 and '‘Maisa!" And it was all the woman could do to 
 pacify her. Otherwise, the little one seemed not to have 
 suffered from her sudden plunge into the dark and stormy 
 water. She was wrapped in dry clothes, and was nibbling 
 a ship biscuit, while the tears fell down her face, and she 
 only stopped nibbling to wail, and only stopped wailing to 
 nibble. 
 
 The sight of the child did more than anything else to 
 restore the faculties of Servia. The horror of the mid¬ 
 night shipwreck rushed to her memory, and she might 
 have swooned again but for the stimulant she had just 
 swallowed. She closed her eyes with a shudder. When 
 she opened them again she saw that daV was dawning, and 
 that the storm was over. Indeed, she knew it was quite 
 over when she first recovered her senses, only she had not 
 
46 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 noticed the fact at the time. She saw that the group who 
 had stood around her had dispersed, and only the woman 
 with the fretting child remained. 
 
 “Do you think that you could get up and come down 
 into the cabin ? Because if you are able, I could lend you 
 a suit of my clothes to wear t il your’n is dry,” said 
 this woman. 
 
 “Thank you,” feebly repl : ed Servia, attempting to rise. 
 She found that she was wrapped in a large blanket only, 
 instead of any other clothing, and that she was still too 
 weak to lift its weight; she sank back on the mattress. 
 
 “Ah, I see you can’t get up just yet. Lie still. As soon 
 as the coffee is made I will bring you a cup.” 
 
 “Were all—all—the people saved from the wreck?” in¬ 
 quired Servia. 
 
 “As far as I know, there wasn’t no one saved, ’cept 
 it was what we picked up,” answered the woman. 
 
 “And—and—who were they?” 
 
 “Why, you and vour child, and the nigger buyer and a 
 nigger they called Ben.” 
 
 Servia sighed and closed her eyes. The woman walked 
 away with the wailing child. 
 
 A little later in the morning, when the child had been 
 put to sleep in a berth, and Servia had had a cup of strong 
 coffee, a roll and an egg,\and had been removed to the 
 little cabin and clothed in a suit of the woman’s clothing, 
 she heard all of the particulars of the rescue from the 
 lips of the latter. 
 
 The steamer Errand Girl had been driven clear off her 
 course, and had been dashed to pieces on a rocky islet off 
 Point Lookout. The four passengers known to be saved 
 had been picked up by a.small boat sent out from the 
 - schooner Carrier Dove, Miles Tawney, master. The 
 woman who helped to nurse Servia and the little girl was 
 the skipper’s wife, Nancy Tawney by name. She was a 
 litfe, thin, sallow, dark-haired creature, clothed in a calico 
 gown and white neckerchief. 
 
 “They said as how you did seem quite gone when you 
 was picked up, but the way your arm was clinched and 
 stiffened round your little gal was a sight to behold! 
 Well, it was nat’ral. Is she your onliest one?” inquired 
 Mrs. Tawney. y 
 
47 
 
 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 “She is not my child at all. She is the daughter of a 
 foreign lady and gentleman whom I met on the boat,” 
 Servia explained. 
 
 “You don’t say so! Well, now! See what Pagina¬ 
 tion will do to a body! Well, now, that child is so dark, 
 and seems so much like you, that 1 made sure she muft be 
 your’n! And her poor father and mother drownded! 
 Well, that’s sad!’’ mused the skipper’s wife. 
 
 “I hope they were not drowned,” said Servia. 
 
 “Well, they was, then, poor creeturs, ’less they was 
 picked up by some other craft, which wasn’t likely.” 
 
 “Have you saved the little girl’s clothes that she was 
 found with ?” inquired Servia. 
 
 “Of course I have. They was hung up to dry along o’ 
 your’n on deck.’’ 
 
 “I am glad of that, for, if her father and mother and 
 nurse are all lost, we may lyed to keep those clothes to 
 identify her to any relations she may have in foreign 
 parts.” 
 
 “Sartinly. But what is to be done with the child till 
 then ?” 
 
 “Won’t you keep her?” inquired Servia. 
 
 “Couldn’t possibly. I’m on the schooner all the time, 
 and ain’t got no young uns of my own,” answered the 
 woman. 
 
 “Well, then, I’ll ask Mr. Wharton to let me take care of 
 her until we can put her in some orphan asylum, to stay 
 until her friends are advertised for and found, which, of 
 course, they will be,” said Servia. 
 
 en tel ttle j^irl awoke, Servia took her to her own 
 bosom and succeeded in quieting her better than the ship¬ 
 per’s wife had done. 
 
 Little Zenobia, as Servia remembered her imperial 
 name, was a very beautiful child, with a strange, foreign, 
 weird beauty peculiar to herself. Her complexion was 
 very dark, yet clear, with a crimson flush on checks and 
 bps. Her features were pure Grecian; the forehead low 
 and smooth, the nose fine and straight, the lips arched and 
 full, the chin round and pointed. Her large eves and curly 
 hair were as black.as night. 1 hose eyes were wondrously 
 lovely—deep, tender, luminous and shaded with long. 
 
48 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 thick, curved eyelashes, and arched by slender, nearly 
 straight, eyebrows. 
 
 When put into her own clothes again, her suit seemed as 
 foreign as herself. She wore a frock of camel’s-hair 
 cloth, embroidered around the edge of the skirt, around the 
 belt and sleeves and top of the bodice, with the mignon¬ 
 ette border so much in favor among the hidia workers 
 in camel’s-hair. Her little silk stockings and morocco 
 boots were black, and both curiously embroidered—the 
 first in floss, the second in silver and gold thread. She 
 also wore a necklace set in topaz and pearls, linked with 
 gold. And on this was hung a plain crucifix of curved 
 bone. Her underclothing was of fine flannel, embroid¬ 
 ered with silk* and fine linen trimmed with lace. They 
 thought, from her dark complexion, black hair and eyes, 
 that she must be Spanish, but from her strange appear¬ 
 ance in other respects, Moorish or Algerian. Xo one • 
 could tell as yet. 
 
 It was natural that poor Servia should conceive a strong 
 affection for the child she had saved from death. All the 
 mother's heart awoke in the maiden's breast, and she loved 
 this beautiful child as if she had first given it life, as well 
 as afterward saved it. That night the desolate girl took 
 
 O O 
 
 the desolate child to her bosom in the lower berth that was 
 assigned to her in the tiny cabin of the schooner. The 
 captain's wife had the berth on the opposite side. No one 
 else was in the cabin. 
 
 The voyage of the Carrier Dove up the Potomac, was 
 very slow. She had to battle against head winds and the 
 current day and night. 
 
 Servia took the child up on deck every day, and sat in 
 the stern in the shadow of the sail. Wharton paced the 
 deck, but seldom spoke to her. 
 
 Once she saw Ben, who burst out crying at the sight of 
 her, and said : 
 
 “Dey’s bode drownded, Miss Servy! Oh, wot’ll poor 
 Aunt Judy an’ Aunt Lilly do w en dey hears how their 
 boys went?” 
 
 “The Lord will comfort two such good women, Ben. 
 And I think, after a while, they will be less unhappy, 
 knowing that their sons are at rest, than if they only knew 
 
Servia and Her Charge. 49 
 
 that they were in bondage at a distance, where they might 
 never be heard of again,” said Servia. 
 
 “ ’Haps yo's righto Miss Servy,” Ben admitted, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 “Get along, you black villain! What are you loafing 
 around here for?” demanded Wharton, coming up to the 
 spot. 
 
 Ben hastened to obey. 
 
 The schooner was short-handed, and the weather was 
 rough, so Ben had to lend a hand and work his passage. 
 
 Poor Servia seemed to love the little waif more and 
 more as the time passed. The child tfill fretted at in¬ 
 tervals for its father, mother or nurse. Servia did all 
 that love could suggest to comfort her. She begged 
 needles, and thread and pieces of cloth from the skip¬ 
 per's wife, and made a rag baby with which the little 
 girl was delighted. She walked with her up and down 
 the deck, or the little cabin floor, and sang tier to sleep 
 every night. Soon the child's heart responded to kind¬ 
 ness, and she loved her new nurse almost as much as the 
 nurse loved her. Servia dreaded the time that should 
 separate her from her pet, who had come to be her 
 treasure. She longed to ask Wharton the privilege of 
 taking care of the littld^one until her friends should be 
 heard from. But she feared to encounter his ruffianly 
 manner, and put off her petition from day to day. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon of the sixth 'day when the 
 schooner reached the wharf in Washington, at the foot of 
 Sixth Street. 
 
 Wharton called his two colored people to come on. 
 They obeyed. Servia came with the child in her arms, 
 trembling with fear of an impending separation, vet 
 dreading to utter her petition. But Wharton showed not 
 the slightest sign of any wish or purpose to part the nurse 
 and child. On tbe contrary, he drove his property before 
 him across the gang plank, hailed a cart which was wait¬ 
 ing for a job, ordered the colored folks to get into it, and, 
 following them, told the driver to drive to the slave pen. 
 
 At that time thb slave pen—called by the street boys 
 “the Georgia pen”—was situated in that part of South 
 Washington known as the island, and not far from the 
 Smithsonian Institute. On the outside it presented noth- 
 
50 
 
 Servia and: Her Charge. 
 
 mg but a high, board fence. On the inside, this fence 
 was lined with rows of wooden sheds, in which the slaves 
 were lodged. It was a place of detection for such colored 
 people as were brought to the city to be sold at private 
 sale, for I never heard of a slave auction being held in 
 my native city. 
 
 The cart drove up Sixth Street, crossed Maryland 
 Avenue to Seventh Street, and soon drew up to the gate 
 of the pen. Here Wharton alighted and ordered his 
 property to follow him. Ben jumped down and held out 
 his arms to take the child. But poor Servia, afraid of 
 losing her little\girl if she should let her out of her 
 arms for even a moment, shook her head, and, holding 
 her treasure closely, descended from the cart and stood 
 beside her fe’low victim. By this time the gate was 
 opened, and Wharton, after paying the cartman, drove the 
 man and the woman, with the child, in before him. 
 
 The sun set just as they passed within the gate. Servia 
 thought the co’ncidence significant. But still she held 
 the child in her arms, and that was some comfort, for she 
 thought perhaps it was not to be taken from her yet a 
 while. The gates clanged to behind them^and the keeper 
 came forward to meet them. / 
 
 “How's trade?*’ asked Whafton, after the first curt 
 greeting had passed between the two men. 
 
 “D-dull!” exclaimed the keeper. “But I reckon 
 
 you’ll find a market for your young woman, easy 
 enough!” 
 
 “Why, what do you mean?” 
 
 “There was an old gentleman here this morning—one 
 Col. Pryor, of Virginia—who wants a likely young woman 
 for a seamstress and housekeeper, but there was none 
 here at that hour to suit him, and, of course, I wasn’t ex¬ 
 pecting you. He is stopping at the Metropolitan, and I 
 can send him a message, and I shouldn't wonder if he 
 looked in here to-morrow, anyhow.” 
 
 “I’ll look him upgto-night,” said Wharton, who was in 
 no humor to let a good customer or a good bargain slip 
 through his hands. 
 
 “He said that hmshould be here for a few days longer,” 
 added the keeper. 
 
 “I must see him to-night. Mustn’t let grass grow 
 
5* 
 
 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 under my feet. You heard of the awful misfortune that 
 happened to me?” asked the negro buyer, thinking only 
 of “me,” and not of the many lives lost, and families left 
 desolate, by the disaster to the Errand Girl. 
 
 “No! What?” demanded the keeper. 
 
 “Why, that rotten little tub, the Errand Girl , went 
 down in a storm on Tuesday night, and ] lost two of the 
 strappingest nigger boys you ever set eyes on! Fifteen 
 hundred .dollars clean gone out of my pocket down into 
 ♦ the sea! D-it! I must make it up, somehow.” 
 
 “I hadn't heard of the disaster. I reckon you’ve 
 brought the first news of it. I don’t think there have been 
 any arrivals from down the river for a couple of days. 
 Delayed by head winds, I reckon. How did you come?” 
 
 “By the Carrier Dove. Carrion Crow it ought to be! 
 Nasty little tub!” 
 
 “She picked you up?” inquired the keeper, struck by 
 the ingratitude of the rescued trader. 
 
 “Yes; but she didn’t pick up my two valuable nigger 
 bovs, d- her!” 
 
 m/ y 
 
 “And was everyone else saved but the two bovs?” 
 
 “No. Everyone was lost except the party you now see 
 before you.” 
 
 “All! Passengers, crew and all?” exclaimed the 
 keeper.' 
 
 “Every blasted bloke of them! and my two nigger 
 boys!” 
 
 “How did it happen?” 
 
 “I can’t stop to tell you now; I want to get my supper 
 and see—what’s his name?” 
 
 “Col. Pryor, at the Metropolitan.” 
 
 “Ah! yes. Well, I dare say you’ll see all about the 
 wreck in to-morrow’s papers. Some hint or suspicion 
 of it must have got around, for I saw half a dozen of 
 them reporters, with pencils and pads in their hands, com¬ 
 ing aboard the Dove as I stepped ashore. Look well after 
 my niggers. I’ll see you again before I turn in.” Saving 
 this, the trader turned and left the pen. 
 
 “What’s your name, boy?” inquired the keeper, of Ben. 
 
 “Benjamin F’anklin Godf’ey, marsc,” replied the young 
 man, taking, out of love and pride, his master’s name, as 
 many negroes do. 
 
5* 
 
 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 “Well, Benjamin Franklin Godfrey, do you see that shed 
 in the corner? There’s your bed. You shall have some 
 supper presently. And your name, my girl?" he next 
 inquired of Servia, as he saw Ben stroll off, with his hands 
 in his pockets, toward the shed. 
 
 “Servia, sir," she replied. 
 
 “Servia what ?” 
 
 “Servia only. I have no other name, sir.’' 
 
 “H'm !'’ grunted the keeper. “Your husband's name, 
 then?” 
 
 “I have no husband, sir." 
 
 “H’m !” exclaimed the keeper, more emphatically than 
 before. “Well,” he continued, “over there, beside the 
 house, are the women's quarters. You can go there and 
 take your choice of the vacant places. You shall have 
 something to eat presently.” 
 
 “If you please, sir, can I have some milk for the child?’’ 
 pleaded Servia. 
 
 JL 
 
 “I’ll see,” replied the man, glancing down at the little 
 girl, who now stood on the ground by Servia’s side, cling¬ 
 ing to her hand and hiding her face in her skirts.” 
 
 “Thank you, sir,” said Servia, as she led the child 
 away in the direction indicated by the keeper. 
 
 There was a row of sheds built against the outside wall 
 that separated an old stone house and its garden from the 
 slave pens. Two of the sheds were empty. The others—- 
 four in number—were occupied by women and children; 
 some neatly dressed, some ragged, some even squalid. 
 
 The two unoccupied sheds were in the corner. Servia 
 took the extreme corner, so as to have a vacancy between 
 her and her dear child on one side, and a party of un¬ 
 desirable people on the other. The sides of this shed 
 and roof were pine planks. There was no floor. The 
 only furniture was a pallet, a stool and a gray blanket that 
 might be let down from the roof for the sake of privacy, 
 or propriety. But no sooner had Servia seated herself 
 and lifted the child to her lap, than a little crowd of 
 negro women and children gathered before her shed and 
 began to interview her. 
 
 “Whar yo' come fr'm, chile?" “Who yo’ 'longs to, 
 honey?” “Oh, laws! aine dat dere little gal purty?” 
 “Say, honey, dat chile’s fader aine no po’ w'ite trash! 
 
53 
 
 Servia and Her Charge. 
 
 • r 
 
 No, 'deed! Dat chile’s fader’s real fus’ qual’ty. Who 
 is he, honey, anyways?” questioned one woman, the most 
 unsavory of the crowd. 
 
 “I don’t know,” replied Servia. 
 
 “Awful Lord!” exclaimed the woman, in wonder and 
 perplexity. 
 
 “She is not my child,” said the girl. 
 
 “Not you’ chile? Who den, honey? How come she 
 'long o’ you?” persisted the questioner. 
 
 “She is one I saved from the wreck, a poor orphan, 
 whose parents and nurse were drowned,” answered 
 Servia, solemnly. 
 
 A storm of interrogations followed. Servia answered 
 them as well as she could. Sometimes she broke down 
 and wept, for her nerves had been most severely tried. 
 The poor negroes sympathized with her in all sincerity, 
 and comforted her, or tried to do so, as well as they 
 could. ^ 
 
 Presently a diversion came in the shape of a supper. 
 A man with a hand cart came around and distributed to 
 the people mugs of tea and hunks of cornmeal bread and 
 broiled salt herring, and milk for Servia’s child. 
 
 Soon after the negro women and children dispersed 
 to their quarters, and Servia let down her blanket cui- 
 tain, undressed her baby and herself and went to bed. 
 
 Notwithstanding all they had gone through, the woman 
 and child slept well?" The September night was cool, and 
 the open air was refreshing. It was really no hardship to 
 sleep in the open air in such weather. In* bad weather and 
 in winter the people were taken into the house. They 
 were awakened in the morning by the negro children, 
 who, in their ignorant -carelessness of present, past or 
 future, were completely happy so long as the sun was 
 shining and they had enough to eat. 
 
 Very soon after they had all had breakfast, which was 
 served in the same manner as the supper had been, and 
 while Servia sat under the shed with the little girl in her 
 lap, the gate opened, and Wharton entered, accompanied 
 by a strange gentleman. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NAT PRYOR, OF THE NOTCHES. 
 
 0 
 
 A merrier man. 
 
 Within the limit of becoming mirth, 
 
 I never spent an hour s talk withal. 
 
 His eye begets occasion for his wit; 
 
 For every object that the one doth catch, 
 
 The other turns^to a mirth-moving j'eSt. 
 
 —Shakespeare. 
 
 Servia looked at the newcomers in doubt, fear and 
 trembling; for here, with Wharton, she thought, must be 
 Coi. Pryor, the purchaser of whom the keeper had told 
 the trader on the night before. 
 
 They stopped in the middle of the yard, and stood talk¬ 
 ing. Servia, like almost all women, was a good physiog¬ 
 nomist. She thought there was nothing very alarming 
 in the appearance of the stranger. 
 
 Nat Pryor, as his neighbors called him, was a well- 
 built man of medium height, of about fifty years of age. 
 He had good features, a fresh complexion, laughing blue 
 eyes, white teeth, which he frequently showed in a broad 
 smile, and white hair and beard. He wore a summer suit 
 of light blue jeans and a broad-brimmed yellow straw hat. 
 
 . There was much more merriment and good fellowship 
 than d'gnity in his manner, since he exchanged jests even 
 with Wharton. 
 
 ‘‘Yes/' he was saying, “I am here to find a likely young 
 woman as a seamstress and lady’s maid for a neighbor of 
 mine.” 
 
 “Not for yourself, then, colonel?” inquired Wharton, 
 his hopes of a fancy price for the girl falling to zero. 
 
 “Oh, dear, no!” replied the visitor. “What should I 
 want of a lady’s maid, who have no wife or daughters at 
 home? Oh, no! It is for Mrs. Horah, of old Horah 
 Hall, that I am trying to find a suitable ma : d.” 
 
 “Well, I think T have a young woman here who will 
 suit the lady, if she should be willing to pay the price. 
 Handsome young women like this bring a high price in the 
 market, you know.” 
 
55 
 
 Nat Pryor, of The Notches. 
 
 “I didn’t! I know very little of the trade! Never sold 
 a nigger in all my life. Never bought one before. Lut 
 th's is for her. Sparkling young widow that! Wearing 
 the weeds yet for as grand a scamp as ever walked. 
 
 “And you would like to be the gardener to get rid of 
 them weeds, eh, colonel?’ chuckled the trader. 
 
 “Ha ! ha ! ha! Ho ! ho ! ho! Maybe I should. At any 
 rate, she gives me full discretion to purchase a maid^ for 
 her ladyship. So let us look at the girl. 
 
 “There is another thing, This young woman has a 
 
 child.” 
 
 “Oh!” exclaimed the colonel, and stopped short. 
 
 “But the child is at least three years old, and the father 
 
 is dead.” 
 
 “Well, if the mother and child are both healthy, and 
 the girl bears a good character for truth and honesty, and 
 —and all that; and is neat and sk'llful in her work, and all 
 the rest of it, I don’t think the child will be.any objection 
 in a plantation house,” said the colonel, in a reflective tone. 
 
 “No, unless she objects to the price. I shall have to 
 ask two hundred dollars for that child,” said Wharton, 
 without a change of countenance or a twinge of con¬ 
 science. 
 
 Nat Pryor dug his cane into the ground, and with his 
 eyes fixed on the operation, remained in thoughtful silent 
 for a minute. Then lifting his head, he said: 
 
 \“Well, let us see the pair of them.” 
 
 Wharton nodded, and led the way to the shed occupied 
 by Servia, who had not caught the drift of the conversa¬ 
 tion. 
 
 “This is the woman, Servia, sir,” said Wharton, as they 
 reached the shed. 
 
 Servia put the child off her lap, rose and courtesied. 
 
 “Fine-looking girl,” said the colonel. Then, address¬ 
 ing her, he inquired : “Well, Servia, do you think you 
 would like to go down into Virginia, and live with a widow 
 lady as her waiting maid ?” 
 
 “I am willing to go where the Lord wills, sir,” replied 
 the girl. 
 
 “H’m! Then I suppose there is no one left behind that 
 you are grieving after, my girl?” 
 
 “No one, sir; my honored mistress died the day I was 
 
T~ v > ~- 
 
 [ 56 Nat Pryor, of The Notches. 
 
 brought from home/’ said Servia, as the tears filled her 
 
 eves. 
 
 “Oh, well, well/’ exclaimed the colonel, who hated tears. 
 “We have all got to die, you know. It is not a bit of use 
 to be fretting after what can’t be helped, you know. You 
 will be very happy and comfortable at Horah Hall. It 
 is a fine place, and Mrs. Horah is as kind a mistress as 
 ever lived.” 
 
 “Yes, sir; no doubt. I never knew a lady who was not. 
 But, sir—I beg your pardon—would the mistress let me 
 keep this child until-” 
 
 “Oh, of course. Mrs. Horah would be the last lady on 
 the face of the earth to separate you from the child,” re¬ 
 plied the colonel, interrupting her, and certainly misun¬ 
 derstanding her, as he gave a kindly glance at the child, 
 who was now standing by and shyly hiding .her face in 
 the folds of her nurse’s skirts. 
 
 “Thank you, sir,” said Servia, with a courtesy. 
 
 “What is her name ?” he next inquired. 
 
 Wharton pricked up his ears, for he had not vet heard 
 the name of the freeborn child that he was about to sell 
 as a slave to make up his losses in the drowned negro 
 * boys. 
 
 “Zenobia, sir,” replied Servia. 
 
 ** ( ‘A proud name, but I can match it, and even rank it 
 with some of my own. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Wharton !” he con¬ 
 tinued, turning to the trader, “I have a Jupiter, a Juno 
 and a Minerva on my place. They do like royal and 
 classic names, do they not? Ha! ha! ha!” 
 
 “I reckon it’s the masters and mistresses that put them 
 up to it,” said'the trader. 
 
 “Well,‘Wharton, we will go and settle up this business. 
 Good-by, my girl; I shall not be likely to see you again 
 before I leave the city, but if we come to a satisfactory 
 arrangement, my overseer will call for you early to-mor¬ 
 row morning. He is down here making some purchases 
 for the farm, and he will take you home to your new 
 mistress. Mind you be ready. He must start at sunrise.” 
 
 “I will be ready, sir,” said Servia. 
 
 The two men walked away together, and the girl re¬ 
 st vied her seat, and lifted the child once more to her 
 lap. She felt much relieved and comforted at the idea 
 
57 
 
 I Nat Pryor, of The Notches. 
 
 > ' 
 
 that she was to have a widow for a mistress. The lady,, 
 she thought, would be just and gentle, perhaps religious; 
 she would allow her to keep the little girl until she should 
 be claimed by her relatives. In which case Servia would 
 be willing, though grieved, to part with her pet, for there 
 was nothing selfish in Servias love for the child. She 
 only wished to care for her and defend her from harm, 
 and make her happy in her humble and simple way until 
 something better in the form of wealthy and powerful 
 relatives should turn up. But, all the same, she knew 
 it would be a great sorrow to part with the lovely little 
 girl, even to rich relations, though not so heartbreaking 
 as to see her sent to the untender mercies of an almshouse, 
 or an orphan asylum. 
 
 During that last day Servia spent in the slave pen ' fie 
 begged from the keeper writing materials and a stamp to 
 write to her old master, Mr. Godfrey, to tell him of tiie 
 wreck of the Errand Girl , and the fate of her fellow serv¬ 
 ants, that he might break it to their mothers on the farm. j 
 One page of her letter she devoted to a message from Ben 
 to his old mother; a message full of love, faith and cour¬ 
 age. This letter the keeper promised to post for her. 
 And he kept his word. 
 
 > At sunrise the next morning a large canvas-covered 
 farm wagon, drawn by two great, strong mules, stood be¬ 
 fore the entrance of the pen. On the driver's box sat Toni 
 Beeves, the overseer of Col. Prvor’s plantation. He was 
 a stout, burly, cheery-looking Englishman, with sandy 
 hair and whiskers, sunburned face and gray eyes, lie 
 might have been about forty years of age, and was quite 
 as well dressed as his employer, in a clean, brown tweed 
 
 suit and a new felt hat. Beside him on the box sat an old 
 negro man. 
 
 “Hello!” called Beeves; <; hello, there!” 
 
 A negro boy opened the gate. 
 
 |‘Ts the gal ready?” inquired Beeves. “I am starting.” 
 
 “Dey aine none o’ ’em had eny breakfas’, vet,” repfied 
 the boy. 
 
 “ ’ Un 7 ll P< then ! I can’t wait,” exclaimed Beeves. 
 
 Tn a few moments Servia appeared, clothed in a rusty) 1 
 black rJpaca that she had worn since she left Godfrey’s I 
 farm, and with a handkerchief tied over her head, for hef J 
 
58 Nat Pryor, of The Notches. 
 
 bonnet had been lost in the wreck. In her arms she car¬ 
 ried the child, who was clothed in its Oriental suit, but was 
 also without bonnet or hat. 
 
 '‘Climb up, my gal! ’Ere, give me the kid, till you 
 get your seat,” said Beeves. 
 
 Servia obeyed. 
 
 The wagon was furnished with one good back seat in¬ 
 side, but all the rest of the floor was covered with packages 
 of merchandise, probably the provisions, dry goods and 
 groceries for the plantation’s winter consumption. As 
 soon as Servia had seated herself, Beeves turned and 
 placed the child on her lap, saying pleasantly: 
 
 “As pretty a kid as never I see in hall my life.” 
 
 “Thank you, sir,” replied the young woman, as she 
 received the child. 
 
 “Come, Tim, start the beasts. We’ve got a good three 
 days’ journey afore us ’twixt this and Misty rock, and we 
 must try to reach Drainsville by ten o’clock, so as to give 
 the creeturs a couple o’ hours rest afore we go on,” said^ 
 the overseer. 
 
 The negro driver obeyed, and started the mules at a 
 good pace for the Long Bridge across the Potomac. 
 
 The child seemed pleased, as children almost always 
 are, with the motion of the wagon. She looked up into 
 her nurse’s face with her pathetic, questioning eyes, and, 
 smiling, said: 
 
 ‘ "M ad re ? Maisa ?” 
 
 “Oh, she has not forgotten them yet. And it is seven 
 days since they were lost!’’ sighed Servia to herself, and 
 then answered the child as well as she could: “Yes, dar¬ 
 ling, we are going to Madre and Maisa, I hope—when 
 wc go to heaven.” 
 
 Then the little one began to be very full of glee at the 
 ride over the bridge which they were crossing, and at the 
 prospect of being taken straight to Madre and Maisa. 
 
 After having crossed the Potomac, a four hours’ jour¬ 
 ney through the farms and forests of Fairfax County'" 
 brought them, at about ten o’clock, to the green and 
 pleasant little, old-fashioned hamlet of Drainsville, # situ¬ 
 ated in a verdant basin among the hills of Virginia. In 
 the old stagecoaching days there was a delightful inn 
 there which was also the first posthouse on the Alexandria 
 
N 
 
 A Mountain Hamlet. 
 
 59 
 
 and Leesburg turnpike. Here Beeves put up his mules 
 for food and rest, and at the old-fashioned hour of noon 
 the party dined. 
 
 Beeves gave Servia just as good a dinner as he had for 
 himself, although the “customs of the country'’ obliged 
 her to eat in the kitchen, in company with die wagon driver 
 and the servants of other travelers. Servia did not in 
 the least mind this. # She had been taught by her, whom 
 she had already begun to call her “sainted mistress// that 
 it could not be her company, whatever they might Tie, but 
 her own behav : or that could raise or lower her. 
 
 At one o'clock, when the mules had had nearly three 
 hours’ rest, they resumed their journey. 
 
 That night they slept at Snickerville, and the next morn¬ 
 ing at daybreak they took the road again. The second 
 - night they rested at Rising, a small hamlet on the slopes 
 of the Blue Ridge Mountains. 
 
 Late in the evening of the third day they reached the 
 mountain hamlet of Mistyrock, where they had to spend 
 the ni°*ht, for neither mules nor people could go any 
 further. / » 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MOUNTAIN IIAMLET. 
 
 i 
 
 Face to face with the true mountains, 
 
 Standing silently and still, 
 
 Drawing strength, ’gainst fancy’s dauntings, 
 
 From the air about the hill, 
 
 And from Nature’s open mercies, 
 
 And most debonair good will.— E. B. Browning. 
 
 Mistyrock was at that time, perhaps, the highest in¬ 
 habited spot on the whole Alleghany range. It might, 
 probably, neVer have had an existence, had not the neces¬ 
 sities of the mail route required a posthouse just at that 
 point, where the stagecoaches could stop to change their 
 horses, and refresh their passengers. 
 
 So, firtt a tavern, witli a blacksmith shop, was built by 
 the roadside, surrounded by large stables. Soon followed 
 a country store, in which all the necessaries of life were 
 
6o 
 
 A Mountain Hamlet. 
 
 'for sale, including groceries, dry goods, agricultural im¬ 
 plements and kitchen utensils; though but a small stock 
 was kept in each department. Next in order came a 
 druggist, who also claimed to be a doctor of medicine. 
 Following him arrived a lawyer, who soon became a jus¬ 
 tice of the peace of the county. Last of all, a church 
 and a parsonage was built, and a minister installed, whose 
 ■wife opened a small boarding school for girls, for the con¬ 
 venience of the neighborhood and the increase of the 
 family revenue. This was the ante-revolutionary history 
 of the place. 
 
 Since that time the hamlet had not changed in any way 
 except to deteriorate. Since the railroad had built a 
 branch line in the same direction on a lower grade, and 
 diverted the traffic from the old turnpike, it had been 
 abandoned to local uses; and the old stagecoach, with 
 its four horses, its crowd of travelers, and its resounding 
 horn, had become a mere tradition of the past. The de¬ 
 scendants of the hamlet, however, still held their ground 
 in the old place. They came originally from the sur¬ 
 rounding neighborhood, but they clung to the spot, though 
 now it hardly afforded them a living. The buildings en¬ 
 dured the ravages of time very well, for they were not 
 only founded on a rock, but built of hewn rocks from the 
 mountains near by. The old tavern, however, had changed 
 its name. In colonial days it was called the "King 
 George,' 1 but now it was "George Washington.” 
 
 The hour was so late, and the night so dark, when 
 Beeves and his party arrived at Mistyrock, that Servia 
 could see nothing before her but the flashing lights held 
 by the negro hostlers, dimly revealing what seemed to be 
 a deep road cut through a mountain ravine, built up on 
 each side with irregular, detached, stone houses; with 
 high, rocky, scantily wooded precipices behind them. 
 The largest building was that before which the wagon 
 halted. Every other house in the hamlet was dark except 
 this, and this was only faintlv lighted by a red lamp in the 
 barroom window, and the flaring pine knots carried by 
 the men who came out to attend to the travelers. 
 
 * "Say, Marse Tom!” exclaimed one of these. “Dere 
 r hab ben a man yere f’om Horah 'waitin’ fo 1 yer all de 
 'arternoon!” 
 
A Mountain Hamlet. 
 
 61 
 
 "‘Oh! there ’as! Where is he?’’ inquired Beeves. 
 
 “Fas’ 'sleep up’n stable loft,'’ replied the negro, grin¬ 
 ning. 
 
 “Well, we won’t disturb him to-night. Hand me the 
 child, my girl, and get down,” said Beeves, as he alighted 
 and held out his arms for the little girl. 
 
 Servia obeyed. 
 
 “It’s very late, but I ’ope you can give us some supper, 
 my man,” said Beeves. 
 
 “Oh, yes, marse! Yectly Uncle Si tell Marse Billy as 
 how yer was 'spected dis ebenin', Marse Billy he tell 
 Aunt Kitty to keep de fire up in de kitchen, case yer’d 
 want some supper." 
 
 “Very well! Look after these mules, and give the driver 
 and the hother nigger something to eat," directed the 
 overseer. 
 
 “Yes, marse; an' where mus' 1 -The old man did 
 
 not finish the sentence, but turned his eyes on Servia, who 
 stood holding the sleeping child in her arms. 
 
 “Oh, yes! To be sure! Well, I 'ardlv know. Take 
 her to the cook to get her supper, and ask the cook to 
 show her where she can sleep.” 
 
 “All right, marse. Come along o' me, honey; my name 
 is Uncle Bob. Gimme de vittle gal to carry fo’ yer; yer 
 mus’ be wo’ful tired,” said the old negro, kindly. 1 
 
 “Thank you, but I am not,” replied Servia, holding on 
 to her child, and following her guide where he led her 
 around the end of the house to the reat*. 
 
 The hostlers and stablemen gathered around the wagon, 
 and began to unharness the mules. 
 
 Beeves walked into the bar, where he found the bar¬ 
 keeper dozing in an armchair* but waking up quickly at 
 the sight of a customer. The Englishman wanted only a 
 mug of beer and a pipe while waiting for his supper. 
 
 Meanwhile, Unck Bob, as he called himself, conducted 
 his charges to the kitchen, where an aged negro woman, 
 in a dark gown, with a red kerchief tied over her head 
 and under her chin, sat smoking a pipe in the chimney 
 corner. A big black cat was coiled up on her lap. ()n 
 the hearth, before the fire, sat a singing teakettle. The 
 aged woman took the pipe from her lips, laid it on the 
 
62 A Mountain Hamlet 
 
 jams, shook the cat off her lap, and rose to meet the 
 
 newcomers. 
 
 “Yere dey is, Aim’ Kitty! Miss-- I dunno yer 
 
 name, honey." And old Bob thus addressed the girl, 
 after stopping in his introduction. 
 
 “Servia," replied the latter. 
 
 “All right! Dis is Miss Serv-ver, Aun' Kitty; an' Miss 
 Serv-yer, dis is Aun' Kitty Easby. Yer alyeady knows 
 Uncle Tim P'yor, so I doane hab no call for to induce 
 him." 
 
 “Set down, chillun," grunted the old woman, not un¬ 
 civilly, but wearily, as she pushed a chair with her foot 
 toward Servia, while she let Tim find one for himself. 
 
 “Now, wot dat w’ite man up dere wan' fo' his supper?" 
 inquired Aunt K’tty, in a discontented tone. 
 
 “Well, if yer 'ludes to Marse Tom Beeves, yer needn’t 
 cook nothin' fo'. him," broke in Tim. “Kech a Inglisher 
 eatin' anyfing hot on a warm night. No, 'deed! I hearn 
 him gib de order. Bread an’ beef an' beer, an’ a-plenty of 
 it. He'll make way wid it, you kin trus' to dat." 
 
 ' “Well, den, wot'11 you an' de youn' gal hab yo'se’f, Tim? 
 Bacon an’ egg is handy-like," suggested the cook. 
 
 “Now, jis anyfing yer please, Aunt Kitty! Us doane 
 wan' ter put yer to no chubble." 
 
 The old woman then made some tea, and placed bread 
 and butter and cold ham on the table, from which the old 
 man and young woman made a meal. The tirfed child 
 slept through the whole proceeding. 
 
 “Woane dat chile wan' somethin' to eat?" inquired the 
 cook. 
 
 “She may when she wakes. If you would l£t me have 
 a mug of milk, I should be obliged," replied Servia. This 
 was supplied. 
 
 Then the two menf went off to the stable loft, where 
 they were to sleep, after bidding the women good-night. 
 
 “Now, honey, if you's wore out, as I is, yo'll like to go 
 to bed, I yeckon,” sighed the old woman. 
 
 “Indeed, I will," assented Servia. 
 
 Aunt Kitty covered up the fire, took up the tallow can¬ 
 dle, and, calling the girl to follow her, led the way a 
 ladder, through a trapdoor, into a loft over the kitchen. 
 
A Mountain Hamlet. 63 
 
 It was a bare place, whose only furniture consisted of two 
 beds. 
 
 “Dere, honey, you take dat one by de win’ow,” said 
 Aunt Kitty. 
 
 Servia set the mug of milk on the window sill, and then 
 seated herself on a pine box—for there was neither chair 
 nor stool in the place—and with the child in her lap be¬ 
 gan to undress her. The little girl did not wake during 
 the whole process. Soon after both women and the child 
 were abed and fast asleep. 
 
 Servia and the little girl slept the deep and dreamless 
 sleep of extreme fatigue. She was awakened in the morn¬ 
 ing by the sun shining through a small, uncurtained win¬ 
 dow in the gable end of the loft, straight into her face. 
 She opened her eyes, and looked about as memory slowly 
 returned. The old woman was gone and her bed was 
 made up. On the pine box stood a stone pitcher, a tin 
 basin and a coarse towel. 
 
 Servia rose in haste, washed and dressed herself, but 
 let the child sleep on while she offered up her morning 
 prayers. By the time she had finished the little one was 
 also awake, and fretting for something to eat. Servia 
 gave her the cool milk, which happily had not soured, 
 then dressed her and took her down to the kitchen, where 
 they found Aunt Kitty and a l ; ttle old black man, whom 
 the former introduced as “Mr. Si’as, f’oin Horah, wot 
 was cum for to fe’ch Miss Serv-yer home.’' 
 
 The old man bowed, scraped and smiled, and held out 
 his hand, saying: 
 
 ‘Tse moughty p’oud to make your quaintance, Miss 
 Serv-yer.” 
 
 “Thank you,” said the girl, gently,-/giving her hand. 
 
 “Lor’! wot a purty yittle gal dat a’ yourn is, Miss 
 Serv-yer!” he said, looking with genuine admiration at 
 the beautiful little exotic. 
 
 “Yes,” said the maiden foster mother, not feeling in¬ 
 clined to enter into explanations, and, besides, beginning 
 to feel and enjoy a proud proprietorship in the lovely little 
 one whom nobody seemed to claim. 
 
 • “Oh ! doane talk 'bout yo’ white chillun ! Oh, I tell ver! 
 
 I nebber see sich a beauty in all de days ob my life! Ne!>- 
 her! An’ she's de immuge ob yerse’f, Miss Serv-yer!” 
 
A Mountain Hamlet. 
 
 64 
 
 Through all her sadness the girl smiled at this wild 
 fancy, or gross flattery; and, to change the subject, she 
 inquired : 
 
 “When shall we set out for Horah Hall?” 
 
 “Whenebher Marse Beebes is ready. De madam—dat’s' 
 my mist’ess ober yonder at Hoyah—guv me a letter fo’ 
 him an’ sent me over yere °wiv it yistTday arternoon in 
 case he cum, but she tole me for to stay till he did cum. 
 An' I cum in de yittle cart for to fe’ch yer an’ yer trunk.” 
 
 While they were talking the old cook was busy putting 
 their breakfast on the table, and now she called them to 
 sit down, saying: 
 
 “Yer better make haste; Marser Beebes is yeatin’ his’n 
 in de dinin’ room, an* Uncle Tim Pryor is harnessin’ up 
 de mules, so I yeckon yer’s gwine to start right away.” 
 
 Servia and Si sat down to the table—Servia with the 
 child on her lap. Here they were soon joined by the 
 wagoner, who came in and drew a chair to the board, and 
 seated himself, nodded and smiled “Good-morning” to 
 Servia, and then said: 
 
 “Marse Beebes is jis’ settlin’ de bill in de bar, an’ 
 eberyfing is ready fo’ to start, so I wishes ob yo’ to make 
 has’e if yer want to eat yo’ breakfas’.” And with this he 
 set them a good example by attacking his food and devour¬ 
 ing it as for a wager. But they were not hurried. Tom 
 Beeves was a good-natured animal. Indeed, Col. Pryor 
 would never have set an ill-conditioned man over his 
 people. So, with a good appetite and a good digestion, 
 he sympathized with all hungry creatures, both man and 
 beast, and gave his wagoner as well as his mules plenty 
 of time for their breakfast. Half an hour afterward, how¬ 
 ever, they were called out. 
 
 “ ’Low me! do ’low me, Miss Serv-yer!” pleaded sen¬ 
 timental Uncle Si, holding out his arms to relieve the girl 
 of the weight of the child. But the sprite, with a long 
 stare and a howl of disgust and abhorrence, turned and 
 buried her face in her nurse’s bosom, and clung with her 
 arms around her neck. 
 
 “Hey! aine she got a temper ob her own! Whip yo' 
 horses !” exclaimed old Si, laughing as they all walked 
 to where the wagon, drawn by the mules, and the little 
 one-horse cart stood waiting for them. Beeves had not 
 
A Mountain Hamlet. 65 
 
 yet come out. He was talking agriculture with some of 
 the neighboring farmers in the barroom, so that Servia 
 had an opportunity to look around her. 
 
 The hamlet, as she had supposed from her obscure night 
 view, consisted of one street only, and this looked what 
 it really was, a country road laid out in a deep ravine, be¬ 
 tween two high, thinly wooded ridges. It was built up on 
 each side with detached stone houses of different sizes, 
 \Vith little gardens around them. Servia cast her glance* 
 around. The view was grand, with its rolling hills and 
 vales, and its waving forests, and its golden fields, all 
 dotted here and there with farms and farm buildings. 
 Having come from a lovely, smiling, gently undulating 
 landscape of her native State, and having reached this 
 mountain top by several hours’ journey through the dark¬ 
 ness of the night, Servia felt this high and broad expanse 
 of vision as a revelation. The poetic temperament is not 
 peculiar to any race or station. This humble daughter of 
 sorrow possessed it to an intense degree. She almost for¬ 
 got her State—forgot herself—in looking abroad, and, as 
 it were, realizing that she stood upon a heavenly body 
 rolling with inconceivable swiftness through the im¬ 
 mensity of space, yet restricted to its own orbit around 
 the sun. 
 
 She was awakened from lieu reverie by the voice of 
 Beeves, saying: 
 
 “Come, my good girl, get in ! We must be off !” 
 
 He took the child from her without a word—the little 
 one had become used to the oveiseer, and never objected 
 to go to him—then he helped Servia to a seat, gave her 
 the little girl, and finally got into the cart, and seating 
 himself beside her, took the reins, saying to Si: “1 will 
 
 drive this trap. You get into the wagon along with Tim.” 
 
 “The imperence ob dese po’ white trash!” grumbled Si 
 to himself, as lie mounted a seat beside Tim, but he gave 
 his dissatisfaction no articulate utterance. 
 
 They set out, the little cart leading the way. The vil¬ 
 lage street merged into the road that wound between the 
 steep, wooded precipices, down the mountain side. They 
 soon left the village behind them. 
 
 About four hours of this slow, winding journey, 
 brought them to the first farmhouse they had seen since 
 
66 
 
 Servians New Service. 
 
 they left Mistyrock. This was a large, rude building of 
 stone, surrounded by a high stone wall, and shaded by 
 many trees. It was situated between two high, wooded 
 ridges, and was called “The Notches.” 
 
 “Here we are!”’ exclaimed Beeves, drawing up before- 
 the great double, oaken gate. *0 . 
 
 “Now, Si, you get out and come along ’ere with us. 
 Tim, you drive that wagon straight to the barn. Take 
 out the mules and make Haleck attend to them. But don’t 
 leave the wagon, or let hanyone come near it, until I get 
 back. Mind. I have got a list of the bundles and parcels, 
 so don’t let hany of them be missing.” 
 
 “Hi! who yer finks a fool, Marse Beeves? Ketch me 
 losiir any Marse Nat’s fings,” said Tim. 
 
 “Come along, girl! Now for 'Orah ’All. There our 
 long journey will be ended,” said Beeves, touching up the 
 horse, who started at a good speed, as if he knew he was 
 going home to his stable and supper. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 servia’s new service. 
 
 / 
 
 She must endure, yet loving all the while, 
 
 Apart, yet never separate from her kind; 
 
 Meet every frailly with the gentlest smile, 
 
 Though to no possible depth of evil blind. 
 
 This is the riddle she has life to solve, 
 
 But in the task,she shall not work alone; 
 
 For while the worlds around the sun revolve, 
 
 God’s heart and mind are ever with his own. 
 
 —Monckton Milnes. 
 
 Winding down the mountain side, through a thicket of 
 stunted pines and cedars that grew closer as they ap¬ 
 proached the bottom, they came in sight of old Horah 
 Hall, standing in the center of its circular vale, sur¬ 
 rounded by its grove of oak and elm trees. Here they 
 entered the farm road winding between old fields and 
 orchard, vineyard and garden, until they reached the gate 
 opening into the avenue leading through the grove to the 
 house. 
 
Servia’s New Service. 
 
 • Even) on this glowing September afternoon, the effect 
 of the scene, so deeply shaded, so silent and so solitary, 
 was very depressing. Uncle Si drew the cart up to the 
 heavy, old oak portico, jumped off his seat, ran up the 
 moss-grown steps, and, on the rusty lion’s head which 
 did duty as a knocker, sounded an alarm that speedily 
 brought Brush to the door. 
 
 “De madam ’spected you las’ night/’ was the first greet¬ 
 ing of the new apparition. 
 
 “We didn’t get to Mistyrock huntil near midnight/’ 
 Beeves explained, as he got off the seat and took the child 
 from Servia’s arms, to enable her to alight. 
 
 “Where’s your mistress?’’ he next inquired, as he gave 
 the little girl hack to her nurse. 
 
 “De madam’s in de panel parlor w’ere she allers is in de 
 daytime,” said Brush, as he conducted the party into the 
 hall. 
 
 “Well, go to her with my respects, and say that I ’ave 
 brought the girl and child,’’ remarked Beeves, dropping 
 down on one of the oak chairs and wiping his perspiring 
 forehead. 
 
 Brush went off on his errand, and, after an absence of a 
 few minutes, came back and said: 
 
 “De madam say as how yer’ll come in an^*port to her.” 
 
 “Then you sit here, my girl, huntil you are sent for,” 
 said Beeves to Servia, as" he turned and followed Brush 
 to the presence of the lady. 
 
 Servia seated herself on the oaken settee, with the child 
 on her lap. Brush stood before her with an admiring 
 expression on his black, good-natured face. 
 
 “Have a apple, miss?” lie ventured to ask, at length, 
 drawing a bright red one from his pocket, and holding it 
 out to her. 
 
 “No, I thank you,” replied Servia, throwing as much 
 courtesy in her declination as possTle. But the child 
 threw out her little brown hand eagerly, exclaiming: 
 
 “Dadme! Dadmc!” 
 
 “Wot do she mean by dawd ma?” inquired Brush. 
 
 “Dadme! Dadmc! Mansana!” cried the child, before 
 anyone could speak again. 
 
 “Wot do she mean?” hopelessly demanded the negro. 
 
68 Servians New Service. 
 
 “I don't know ! But you see she wants the apple,” re¬ 
 plied Servia. 
 
 “Will I gib it to her, den ?” 
 
 “Yes, if you please. Thank you.” 
 
 “Here, den, honey! Yer Uncle B’ush got apple for yer. 
 Take it, honey,” said Brush, holding out the fruit. But 
 now the child turned away her head., and hid her face in 
 the bosom of her nurse. 
 
 “ITik ! hik ! hik!" laughed the negro, good-humoredlv. 
 “She won't hab nuffin' 'tall to do 'long o’ me! Here, yo’ 
 take it, Miss—Miss——” 
 
 “Servia is my name. Thank you,” said the girl, as she 
 received the fruit, and put it into the little fist of the child, 
 who now turned and smiled sweetly on Brush, as if to 
 atone for her former rudeness, bobbed her head several 
 times and said : 
 
 “ Gracias, gr arias, grarias!” 
 
 “An' now what do she mean?” inquired Brush, grin¬ 
 ning. 
 
 “1 don't know, but I think she is trying to thank you.” 
 
 “Well, ob all the outlandish chillun ebber I see, dis do 
 beat all!” exclaimed Brush. 
 
 Before another word could be uttered Beeves returned, 
 and said: 
 
 “Now, my man, show that girl in to her mistress. I 
 must be off! Good-by, my girl! I think you will 'ave a 
 appy 'ome 'ere. Good-by, baby!” 
 
 Servia rose and courtesied, and stood until the overseer 
 had left the hall. Then she turned to follow Brush, who 
 was waiting to show her in to her new mistress. He led 
 her to the rear of the hall, where a door on the right-hand 
 s' le stood partly open. 
 
 “Mist’ess, ma'am, here's de new maid,” he said, putting 
 his head in at the open door. 
 
 “Let her come in, then,” said a low, sweet voice from 
 the room. 
 
 “Yo' go in there. Miss Serv-yer," Brush whispered, and 
 turned and left the spot. 
 
 Servia put the child down out of her arms, and, leading 
 her bv the hand, entered the room. The place was so 
 dimly lighted that at first she could not see where to direct 
 her steps. 
 
Servia’s New Service. 69 
 
 “Come here/' said the voice that had spoken before, and 
 at the same time a hand drew up a window shade* and 
 Servia saw that her mistress stood in a large, dark, oak- 
 paneled parlor, very plainly furnished, with black mahog¬ 
 any tables, and deep red window curtains. There was no 
 carpet on the polished floor, but old, dingy Turkish rugs, 
 that lay before the two sofas and on the hearth. All this 
 Servia saw at a glance. She also saw, seated at a small, 
 round table near the window, the prettiest, saddest little 
 woman, clothed in deep mourning, and wearing a widow’s 
 cap, that she had ever seen in her life. Leading tine little 
 girl, Servia crossed the room, courtesied and stood re¬ 
 spectfully before her new mistress. 
 
 The lady dropped the stocking that she had been knit¬ 
 ting, took up a folded paper that was lying beside her on 
 the table, opened it, glanced down the page, and then 
 looked up at the waiting girl, and said, doubtfully: 
 
 “Your name is—Sarah-” 
 
 “Servia, madam,” she replied. 
 
 The lady looked more attentively at the paper before 
 her, and said: 
 
 “ Ah! so it is. A strange name. How old are you, 
 Servia ? Your age is set down here as seventeen. Is that 
 right ?” 
 
 “Yes, madam.” 
 
 “You are very young to be the mother of that child, 
 who must be, at least, three years old,” said the lady, look¬ 
 ing curiously at the beautiful little foreign birdling. 
 
 “Madam!” gasped the girl, under her breath, so sur¬ 
 prised and shocked was she at the lady’s words. 
 
 The lady, gazing at the wild-looking little creature, 
 did not hear the low exclamation, but inquired: 
 
 “Where is your husband? I hope he is not so far off as 
 not to be able to come to see you sometimes. Indeed, I 
 might be able to effect his purchase, so as not to keep you 
 apart,” she added, speaking in a very kind tone. 
 
 “I have no husband, madam,” replied Servia, in a sor¬ 
 rowful tone, for she was deeply, though vaguely, troubled 
 by the lady’s words. What dichthey mean ? Wharton cer¬ 
 tainly knew that the little one was not her child, but the 
 (L.ughter of those two foreigners who had been lost in the 
 wreck of the Errand Girl. But had he committed the 
 
70 Servia’s Victory. 
 
 * 
 
 iniqir’ty of representing that freeborn child as the daugh¬ 
 ter of a slave, and so sold her into slavery ? 
 
 While she was so sadly reflecting, Mrs. Horali was re¬ 
 garding her with compassionate eyes. 
 
 “Poor girl!” she said. “You^have lost him, then! 
 Ah, I pity you! I know how to pity you. Life is full of 
 trials, Servia.” 
 
 “But I beg your pardon, madam; I have never been 
 married,” the girl explained, in the same troubled tone. 
 
 “Never been married!” exclaimed the lady, flush ng, 
 frowning and ga^jpg down upon the little girl, who had 
 stood looking up to this fair lady with innocent, fearless, 
 wondering eyes; but who now, seeing her changed expres¬ 
 sion, turned and hid her face in her nurse’s gown. 
 
 “Zenobia is not my child, madam,” said Servia, in a sad, 
 solemn, reproachful tone. 
 
 “Who—what-—— Explain yourself, girl!” said the 
 somewhat angry and bewildered lady. 
 
 “This dear little girl, whom I love more than I love 
 myself,” said Servia, feeling that she must speak affection¬ 
 ately of the child she was compelled to disown, “this dar¬ 
 ling is not nrne, madam ! I never saw her face until about 
 ten days ago. Oh, please believe me, madam.” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SERVIANS VICTORY. 
 
 “Stop!” commanded Mrs. Horah, taking up that docu¬ 
 ment again and referring to it. ”1 certainly thought I pur¬ 
 chased you both, through Col. Pryor, as mother and 
 child.” - 
 
 “If you did, madam, it was a great crime!” said Servia, 
 very much agitated. 
 
 The lady glanced up quickly, angrily, inquiringly 
 
 “Not on your part, madam, of course. No; nor on the 
 part of that kind-hearted gentleman who acted for you,” 
 Servia hastened to say. 
 
 “Ah ! I thought so. Here it is. Here, in this bill of sale, 
 you are described as the mulatto girl Servia, aged seven- 
 
7 * 
 
 Servia’s Victory. 
 
 teen years, and her female child, aged three years. Now, 
 if she is not yours, whose is she, and how came she in 
 your charge ?” 
 
 “I do not know, madam, whose she is. I do not know 
 the name of her parents, though I was with them on the 
 boat. But Lsaved the child from drowning about ten days 
 ago.’ 1 
 
 o m 
 
 i he lady looked at the girl keenly, doubtfully, disap¬ 
 provingly. 
 
 ‘ If she is not yours, how does it happen that she was 
 sold with you?" she inquired, with an incredulous air. 
 
 Poor Servia, wrought up to almost hysterical passion 
 at the cruel injustice done to the child whom she had 
 saved, and whom she loved as if it had, indeed, been her 
 own, suddenly dropped on her knees before her mistress, 
 and sobbed forth: 
 
 “Oh, madam, it was the doings of that wicked trader, 
 who sold her with me to Col. Pryor, for you ! He knew, 
 that trader did, that she was the daughter of the foreign 
 lady and gentleman who were on the boat with us!” 
 
 “This is a very incredible tale you are telling me,” said 
 the lady, co’dly, for she was haunted with the suspicion 
 that the girl was trying to trick or cheat her out of her 
 rights, and secure the freedom of her child. 
 
 Then Servia suddenly threw her arms above her head, 
 brought her hands together with a convulsive clasp, and 
 cried : 
 
 “Oh, madam, the little Zcnobia is a free white child. If 
 it is not the truth, if I am telling a lie, may the Lord of 
 Truth strike the lying tongue dumb forever ” 
 
 Mrs. Horah was impressed at last by the passion, ear¬ 
 nestness and solemnity of the girl’s appeal. 
 
 “This is amazing, incomprehensible, perplexing! And 
 seefhow you have frightened the clr'ld! Now draw that 
 hassock here and sit down and tell me all about this mat¬ 
 ter in an intelligible manner, if you can,” said the lady. 
 
 “Heaven knows, madam, that there is nothing I wish 
 more to do,” replied Servia, earnestly. She drew the has¬ 
 sock to her mistress’ feet, seated herself upon it, lifted the 
 little girl upon her lap, kissed and soothed her, and then 
 said : “I am at your orders, madam.” 
 
 “Begin then,” said the lady; “and mind,” she added, se- 
 
72 Servians Victory. 
 
 verely, for she was still suspicious, “I am not easily de¬ 
 ceived. 
 
 “Not often by others, madam, but sometimes, possibly, 
 by yourself.'’ 
 
 “Girl, who brought you up? 1 ’ exclaimed the lady, di¬ 
 vided between the surprise she had felt during the whole 
 interview at Servia’s superior manner, and the displeasure 
 she now felt at her presuming words. 
 
 “My dear, sainted mistress, madam.” 
 
 “Sainted? She is dead, then?” 
 
 “She is in heaven, madam.” 
 
 “She must have made a great favorite of you, even a 
 constant companion.” 
 
 “She was mother, father, teacher, friend—everything to 
 me, for I was an orphan from my birth.” 
 
 “Her death accounts for vour being here, and I have a 
 treasure in you, .1 am sure. Only you are a little too free 
 of speech on occasion, and that must be reformed. Now, 
 go on with your story.” 
 
 Thus urged, Servia gave a truthful narrative of all 
 that had happened to herself since she came into the pos¬ 
 session of the trader, and to the child since she saved her 
 from the wreck. 
 
 Mrs. Horah did not quite believe the story, but resolved 
 to investigate its claim to truth. 
 
 She sat in silence for some moments, with her elbow 
 leaning on the table and her head bowed upon her hand; 
 then she asked: 
 
 “Why did you let this monstrous wrong be done to 
 the child? Why did you not appeal to Col. Pryor, who 
 never would have been a party to the least injustice to 
 any human being, least of all to a helpless child?” 
 
 “I never had the slightest suspicion of what the trader 
 was going to do, madam. I never knew till this hour 
 what he had done.” 
 
 “When the child was brought away with you had you 
 
 no suspicions ?” 
 
 “No, madam.” 
 
 “That is .strange. How was it?” inquired the lady, her 
 doubts returning. 
 
 “You see, dear madam, I was afraid of her being sent 
 to the almshouse, where she might not be treated well, so 
 
73 
 
 Servia’s Victory. 
 
 when Col. Pryor was about to buy me for you be looked 
 so kind that I was encouraged to ask him to please let me 
 keep the child. And he said so kindly, of course I should, 
 that I blessed him in my heart. I did not suspect that he 
 had been told the child was my own. And I never saw 
 him again.” 
 
 “If the circumstances are such as you represent them, 
 Servia, 1 see how that wicked fraud could have been per¬ 
 petrated by an unscrupulous trader, for the child's com¬ 
 plexion is almost as dark as your own." 
 
 “She is a foreigner, you know, madam." 
 
 “No; I don’t know. This is a very extraordinary tale 
 you have told me, and requires proof." 
 
 “Are there not means by which a lady of your position 
 and advantages might easily prove or disprove this story?" 
 modestly inquired Servia. 
 
 “Let me think," said Mrs. Horah. She was silent for a 
 moment, and then inquired: “Have you any clothing she 
 wore when she was rescued, as you say?” 
 
 “Yes, madam ; she wears them now. You observe they 
 are of foreign material and make." 
 
 “Yes, they certainly are," said the lady; “but they 
 might have been given to the girl by some one," she added, 
 mentally, as she touched a bell. 
 
 A housemaid answered the summons. 
 
 “Delphine,” said Mrs. Horah, “this is my new seam¬ 
 stress, Servia. Take her to the kitchen to get her dinner, 
 and then show her where she is to sleep, in the little room 
 at the back of the upper hall.” 
 
 The two girls nodded to each other. 
 
 “You would like to have the afternoon to unpack your 
 trunk, and get rested, I suppose,” the lady added, turning 
 to the new servant. 
 
 “T have no trunk to unpack, madam. All our clothes 
 were lost on the wrecked steamer. I and the child have 
 no more than these we stand in,” replied Servia. 
 
 “Oh, then, in that case I must go to Mistyrock to-mor- 
 row and get dry goods to fit you out. You will have 
 plenty of sewing to do for yourself and the child, too, be¬ 
 fore you can begin anything for me,” remarked the lady. 
 
 “You are very good, madam,” said Servia, as she took 
 
74 Servians Victory. 
 
 the hand of the little girl and turned to follow the maid 
 from the room. 
 
 “You may leave the child with me. Come here, little 
 one/’^aid Isabel Horah, in her softest tones, and with her 
 sweetest smile, holding. Tmt her hand to the little stranger. 
 
 •The child hesitated an instant, but, as Servia let go her 
 hand, and she met the kind gaze of the fair lady’s eyes, 
 she suddenly, with a little laugh, ran into her arms. 
 
 “I will make her acquaintance while you are getting 
 your dinner; afterward, ypu can come for her,” said the 
 lady, as she lifted the little one to her lap. 
 
 Servia courtesied and followed her conductor. 
 
 The child Watched her nurse until the door closed be¬ 
 hind her, and then she turned and gazed up into the fair, 
 sweet face of her new friend, with fearless, affectionate, 
 admiring eyes. The lady looked down upon the little girl, 
 studying her wistfully. She seemed a very sunbeam of 
 light and beauty in the dusky room. If she were but three 
 years old, as they thought, she was large for her age; 
 plump and perfectly formed, with beautiful neck and 
 arms, and an angelic face and head. Her complexion was 
 certainly very dark, but her features were of a pure, 
 though miniature, Grecian type, with a fine, straight nose; 
 short upper lip, little Cupid’s bow of a mouth, and round, 
 pointed chin; large, luminous, black eyes that seemed to 
 stream with light from within, under their thick fringe of 
 eyelashes, and slender, slightly arched, black eyebrows; 
 and with a low, broad forehead, shaded by a row of fine, 
 soft, g-ossv, black curls. 
 
 “She is certainly the most beautiful child I ever saw in 
 my life,” mused the lady. “Though she might easily be 
 taken for a quadroon—for her complexion, including eyes, 
 hair and skin, is certainly as dark as any quadroon I ever 
 saw. But the facial angle is really classic. Well, it is a 
 mystery that I must try to solve!” she mentally concluded. 
 
 Little Zenobia, either tired of the silent scrutiny, or dis¬ 
 turbed at the gravity that had replaced the smile on the 
 lady’s face, looked up pleadingly, and inquired: 
 
 “Madre? Madre?” 
 
 “Why, she is Spanish!” exclaimed Mrs. Horah, in her 
 astonishment at hearing Servia’s story so far confirmed. 
 
Servians Victory. 75 
 
 Then, to try the little one further, she spoke to her in that 
 tongue, and asked her what she had in her hand. 
 
 “Una manzana,” replied Zenobia, holding out her apple. 
 
 “Who gave it to you?” 
 
 “El hombre /' said the child, pointing toward the hall, 
 Then again she looked up into the lady’s face and pleaded, 
 pitifully, “Madre? Madre?' 3 
 
 “Yes, darling. Yes, precious! You shall go to her by 
 and by,” said Isabel Horah, tears of pity for the desolate 
 babe so cruelly dealt with filling her eyes, and soothing her 
 conscience by the reflection that she had told no wicked 
 falsehood, for, if all she had been taught was true, the 
 babe would certainly go, sometime, to her mother n 
 heaven. Then, raising the little one in her arms, she went 
 to a set of hanging bookshelves and took from them a 
 book of colored pictures illustrating a volume of natural 
 history of birds. *With this she sat down at the table ancl 
 began to turn over the leaves, for the diversion of the little 
 girl, who' soon began to laugh and prattle over the gor¬ 
 geous pictures. 
 
 Coni ng upon a highly colored plate of a parrot, she 
 cried out with dcjight: 
 
 “El loro! Mi loro /” 
 
 “Oh, then you had a poll parrot?” said Mrs. Horah. 
 She began to question the infant as they turned the leaves 
 of the book. But as Isabel’s knowledge of S Danish was 
 limited, and the child’s vocabulary consisted of a very few 
 words, they did not make much progress in their inter¬ 
 course. By the time they had finished the book, Servia 
 reappeared. 
 
 “I fully beh’eve your story now, my poor girl. I am 
 sorry I ever doubted it. You deserve the greatest credit 
 for the rescue of this child,” said the lady, holding out her 
 hand to the young woman. 
 
 “Oh, madam, you—you believe she.is white, and ought 
 to be free! Then 1 thank God ! said Servia, kissing the 
 extended hand of her mistress, never once thinking of her¬ 
 self in the matter. 
 
 “Yes, she is Spanish, and evidently comes of a good 
 fam ly. So much I have ascertained from her prattle.” 
 
 “And I never could understand one word she said, 
 
 ex- 
 
76 Murdok, the Heir. 
 
 cept the name of her nurse, and that only because I heard 
 the woman called bv it on the boat,” said Servia. 
 
 “I will spare neither trouble nor expense in finding, or 
 trying to find, her friends or relatives. I know Col. Pryor 
 will help me with his counsel. And if no one comes for¬ 
 ward to claim her, I may, possibly, adopt the little one, 
 and bring her up as my own daughter, as I have none. 
 Meanwhile, Servia, be to her what you have been since 
 you saved her life. Take her now, and give her some 
 warm milk and put her to bed. To-morrow I will make 
 comfortable arrangements for her, and for you also.” 
 
 Servia made her usual obeisance, and took the hand of 
 Zenobia to lead her away, but the tiny lady turned to her 
 new friend and kissed her little hand, and bowed her curly 
 black head with infantile grace, as she said : ‘ 
 
 “Adi os, mi senoro." 
 
 + “Biienas tardes, mi ninci," returned Mrs. Horah, with a 
 smile. 
 
 At this moment a rushing noise was heard, the door was 
 flung violently open, and a boy burst into the middle of 
 the room like a bombshell, with his eyes and cheeks aflame, 
 as he exploded, in these words : 
 
 “Mother, I won’t stand Meeke any longer! He’s got 
 to leave!” 
 
 Little Zenobia, in terror, buried her face in the gown 
 of her nurse, who hurried her from the room. 
 
 v » 4 
 
 _ < . 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 ► K \ • 
 
 M U R r> O K , T n E HEIR. 
 
 Now, by the Holy Rood, thou knowest it well! 
 
 Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth a hell. 
 
 A grievous burden was thy birth to me; 
 
 Touchy and wayward was thy infancy; ^ 
 fhy schooldays frightful, desperate, wild and furious. 
 
 —Shakespeare. 
 
 Mrs. Horah looked uneasy. 
 
 ‘What has Mr. Meeke been doing' now?” she inquired. 
 
 “He locked me in the schoolroom!” the boy answered; 
 stamping and fuming with rage. 
 
77 
 
 Murdok, the Heir. 
 
 “"What! Murdok Horah’s son made a prisoner!” ex¬ 
 claimed the partial mother. 
 
 At this moment the door softly opened, and a thin, pale, 
 dark-haired, clerical-looking young man quietly entered 
 the room. 
 
 “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Meeke?” demanded 
 the lady, imperiously, without waiting for the tutor to 
 speak. 
 
 “Yes. Tell my mother how you locked me up in the 
 schoolroom, you sneak!” fiercely exclaimed the boy. 
 
 “Murdok, my dearest, gentlemen should not use had 
 language,” said the lady, in a gentle, almost deprecating 
 tone. Then, turning to the tutor, she spoke, sharply: 
 “Now, explain this, if you please, sir." 
 
 “Madam,” said the young man, with quiet dignity, 
 “first let me say that I have come to tender my resigna¬ 
 tion of the position 1 have held in your family for a few 
 weeks, without the slightest benefit to your son. 1 find 
 that I fail to be useful here.” 
 
 The lady looked troubled, as well she might, for this 
 was the fourth tutor who had been engaged for the re¬ 
 bellious boy, and who had thrown up his position, all 
 within the last year. But she would defend the lad, right 
 
 or wrong. 
 
 “Then I fully agree with you, Mr. Meeke, that if you 
 cannot perform the duties of your position as my son's 
 tutor, you had better resign. But, will you kindly inform 
 me why you subjected him to the mortification of impris¬ 
 onment in the schoolroom ?” 
 
 ‘ Yes! fell her!” defiantly exclaimed Murdok. 
 
 Certainly, Mrs. Horah,” said the young man, answer¬ 
 ing the lady, but ignoring the interruption of the bov. 
 
 “Master Horah spends a great deal too much time with 
 the negro boys in the woods or on the hills, engaged, I am 
 led to believe, in robbing birds’ nests, and 
 
 i - - — ‘ 
 
 lake care, sir!" interjected the proud mother. “Mur- 
 dok Horah’s son could not ‘rob’ anything." 
 
 “Well, madam, no doubt the birds of The air. as well as 
 the land and timber, arc his own ; still, he spends a <>reat 
 deal of time in-’’ 
 
 “Outdoor sports, as a spirited bey naturally would," in- 
 
 terrupted the lady. 
 
78 Murdok, the Heir. 
 
 „ * 
 
 "I was about to say in the company of the negro hoys,” 
 
 '‘They are his servants, to attend him in his rambles.'” 
 
 The tutor bowed in silencb. 
 
 "But you have not given me the explanation I re¬ 
 quired, Mr. Meeke.” 
 
 "I beg your pardon, madam. I was about to do so. 
 This afternoon, when I insisted that he should finish a 
 Latin exercise—a work of only an hour or two, but at 
 which he has been trifling for several days-” 
 
 "You should have had patience with him,” exclaimed 
 the fond and foolish mother. 
 
 The teacher, taking no notice of the interruption, con¬ 
 tinued : 
 
 "I told him he must finish the task before he left the 
 schoolroom, and for that reason I kept him in after hours. 
 He refused to study, however, and at length started up 
 and declared that he would go out, lesson or no lesson. I 
 rose, intercepted him, locked the door, and put the key in 
 my pocket. Then the boy dashed at the window, threw it 
 up with so much violence as to break the glass, jumped 
 from it to the shed, and from the shed to.the ground, at 
 the imminent risk of his life and limb.” 
 
 The mother shuddered, but soon controlled herself, and 
 said: 
 
 "I see, Mr. Meeke, that you are not the right sort of a 
 man to have charge of such a spirited youth as my son. 
 You lack moral influence. Let me have your bill*at once, 
 and order the gig as soon as you please to take you to the 
 railway station.” 
 
 The young teacher bowed and withdrew. The same 
 night he left Horah Hall forever. 
 
 "And now for the fifth trial,” said the imprudent woman 
 to herself. "Certainly, capable tutors are extremely hard 
 to find.” 
 
 Meanwhile, young Murdok went to find his former 
 nurse, who had years before returned to her cabin, and to 
 her duties in the poultry yard, but who still retained a 
 strong hold on such affections as the selfish lad had to be¬ 
 stow. It was late, and he found her seated at her cabin 
 door, enjoying the cool September evening. 
 
 "Well, Tve bounced Meeke, Aunt Cely!” he said, throw¬ 
 ing himself down on the grass before the cabin door. 
 
Murdok, the Heir, 
 
 79 
 
 “That’s right, Master Murdok! Don't you let any of 
 them low-life white trash, that have to go out and work 
 for a living, crow over you! You are a gentleman born, 
 you are. You are master of Horah Hall, you are. And 
 don’t you ever forget it for one minute/’ said Celia, with 
 a singular gleam in her piercing, black eyes. 
 
 “You bet your life I won’t! And now I am going up 
 to the mountain, with Len, and Gad, and Nick, to set traps 
 for rabbits/’ exclaimed the boy, running oft* toward the 
 field negroes’ quarters. 
 
 Young Horah showed a strong predilection for the so¬ 
 ciety of the negro boys, whose submission, admiration and 
 flattery delighted him. But his company, on the contrary, 
 was no boon to them. His behavior was as capricious as 
 his temper. At one time he would be familiar and affec- 
 t cnate, at another, despotic and supercilious. Celia had 
 some time before gently expostulated with him on this 
 subject, representing that he, as master of Horah, lowered 
 himself by associating with the black boys. But he very 
 sharply told her to mind her own business, for he would 
 not put up with her interference. When the quadroon 
 ventured to speak to her mistress about the young master’s 
 daily companions, that lady haughtily replied: 
 
 “There is too wide a difference, they are too far below 
 him, for him to be affected by their company. You might 
 as well object to his hounds. These boys abe his servants, 
 who follow him as his dogs follow—to do his bidding. 
 Let me hear no more of such complaints of your young 
 master, Celia.’’ , 
 
 “Heaven forbid that I should complain of him, madam! 
 I am only jealous of his dignity.” s 
 
 “His dignity is too real, too solid, too high, to be af¬ 
 fected in that manner. You might as well dream that a 
 young prince w'ould risk his dignity when he pats his fa¬ 
 vorite pony.” 
 
 Celia smiled in a peculiar manner; but from that time 
 she never expostulated with mother or son on the halvts 
 of the young outlaw^; indeed, it was only for fear of his 
 “lowering himself” that she ever had ventured to inter¬ 
 fere. 
 
 Isabel Horah had now something to vary the dull mo¬ 
 notony of her secluded life. Early the next morning she 
 
8o 
 
 Murdok, tke Heir. 
 
 took Servia and little Zenobia with her in the old family 
 carriage, and, with Si on the box, drove to Mistyrock, and 
 surprised old Ben Bowen by the largest order she had ever 
 given him. 
 
 Having filled all the available space in the carriage with 
 parcels, she turned homeward, but stopped on the way to 
 call on Col. Pryor, to seek his counsel as to the best man¬ 
 ner in which she should go to work to nnd Zenobia’s kin¬ 
 dred. If she surprised old Bowen by her order, she cer¬ 
 tainly amazed Col. Pryor by her visit; for never before 
 had she honored the ‘‘Notches” with a call. 
 
 Col. Pryor, who was seated, smoking, on the piazza, 
 this beautiful September morning, saw the well-known 
 carriage draw up, and, before the negro boy, who was 
 raking the grass in front of the house, could go to open 
 the gate, he threw away his cigar and ran to welcome the 
 pretty widow. 
 
 “Mrs. Horah, this is indeed an honor,” he said, beaming 
 with delight, as he opened the carriage door and held out 
 his hand to help her down. 
 
 “Thank you, colonel,” said the widow, stepping lightly 
 to the ground. 
 
 “Ah, I see you have your new maid and her child with 
 you,” he remarked, catching sight of the other passen¬ 
 gers in the carriage. 
 
 “Yes; but they will not get out. It is of them I wish to 
 speak to yon "in private,” she replied, as they walked 
 up the steps of the piazza. 
 
 “Will you come into the parlor?” he asked, standing a 
 little on one side of the front door to let her precede him. 
 
 “Oh, no; thank you. I prefer to sit out here, if you 
 please,” she said, seating herself in one of the home-made 
 chip chairs. 
 
 “About the girl and her child, you say, my dear madam. 
 Well, is it to approve or to reproach?” he inquired, with 
 one of his frequent laughs. 
 
 “Neither; but to thank you very much”—the colonel 
 bowed—“and to shock you not a little!” 
 
 “Ah !” he exclaimed, expectantly. What was she about 
 to tell him? Had the new girl turned out to be a thief, or 
 a murderess, or what? 
 
8i 
 
 Murdok, the Heir. 
 
 ‘‘That little girl who was sold to you with Scrvia as her 
 c) ild, is not hers at all,” continued Mrs. Horah. 
 
 Col. Pryor looked surprised and curious. 
 
 “She is not a'slave; not a negro, Put a freeborn white 
 child, the daughter of a Spanish laclv and gentleman who 
 were lost on the steamer Errand Girl." 
 
 “My God !” breathed the colonel, in dismay, 
 v “She. was saved from the sea by Scrvia—that is, the 
 poor girl, who is a strong swimmer, held the child up until 
 both were rescued by a boat from the Carrier Dove. 
 Now, what I want of you, colonel, is to help me to find the 
 friends of this injured child, if she has any.” 
 
 “And to prosecute the infernal scoundrel—oh, 1 beg 
 your pardon, madam—who sold her to me.” 
 
 “And to lose no time about it, colonel. What shall we 
 do first? What can we do this very day?” impatiently in¬ 
 quired Isabel Horah. 
 
 “It seems incredible that such wickedness should be 
 perpetrated. But I have always believed a slave trader to 
 be capable of any crime under heaven—T should say, over 
 the other place. Whenever one of them ventures to set 
 foot on my land I hunt him off with the hounds. My 
 niggers have standing orders to do that, and I believe they 
 are the only orders which they never, never disobey! 11 :i! 
 ha! ha!” laughed the colonel, in spite of the gravity of 
 the discussion. 
 
 - “I am afraid I imposed on you a very disagreeable task, 
 
 S I. Pryor,” said Mrs. HoraJj. 
 
 V)h, no! Quite a congenial one! You know it is a 
 very different thing getting a nigger out of the clutch of 
 these rascals—beg your pardon again, madam—and put¬ 
 ting them in their power.” 
 
 “But, colonel, what are we to do about this poor child?” 
 “Mrs. Horah, are you quite sure that your suspicions 
 point to the truth ?” 
 
 “They are not suspicions! They are certainties—as far 
 as they go, I mean. Hie little one is Spanish, for she 
 —prattles only in Spanish ; but whether she comes from 
 Spain, the West Indies, Brazil or Mexico, T cannot tell. 
 That is what I wish you to help me to find out.” 
 
 “Excuse me for a moment,” said the colonel, rising and 
 going into the house. 
 
82 Murdok, the Heir. 
 
 Presently he returned, with a pi’le of papers in his hand, 
 saying: ^ 
 
 “A day or two ago I saw an account in a Washington 
 paper of the wreck of the Errand Girl , off Point Lookout; 
 but as I thought I had heard all the particulars from 
 Wharton, I just glanced over it without paying much at¬ 
 tention ; for you know, madam, shipwrecks are not very 
 cheerful Reading.” , 
 
 While he was speaking the genial colonel looked care- 
 fu'ly over his file of papers. Isabel Horah watched him 
 anxiously. 
 
 “Ah! here it is,” he said, straightening out the first 
 page of the paper and reading: 
 
 “ ‘Terrible Disaster on the Chesapeake Bay.—- 
 Wreck of the steamer Errand Girl off Po’nt Lookout. 
 Twenty-six persons lost. Four rescued by the schooner 
 Carrier Dove / ” 
 
 “Read the lists! Read the lists of the lost and saved,” 
 eagerly exclaimed Mrs. Horah. 
 
 Col. Pryor cast his eyes down the column. The first 
 names on the list startled both reader and hearer. They 
 were as follows: 
 
 “Lorenzo de Leon, Cadiz, Spain. 
 
 “Dolores de Leon, Cadiz, Spain. 
 
 “Maisa Moreno, Cadiz, Spain.” 
 
 Other names followed, but they were native ones, so the 
 lady impatiently interrupted the reader bv exclaiming: 
 
 “Those were evidently the parents and nurse of the 
 Spanish child! I heard her ask for Maisa several times. 
 Besides that, Servia told me her nurse was named Maisa. 
 Run your eyes down to the names of those rescued. See 
 if there is a colored child named among them. 
 
 Col. Pryor complied with her request, and read: 
 
 “William Wharton, Baltmore, Md. 
 
 “Zenobia de Leon, Cadiz, Spain.” 
 
 “Benjamin Godfrey (colored), St. Mary’s County, Md. 
 
 “Servia Godfrey (colored), St. Mary’s County, Md.” 
 
 “There, now! You see! You see, Col. Pryor, that the 
 .curl told the truth! You see what a foul wrong has been 
 done!” exclaimed the lady, in great excitement, for al- 
 
^ ‘Murdok, the Hen. 83 
 
 though ever since her interview with the child she had be¬ 
 lieved in the truth of Servia’s statement, yet this absolute 
 confirmation of her faith powerfully affected her. 
 
 "Yes; I do see!” said the colonel, checking himself in a 
 malediction of more strength than elegance. 
 
 “I suppose the names on the lists are authentic ? I know 
 that two, Servia and Zenobia, are so, of course; but the 
 others. How did the papers get such lists, when nearly 
 everybody was lost?” uneasily inquired Mrs. Ilorab. 
 
 “My dear lady, without any difficulty. They get a list 
 of passengers from the booking agent at the steamer’s 
 office. They get the list of saved from the rescuing ves¬ 
 sel. They subtract the list of saved from the list of pas¬ 
 sengers, and the remainder are lost, of course.” 
 
 “How did they get the name of the little girl so well?” 
 
 “Her name, like that of her nurse and her parents, must 
 have been on the list of passengers. And, of course, 
 Servia, who knew something of the child she had saved, 
 must have talked about her to the captain of the schooner 
 and his wife. The whole report of the disaster was taken 
 from the story of Capt. Miles Tawnev, of the Carrier 
 Dove. Wharton might have given some information, but 
 doubtless he kept out of the way. And as the devil— 
 pray excuse me for mentioning him, madam-” 
 
 “You might as well mention him as Wharton!” ex¬ 
 claimed Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “I was going to say, as His Sulphuric Majesty often 
 leaves his subjects in the lurch, he must have left this 
 monster to forget that the publication of these lists might 
 eventually lead to the detection of his crime.” 
 
 “But when he saw it, as he must have seen it, it must 
 have recalled to him his oversight of a possible peril to 
 himself,” remarked Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “Yes. So I shall lose no time in pursuing this wretch. 
 Leave all these matters to me, my dear madam. I have 
 /Tothing particular to do, and T should take great pleasure 
 in serving you first, and punishing that scoun—pardon me, 
 madam—demon as he deserves. I shall leave for Wash¬ 
 ington to-morrow.” 
 
 “Not until 1 have sent you a check for your expenses,” 
 she was about to say,” but, remembering the man’s com¬ 
 parative poverty, and his sensitive pride on account of that 
 
84 Murdok, tke Heir. 
 
 poverty, she refrained, and answered the more warmly, “I 
 thank you from my very soul! This is prompt kindness 
 and help, indeed. I know not how to thank you enough.’’ 
 
 Her ardent manner set the colonel’s heart into a blaze. 
 
 “Ah, my dearest lady!” he said, slowly taking her hand. 
 But then lie stopped suddenly and dropped it, and sighed. 
 1'his was not the time, he felt, just when he was laying her 
 under obligations, to take advantage of the circumstances, 
 and press his suit. 
 
 “I must go now,” she said, rising, with a flush on her 
 face. Then, perceiving that he was hurt, either by the 
 thought of his own indiscretion, or the fear of having d ; s- 
 pleased her, and feeling really kindly and gratefully 
 toward the good man, she suddenly added : “And there is 
 another matter in which I must trouble you, my good 
 friend.” 
 
 “A hundred, if you will, in which you can only delight 
 me !" promptly replied the colonel. 
 
 “Thank you. It is this: While you are in Washington, 
 please try to And me r another tutor for Murdok.” 
 
 “What! Is Meeke going?" inquired the colonel, in 
 some dismay. 
 
 “He’s gone. Went yesterday. And a good riddance. 
 There never was anything like the worthlessness of those 
 young men who come out here, professing to teach boys! 
 There is not one of them, so far as I have tried them, who 
 is any more fit to train a boy than to govern a kingdom !” 
 
 “I am very sorry. I had thought Meeke rather a fine 
 young fellow," said the colonel. “His conscience had 
 often pricked him for not doing his duty toward his Tair 
 young neighbor inwvarning her of the evil she was bring¬ 
 ing on her son by her overindulgence of him; but, alas! 
 he was so much in love with the pretty widow that he 
 dared not risk the least criticism of her course. 
 
 “Meeke is an idiot! They are all idiots! she asserted, 
 comprehensively, as she drew on her gloves. 
 
 “T will do mv best to find you a satisfactory person this 
 time,” he said. 
 
 At this moment a negro woman, who knew the rules 
 of the house too well to wait for orders, came out on the 
 piazza with a tray on which cake and wine were neatly ar¬ 
 ranged. 
 

 
 After Wharton. 85 
 
 Col. Pryor poured out the wine and pressed his visitor 
 to partake. She declined, but said, with a smile: 
 
 “I will take a piece of cake to the carriage for the little 
 Zenobia. And I will ask you to give it to her, so that you 
 may see for yourself how the small lady will receive it,” 
 added Isabel Horah, with a smile. 
 
 The colonel would have carried the whole cake, but the 
 lady shook her head, saying: 
 
 “No, no! Would you make the child ill?” 
 
 Then she cut a dainty slice and handed it to the colonel. 
 They walked to the gate, outside of which the carriage 
 waited. 
 
 “How do you do, my good girl? I hope you like your 
 new place?” said the genial colonel, as lie reached the car¬ 
 riage door. 
 
 “Thank you, sir; yes,” replied Servia. 
 
 “And the little one? Have some cake, pet?” he asked. 
 
 The little child took the offered dainty. Then bowed her 
 little, black, curly head, and said: 
 
 “ Gracias, mi sciior.” 
 
 “She is a princess!” exclaimed the colonel, with en¬ 
 thusiasm. “I should be proud of such a little daughtei. 
 
 I will tell you what, my dear madam, if no one should turn 
 up to claim the little darling, I should be only too glad to 
 adopt her as my own. I have no daughter, you know.” 
 
 “Neither have I, sir,” jealously replied the lady, as she * 
 allowed him to help her into the carriage, 
 
 “Good-by. A thousand thanks for your kindness,” she 
 said, waving her hand as the horses started. 
 
 He lifted his hat and bowed. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AFTER WHARTON. 
 
 All common things, each clay’s events. 
 
 That with the hour begin and end. 
 
 Our pleasures and our discontents, 
 
 Are rounds by which we may ascend. 
 
 —Longfellow. 
 
 Eager as any youth to please his sweetheart, middle- 
 aged Nat Pryor started up long before daylight, housed his 
 
After Wharton. 
 
 86 
 
 coachman, and ordered his carriage to take him to the rail¬ 
 way station, in order to catch the first train for Wash¬ 
 ington. 
 
 He reached the city about nine o’clock in the evening, 
 too late to do any business that night; so, as he was very 
 much fatigued, he went to his hotel-—the Metropolitan— 
 got his supper and went to bed. He slept the sound sleep 
 of wholesome weariness, yet not too deeply to dream of his 
 ladylove all night long. 
 
 Early next morning he arose, dressed, breakfasted and 
 went out, directing his steps straight to the nearest mag¬ 
 istrate’s office. He found the place half full, as usual, of 
 delinquents who had been locked ug the night before, most 
 of them for sitfall offenses. Many of these were dis¬ 
 charged with a reprimand; others were let off with a light 
 fine. The colonel had to wait until the office was clear. 
 Then the magistrate, who knew the visitor, turned to him 
 with a smile, saying: 
 
 “How do you do, colonel ? Glad to see you. When did 
 you arrive?” 
 
 “Only last night,” replied the colonel. “You seem to 
 have had a very busy morning,” he continued. 
 
 “Yes; but no serious cases, thank Heaven! Only some 
 unfortunates whose petty offenses are prompted rather 
 by poverty and want than by viciousness,” said the kind- 
 hearted magistrate. “But can I do anything for you, 
 colonel?” 
 
 “Yes. Give me a warrant for the most atrocious scoun¬ 
 drel that ever disgraced the form of man!” exclaimed Nat 
 Pryor, bringing his fist down with emphasis upon the top 
 of the justice’s desk. 
 
 “Good God!” ejaculated the magistrate. “Explain 
 yourself, Pryor! Who has been murdered ?” 
 
 “Murdered! You, a magistrate with so much experi¬ 
 ence, and think that a murderer must necessarily be the 
 most heinous of criminals! I ted" you, sir, the infernal 
 crime I am about to lay to the charge of a devil named 
 Wilful Wharton is as much worse than murder as murder 
 is worse than—well, than a quarrel over toys between 
 babies,” growled the colonel. 
 
After Wharton. 87 
 
 Squire Holmead knew Nat Pryor’s wild way of speak¬ 
 ing when excited; so he now quietly said: 
 
 “Will you sit down, colonel, and tell me all about it in 
 an informal way before we proceed further?” 
 
 Nat Pryor dropped into a chair, wiped his red, perspir¬ 
 ing face, and told his story, adorning the narrative with 
 many expletives and not a few oaths. 
 
 When he had finished, the magistrate, who had listened 
 in attentive silence, beckoned to his clerk, a short, fat 
 young man, with a red nose, who sat at a desk at the end 
 of the room, apparently engaged in writing, but who had 
 heard every word of the sensational story. 
 
 “Draw a chair to this table,” said the magistrate, “and 
 "prepare to take down the statement Col. Pryor is about to 
 make.” 
 
 The clerk walked leisurely to the table and took his 
 seat. 
 
 “Now, colonel, we are ready to receive your formal 
 statement,” said the squire, turning toward him. 
 
 “Haven’t I told you all abouTit?” impatiently demanded 
 Nat! Pryor. 
 
 “Well, not exactly. Not—shall I say—consecutively?” 
 replied the magistrate, remembering the many divers'ons 
 and digressions, denunciations and maledictions that had 
 embellished his story. 
 
 “Then why the devil did you give me the trouble of 
 going over the matter twice?” demanded the colonel. 
 
 “Because, my dear sir, the charge is so grave that I 
 thought it best to hear the circumstances in an informal 
 manner first, in order to judge whether I could receive it 
 officially. You understand?” 
 
 “Oh! All right! Fire away with your formulas! 
 Bring a Bible. Bring a cord of Bibles! I’ll swear on ’em 
 all to everything J’ve said!” 
 
 “Not at ad necessary, my dear sir. But pray compose 
 yourself, and make your statement in the calm, cold, mat¬ 
 ter-of-fact manner so serious a charge demands.” 
 
 “Cold, calm! Good God, squire! Am I a frozen frog? 
 Not to grow hot over such a hellhound as that Wharton v 
 sir? But I will stick to the facts, and avoid cursing the 
 scoundrel, i f I can!” exclaimed the colonel, walking over 
 to the water cooler, and helping himself to about a pint 
 
 V/ - 
 
i 88 After Wliarton. 
 
 of ice water, which he quaffed as a preparative to self- 
 control. 
 
 “Now Fm ready,” he said, returning and throwing him¬ 
 self into a chair, while the clerk drew a sheet of paper 
 before him, and, with pen in hand, sat prepared to take 
 down the accuser’s words. 
 
 Then Nathaniel Pryor, of The Notches, Mistyrock, Vir¬ 
 ginia, formally charged Wilful Wharton, traveling trader, 
 with having, on the seventeenth day of September, instant, 
 abducted and sold into slavery a free white child, by name 
 Zenobia de Leon, daughter of Lorenzo de Leon and Do¬ 
 lores, his wife, all of Cadiz, Spain. 
 
 When the statement was finished, the clerk read it over 
 to the deponent, who signed it in the presence of the 
 magistrate. A warrant for the arrest of Wilful Wharton 
 was dulv made out. 
 
 “Now,” inquired the magistrate, “what witnesses, be¬ 
 sides yourself, as to the party to whom the Spanish child 
 was sold, can testify to the facts?” 
 
 “The brothers, Gideon and Gilbert Godfrey, of St. 
 Mary’s County, Maryland, who can testify that the girl 
 sa d to have been the mother of the child never had a 
 child. Then the officers of the schooner Carrier Dove , 
 who rescued the girl, the child and the trader. Lastly, the 
 little girl herself should be produced in court—not that she 
 is capable of giving evidence, but that all may see she is 
 noc a quadroon, but a child of Spanish birth, who cannot 
 speak a word of any other language. The young woman, 
 Servia, could bear the strongest possible testimony, but, 
 as the law now stands, it would not be received.” 
 
 “Now, where is this Wharton most likely to be found, 
 or heard of?” inquired the magistrate, as he rang a bell 
 and placed the warrant in the hands of a police officer, who 
 answered the summons. 
 
 “At the slave pen on the island, not that it belongs to 
 him, or that he lives there. He is a bird of passage, as 
 well as of prey. He lodges his merchandise there on oc~ 
 cation. I will go with the officer, if there is no objec¬ 
 tion,” added the colonel. 
 
 “None whatever, of course, 71 replied the squire. 
 
 The colonel and the policeman left the office together. 
 •The. distance they had to go was not great, so the officer 
 
After Wharton. 
 
 would have walked, but the colonel was so impatient that 
 he hailed the first passing hack, and they got into it and 
 were driven over the Seventh Street bridge to the island, 
 and after a short drive they reached the slave pen. 
 
 The hack drew up at the gate, and the two men alighted. 
 
 The keeper opened the gate in response to the police- 
 ' man’s knock. He was surprised at the sight of the officer, 
 but not the least dismayed, for they were all law-abiding 
 citizens at the pen, breaking none of man’s statutes, so 
 they had no cause to be afraid. Merely nodding to the 
 officer, feeling some curiosity as to the nature of his busi¬ 
 ness, he turned with cordial respect to the colonel, in 
 whom he recognized a recent customer, and anticipated a 
 possible one again. 
 
 “Walk in, gentlemen. How can 1 serve you this morn¬ 
 ing?” he said, at length. 
 
 “Where is Mr. Wharton? Is he here?” inquired the 
 
 officer. 
 
 “Oh! It is he, then, who is wanted,” thought the 
 keeper, as he answered : 
 
 “Mr. Wharton, sir, is down in the lower counties, mak¬ 
 ing purchases.” 
 
 “Now, that is rather indefinite. In what county, and 
 in what part of the county is he?” inquired Col. Pryor. 
 
 “Oh! You arc interested, too, are you?” thought the 
 keeper, as he answered^ with an air of candor : “That's 
 what no man can tell, sir. He may he in Prince George's, 
 Calvert or St. Mary’s; I could^not tell you which, if my 
 life depended on it.” 
 
 “When is he expected back?” next inquired the colonel. 
 
 “P>y Saturday’s steamer, 1 think, sir, which gets in any 
 time between noon and midnight. There is no certainty as 
 to the precise hour with any of these river boats.” 
 
 “Where does the man put up when he is in the city?” 
 inquired the policeman. 
 
 “Steamboat Hotel, foot of Sixth Street, sir, for sake of 
 convenience. It is there where most of the boats land,” 
 replied the keeper. 
 
 Now, whether the officer believed all this, or doubted it 
 on “general principles,” was not determined, for, at this 
 moment the conversation was interrupted by a sound of 
 weeping and wailing, and great lamentation, which came 
 
9 o 
 
 Poor Ben. 
 
 r v*# 
 
 from a corner of the yard, toward which they all in¬ 
 stinctively turned their eyes. 
 
 There they saw a tall, stalwart young negro, sitting on 
 the ground, with his back uncomfortably leaning against 
 the angle of the wall, and his hands and knees drawn up to 
 his chin, and his head bowed, with his face buried in his 
 hands. He was sobbing, crying and groaning as if his 
 heart would break. 
 
 “What on earth is the matter with that poor fellow ?” 
 inquired the kind-hearted Nat Pryor. 
 
 “Oh, Lord ! sir, he is a -nat’ral-born idiot!” exclaimed 
 the keeper. “He is a great aggravation to us all. Just 
 look at him now. A great, tall and strong buck nigger! 
 as healthy as a horse! Ought to fetch a thousand dollars 
 any day. Yet his owner can’t find a purchaser for him on 
 account of his carryings on.” 
 
 . “Why, what does he do?” inquired Col. Pryor. “Does 
 he get drunk?” 
 
 “Bless you, no, sir! He’s a teetotaler. One of ‘The 
 Water of Jordan Society/ he calls himself.” 
 
 “What is his fault, then?” 
 
 “Why, don’t you see for yourself, sir? No. You only 
 see about one-half of it. Pie spends all his time in weep¬ 
 ing and wailing, or praying and exhorting. Pie hardly 
 ever eats or sleeps. Indeed, if he.goes on in this way, we 
 are afraid he will go mad, and therrWharton will not only 
 lose his purchase money, but he will have to support a 
 raving lunatic.” 
 
 “And serve him right, the scoundrel! Only I don’t 
 think he will be called upon to support anyone for some 
 time to come. I think he himself will be boarded and 
 lodged at the expense of the government!” hotly ex¬ 
 claimed the colonel. And then he crossed the yard to 
 speak to the negro. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 POOR BEN. 
 
 We dwell with fears on either hand, 
 Within a daily strife, 
 
 And spectral problems waiting stand, 
 Before the gates of life. 
 
9 * 
 
 Poor Ben. 
 
 The doubts we vainly seek to solve, 
 
 The truths we know are one, 
 
 The known and nameless stars revolve 
 Around the central sun.—W hittier. 
 
 • “What is your trouble, my poor fellow ?” kindly inquired 
 Col. Pryor, as he reached the spot, and stood before the 
 bowed form of the man. 
 
 The poor fellow raised his head, with its tear-stained 
 face, and gazed stupidly through its mist on the ques¬ 
 tioner without recognizing him. 
 
 ' But Nat Pryor, who never forgot a face, recognized 
 Ben, the friend of Servia, whom he remembered to have 
 seen with\ie g rl during his negotiation for her purchase. 
 He looked down upon the man with a conflict of emotions. 
 
 It had always been said oPf\ T at Pryor that his keen sense 
 of humor would be his ruin yet! That he would finally 
 
 m «r 
 
 laugh himse’f into everlasting perdition! Indeed, it is a 
 fact that the only time he ran for the legislature he lost 
 the election by laughing in the wrong place, and at the 
 wrong man. Now, gazing at poor Ben with real compas¬ 
 sion at the bottom of his heart, he had all he could do to re¬ 
 press an outburst of laughter at the huge, hulking fellow 
 blubbering like a baby. Compassion triumphed, however. 
 
 “What is the matter with you, my poor man?” he again 
 kindly inquired. ^ 
 
 “Oh, marse r cried the negro, half choked with sobs, 
 and blinded by tears, yet eager to pour out his sorrows 
 into a sympathizing ear; “Servia’s gone! an* po’ mammy 
 dead! air Pse lef ’lone on de yerf! I wis’ I’d ben 
 jownded ’long ob de udders, I do!’’ 
 
 “Your mother’s dead, poor fellow? Was she here with 
 you ?” / • 
 
 “Oh, no, marse; she were down yon’er in ole S’. Mary’s 
 County, ’long o’ de Godf’eys. Po’ Servy, she were my 
 ’panion in misforshun, po’ Servy were! An’ de day afo’ 
 she were tuk ’way f’om yere, she yit a letter, Servy did — 
 ’deed she did, marse — yit a letter fo’ me to my po’ mammy 
 down dere on de Godf’ey farm; an’ yist’day I got a ans’er, 
 yit by my youn’ marse, Gibbut Godf’ey, an’ tole me po’ 
 mammy tuk cole gwine to meetin’, an’ was koched in de 
 yain, an’ she di’ ob informashun ob de lun’s. An’ 
 she lef’ her bressin’ to me, an’ I must’ be sure to meet her 
 
 / 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 92 
 
 in hebbin’, po’ mammy said. An' she belt hold of my 
 letter wot Servy yit. w’ich it comfitted her tell she died.” 
 
 “Well, as she was a good woman, she has gone to 
 heaven, out of all her troubles in this world. And if you 
 he a good man you will meet her there, as she said you 
 must,” replied the colonel, sympathetically. 
 
 “Oh, yes, marse; I kno's all dat; but it doane do me no 
 good jus' now, fust off. An’ dere’s Servy wot might a 
 ben a comfut to me, gone, too, an’ I dunno w’ere she is, 
 nudder!” ^ ^ 
 
 “Well, my poor fellow, at least I can give you some 
 comfort in regard to Servia. • She has a good home and 
 a kind mistress over there in Virginia. Here, take this 
 handkerchief and wipe your eyes,” said Nat Pryor, draw¬ 
 ing his own red bandanna from his pocket and handing it 
 to Ben, who had been rubbing first one sleeve and then 
 the other across the fountains of his tears. 
 
 “T’anky, marse! Yo’s mighty good ter me,” said the 
 negro, handing back the handkerchief after he had used it. 
 
 “No, keep it. I make you a present of it,” laughed Nat 
 Pryor. 
 
 “T’anky, marse. Now, marse, you said po’ Servy did 
 
 git a good, kine mist’ess. W’ere is- Why, good 
 
 | gwaeious, marse, if yo’ aine de same ge’man wot bote po' 
 j Servy!” cried Ben, recognizing his visitor when he saw 
 him through his undimmed eves for the first time, 
 j ' “Yes,” said the colonel. 
 
 „ Down on his knees went Ben, and up went his clasped 
 hands. 
 
 “Oh, marse!” he cried. “Buy me, too, marse! Buy 
 me, too! I wan’ ter go were Servy’s gone. Oh, my deah 
 marse, buy po’ Ben, an’ ca’wy me ter po’ Servy.” 
 
 “Is Servia your sister?” gently inquired the colonel. 
 
 “N 0 - 0 - 6 , marse; not my sister. She wer’ my ’panion in 
 misforshun. Oh, marse, buy me an’ ca’wy me ’way to 
 Servy!” 
 
 “Was she your gal, then?” 
 
 “No-o-o, marse ! Servy nebber looked at me dat way. 
 Servy was raised mos' like a lady. ‘Servy could read an' 
 write, Servy could. An’ Servy wer’ a good frien’ ter me 
 an’ mammy, Servy wer’. Oh, marse, woane yer buy me 
 an’ ca’wy me home ter Servy!” 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 93 
 
 “Why, my poor fellow, I never bought or sold a nigger 
 in my life! I never would have anything to do with the 
 infernal trade !” 
 
 “But, marse, didn’t yer buy po' Servy?” inquired Ben, 
 in a voice beginning to break. v 
 
 “Oh r yes—to my shame be it said, and I wish some one 
 would kick me for it,” he added, mentally—“but not for 
 myself; for a neighbor, a lady who asked me to do so as a 
 favor to herself.” 
 
 “An’ so do I, marse! I axes ob yer as a feber ter me, 
 sah. Oh, do, marse! Oh, do, sah! fo' de Lor’ A'mighty’s 
 sake!” pleaded Ben, still down on his knees, and lifting Ins 
 clasped hands in an agony of prayer. 
 
 “Get up, man !” exclaimed Nat Pryor, impatiently, and 
 more because of the embarrassing position in which he 
 found himself, between his good nature and compassion 
 on the one hand, and his keen sense of the ridiculous on 
 the other. “Get up, I say. I tell you, once for all, I w ill 
 not have anything to do with this infernal traffic.” 
 
 “Oh, marse!” exclaimed the negro, clasping the speak¬ 
 er's knee, and totally misunderstanding him; “Oh, marse, 
 doane sav dat! Doane call me hard names, an’ sav vo’ 
 woane hab nufhn' ter do wid me. I aine no ’fernal chaffic! 
 ’Deed I aine, marse! I 'spise ter be sicli a t’ing as a 
 chaffic! Yo’ yite ter Marse Gibbut Godf’ey. an’ ax him if 
 T’s a chaffic. J’se a good, hones’, cullud man, marse. 
 Doane yer lafif at me, marse, doane?” insisted Ren, while 
 tears of injured innocence stood in his eyes. 
 
 “Jf you are no ‘chaffic,' how did you come to be sold? 
 Niggers are generally sold for some fault. T reckon you 
 must have been a pretty bad chaffic,” said Nat Pryor, shak¬ 
 ing with suppressed laughter at the negro’s misapprehen¬ 
 sion of the word. 
 
 “No-o-o, marse! It was no fau’t of we as we was sole. 
 It was all ’long o’ dem po’ white trash wot keep de sto’ 
 doun der in Calber’s toun, were de Godf'ev fam’ly dealed 
 so many years. It were dem low-life white trash as 
 wanted ob cleir money, jes’ as if ’twan’t honor ’nouf fer 
 sicli to hab de Godf’eys deal ’long o’ dem anyhow, ’dout 
 wantin’ de money besides? So dev jes sei*e me, an’ po* 
 Servy, an de two udders, an sole us!—dem po', meaig 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 94 
 
 low-life white herrin’s did!” exclaimed Ben, who had 
 worked himself into a fever of indignation. 
 
 “But I suppose the poor shopkeepers might have really 
 needed their money/’ Col. Pryor ventured to say. 
 
 “Wot ef dey did? Yeckon Marse Godf’ey wanted ob 
 his money wot was owed ter him, too; but he’djbit off his 
 tongue ’fo’ he’d demean hisself by axin’ fo’ it !’ ,Xv 
 
 “That was unfortunate sensitiveness/’ 
 
 “I doane kno’ ’xactly wot ycr mean, marse; but I tell 
 yer dis one hug ’bout Marse Godf’eys! Dey nebber ’fused 
 to ien’ a gemman money, an’ dey nebber ax fer it arter- 
 wards—no, sail! Tell yer wot Marse Gidyun done little 
 w r hile ago. Y’ung Marse Jack Pe’y ax him to lens’ him fifty 
 do"'1 ahs to go to Baltimore wid! On a spree, too. An’ 
 Marse Gidyun hadn’t a cent in de work. An’ w r ot yer 
 fink he did, marse? ’Fuse de young ge’man? No, ’deed! 
 He jes’ sole de gray filly, wot w^as de bes’ fttle beas’ on 
 de place, an’ got de money to len’ Marse Jack Pe’y. Dat’s 
 a ge’man’s way ob doin’ kindness! But dem dere po’ 
 white trash! Phew!” exclaimed Ben, with infinite scorn. 
 
 It just occurred to Col. Pryor to examine Ben on the 
 subject of the little Spanish child whom Wharton had sold. 
 But first he must speak to the policeman, whom he feared 
 he had been detaining too long. He turned away, but 
 Ben seized hold of him, throwing his strong arms around 
 both his legs, so that he could not stir without violence, 
 and exclaiming all the while: 
 
 “Oh, marse, doane yer go an’ ’sert me in my ’diction! 
 Doane yer, marse, as yer hah a soul to be sabed! ’Member 
 de widder an’ de orfin, marse! Leas’ways de orfin, case 
 de widder is gone to glory! But ’member de po’ orfin 
 boy as kneels ter yer! Buy me, marse! Buy me! If yer 
 doane, I’s feared I shill kill myse’f de fust chance I gits.” 
 
 “Now, look here, you great, big booby baby! I am not 
 going to desert you just yet. I mean to have some talk 
 with you first. I am just going to speak to that man yon¬ 
 der, whom you see leaning up against the gat£, talking to 
 the keeper. Let me go.” 
 
 “Oh, marse, yo’se de fus’ gemman as ebber spoke a kine 
 word ter me ebber sence I was jagged way f’om de ole 
 farm! An’ yer wouldn’t go fer ter deceive a po’, tnudder- 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 95 
 
 less orfin boy, would yer now, tuarse? Yer will com’ 
 back, woane yer, now ?” 
 
 “Of course I will, you idiot! Let me go,” laughed Nat 
 Pryor. 
 
 The negro unwillingly relaxed his hold, and the colonel 
 escaped, and, still laughing, crossed the yard and beck¬ 
 oned to the policeman, who immediately came to his side. 
 
 “Look here,” said Col. Pryor, “it seems that we cannot 
 nab the fellow here; at least not without a search warrant 
 to go through the premises, so-” 
 
 w “I don’t think he is here, sir; I don’t indeed! I have 
 been talking with the keeper. Of course, I have not let 
 on what Wharton is wanted for, and I am sure the man 
 does not suspect. Nor do I think he would shield the cul- 
 prt. ITe—I have known him for years—is as honest a 
 
 man as 
 << 
 
 As anyone-of his peculiar calling can be expected to 
 be,” interrupted Col. Pryor, with a smile. “But what I 
 wanted to say to you was this, that 1 will not detain you 
 longer if any business of yours should be urgent. I wish 
 to have a talk with the man here, who came from the same 
 farm and was sold to Wharton at the same time as this 
 girl Servia. Only let me know where I can sec you later 
 in the day.” 
 
 “Well, sir, until three o’clock you can see or hear of me 
 at Squire Holmead’s office. Later than that I will wait 
 for you if you will give me your address.” 
 
 ~ “Certainly. The Metropolitan.” 
 
 “Thank you, sir. I am going now to the Steamboat 
 Hotel, to look up our man there. 1 doubt about his being 
 out of the city, though the keeper seems to believe that 
 he is. If f~do not find him, or hear of him there, I will 
 return to the squire’s office.” 
 
 “Quite right. 1 shall see you before night, then,” said 
 the colonel. And the two men parted company; the po¬ 
 liceman leaving the yard, and the colonel returning to the 
 corner where he had left Ben. 
 
 “My boy,” he said, standing before the negro, with his 
 hands in his pockets, “do you remember the little child 
 whom your friend Servia was taking care of while she 
 was here?” 
 
 “Oh, doane I jesj! ’Meml )cr dat vittic fing ? I reckon I 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 96 
 
 ies does!” said Ben, in a very gentle voice, as he drew 
 from his bosom a rusty black cord, to which was attached 
 a small crucifix, on which he gazed fondly. 
 
 “What is that you have there?” inquired the colonel. 
 
 “On’y jes a yittle chinket de chile guv me, bress her 
 yittle heart!” 
 
 “Will you let me look at it?” 
 
 Ben took it from his neck and put it into the hand of 
 the colonel. Nat Pryor examined it curiously. It was 
 carved from a piece of bone. The work was very fine; 
 every muscle in the perfect form, every feature in the di¬ 
 vine face, was distinctly yet delicately cut. Col. Pryor 
 saw at a glance that this was no trifle, but something of 
 much higher value than either the baby giver or man re¬ 
 ceiver could have known. It might also be of inestimable 
 use to the child in helping to identify her in case it should 
 be required. 
 
 “Ben, if you will let me have this I will give you five 
 dollars for it,” he said. 
 
 “Couldn’t do it, marse. Couldn’t do it no ways in dis 
 wor!'. Wouldn’t part ’long o’ dat chinket fer no money. 
 No, sah!” said Ben, holding out his hand anxiously to re¬ 
 gain his treasure. 
 
 “Let me look at it a little longer. I wish to read an in¬ 
 scription on the back,” said the colonel, turning the cruci¬ 
 fix in his hands. On the plain back of the cross were 
 minutely engraved some foreign words that Nat Pryor 
 could not understand. But he took his tablets from his 
 pocket and drew a pencil from its slide, and carefully 
 copied the cabalistic phrase. Then he returned the cruci¬ 
 fix to its owner, who was still holding, out his hands, al¬ 
 most crying for fear of losing it, and who kissed it fondly 
 before returning it to its place in his honest bosom. 
 
 “You were very fond of that child, Ben?” said the 
 colonel, as a feeler. 
 
 “Yes, marse; berry much. De yittle fing!” 
 
 “Was she your friend Servia’s child?” inquired the 
 colonel. 
 
 Ben stopped tucking away his keepsake, and stared the 
 questioner a full minute in the face before he answered : 
 
 “Oh, marse, Servy wan’t no mar'd ’oman! Servy weP 
 a youn’ gal!” - 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 “Oh!” said the colonel. “Then whose child was that? 
 And how came she in Servia’s care?” 
 
 “Now, the Lor 1 A'mighty knows whose chile she wer 
 fer I doane. Servy^save’ her life outen de sea, arter de 
 shipwreck.” 
 
 “Then she didn’t come from the farm?” 
 
 “No, marse; sho she didn’t nebber come f’om no farm! 
 I nebber seed dat chile in all my life ’fo’ dey foch her to de 
 schooner! Den Servy she tell me, an’ de cap’n’s wife an’ 
 tudders, how de yittle fing was de chile oh a furrin lady an’ 
 gemman she see in de cabin ob de boat fo’ de wreck 
 com’; w’en dey was bof jowned. Monty good ob yo\ 
 marse, to let po’ Servy take ca’ ob dat youn’ tin tell dey 
 fine her frien’s. Servy’s got her yit, marse, aine she?” 
 
 “Oh, yes. And now, my boy, I must bid you good-by. 
 I wish you well, with all my heart,” said the colonel, turn¬ 
 ing to leave the yard. 7 
 
 But Ben started forward and flung himself headlong on 
 the ground at the colonel’s feet, threw his arms again 
 around the colonel’s legs, and held him fast, while he 
 poured out a torrent of passionate lamentations and 
 prayers, almost drowned and smothered in a storm of 
 tears, sobs and groans. 
 
 “Oh, marse! fer de lub o’ de Lord, doane yer leabe a 
 po* orfin boy VJout any*frien’s yere in dis des’late wil’er- 
 ness! Doane yer, marse! Buy me an’ cawy me ’way ter 
 Servv an’ de yittle chile! Oh, marse, fer de Lord's sake! 
 I'll be de bestest nigger yer ebber had in all de days ob 
 yer life! I—I’ll work day ait’ night, an’ no wittels an’ no 
 close ob no ’count] Oh, marse! buy me! buy me! If yer 
 doane I’ll kill myse’f de wery fits’ chance I gits, I know I 
 will! An’ den T shil go yite st’ait to de debbil, an’ nebber 
 se mammy ag’in!” 
 
 Tender-hearted Nat Pryor was overwhelmed by the 
 passionate anguish of the poor, half-maddened fellow, and 
 hastened to say: 
 
 \ “There, there! Do stop howling! You will alarm the 
 neighborhood, and raise a crowd. Yes, yes! I will buy 
 •you! Of course I’ll buy you! Your master is expected 
 iby the boat to-morrow afternoon. 1 will be here to see 
 
 aljoiit buying you.” 
 
Poor Ben. 
 
 98 
 
 “Ofi, marse! Will you! will you! will you!” chanted 
 Ben, half delirious with joy. 
 
 “Indeed I will. And I will call the keeper here to wit¬ 
 ness my promise. Here, you, sir!*’ cried Nat Pryor, suit¬ 
 ing the action to his word. 
 
 The keeper came up, looking inquiringly from the 
 colonel to the negro. ' 
 
 “I want to tell you, so as you can tell Wharton, that I 
 wish to buy this boy, if we can strike a bargain.” 
 
 “I will tell him, sir. He will be glad to find so good a 
 purchaser, no doubt.” / ^ 
 
 “Good-by, Ben. Keep up a good heart. You shall see 
 me again to-morrow afternoon, and by Monday night you 
 shall see your friend Servia and the child,” said Nat Pryor, 
 holding out his hand to the negro, who seized it in both 
 of his own, fondled it, and sobbed forth: 
 
 “May de good Lor’ bress yer, marse, fer wot youse 
 done fer me ! Oh ! you’s jes woke up a bird in my buzzom 
 wot is singiiV 'Glory, Hallelujah !’ like a sky full of anjils! 
 I shil go ’long oTyo’ an’ I shill see Servy! An’ oh, how 
 happy I is !” — 
 
 Nat Pryor tore himself with difficulty away from the 
 grateful creature, nodded to the keeper and left the yard, 
 entered the hack that was waiting for him on the outside, 
 and gave the order: 
 
 “To the Metropolitan Hotel.” 
 
 When he found himself alone in the carriage, bowling 
 along toward the avenue, he gave way to a hearty fit of 
 laughter, and laughed untij his whole frame shook, and 
 the tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 “Well, Nat Pryor,” he said to himself, when he had 
 sufficiently recovered, “and now what do you think of 
 yourself, eh? You, the sworh enemy of fhe most infernal 
 traffic on the face of the earth! You, who always hunted 
 nigger buyers off your place with hounds! You to allow 
 yourself first of all to bc> sweetly smiled into consenting to 
 buy a maidservant for a lady, and then, through that very 
 act, to be howled into buying a manservant for yourself! 
 Oh, Nat Pryor, Nat Pryor, you are going to the devil 
 as fast as you can. Now, let no man dare to take the first 
 downward step in evil. No, not even for a woman. Not 
 under any pretense whatever. If he does he will get an 
 
Searching and Dodging. 99 
 
 impetus he cannot arrest, and will run headlong’ to the 
 bottom of the black abyss. And, Nat Pryor, you will end 
 in becoming a professional nigger buyer, and be hunted 
 off your own premises by your own hounds, according to 
 your own orders ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Ho ! ho! ho ! ho-o-o ! 
 He was so tickeld at the idea that he laughed until the 
 hack drew up before the hotel. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SEARCHING AND DODGING. 
 
 No action, whether foul or fair, 
 
 Is ever done, but leaves somewhere 
 A record, written by fingers ghostly, 
 
 As a blessing, or a curse.— Longfellow. 
 
 Col. Pryor had just finished his dinner in the public din¬ 
 ing room of the Metropolitan when a message was brought 
 to him by a porter that a visitor was waiting to see him 
 in the gentlemen’s parlor. 
 
 He went thither immediately, and found Policeman 
 Colby, standing with his hat in his hand. 
 
 “Take a seat, officer, and tell me what success you have 
 had in hunting our man," said the colonel, leading the 
 way to the end of the room furthest from the bar, before 
 which stood some men whom the colonel did not desire 
 as an audience, and throwing himself into an armchair. 
 
 The policeman followed his example and then said: 
 
 “As you did not call at the office, sir, I just thought, as 
 I was passing this way, that I would drop in and tell you 
 that I went to the Steamboat Hotel and made inquiries.” 
 
 “Well, with what result ?” 
 
 “Pretty much the same as that we met with at the pen, 
 sir. Wharton is expected back there by the Baltimore 
 steamer, which gets in to-morrow afternoon. So you 
 see, sir, nothing more can be done to-night.” 
 
 “No, of course not.” 
 
 “But to-morrow I shall go down the steamboat land¬ 
 ing, and be on hand to watch for him as soon as he shall 
 appear." 
 
 # 
 
IOO 
 
 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 “Do you know him personally?—I mean only by sight, 
 of course?’ 7 inquired the colonel. 
 
 “No, sir, I do not ; and I was thinking, as you seem so 
 much interested in his capture, I might venture to ask 
 you to go with me to point him out, lest he should dodge 
 me in the crow T d. 7 
 
 “That I will do, with pleasure. But, officer, I have 
 some business to transact with that man which I would 
 like to complete before the arrest is made, if you can give 
 me so much time. You could be near and keep him in 
 sight, you know. My business would require only an 
 hour or so; perhaps not even an hour. 77 
 
 “Anything consistent with my duty, sir, I would be 
 happy to do for you. Perhaps, if you would kindly ex- 
 •plain- 77 
 
 “Oh, certainly, 7 ’ said Col. Pryor, bursting into a peal 
 of laughter, before entering into any explanation. 
 
 Nat Pryor, as my reader may have discovered, was 
 “Hail fellow, well met 7 ’ with any honest man of any 
 rank, though he sternly kept aloof from the opposite sort 
 of every rank. And now, w 7 ith a serio-comic air that sat 
 droily upon his good-natured face, he began : 
 
 “The fact is, I am turning nigger buyer myself!” 
 
 The policeman looked doubtful and disturbed. 
 
 “Well, the long and the short of it, officer, is that that 
 poor idiot who has been making the pen a pandemonium 
 with his bowlings, as soon as he recognized me as the 
 purchaser of ‘Servv,’ as he called the girl, begged and 
 howled and shrieked at such a desperate rate for me to 
 carry him home to ‘Servv, 7 that, in fact, T have promised 
 to purchase him from Wharton, who, I hear, is very 
 anxious to part with him at a small advance. So, if you 
 could give me time to conclude the purchase, I should be 
 very thankful. 7 ’ 
 
 “I think we might manage it, sir. I might, as you say, 
 keep an eye on the man all the time. But you know, sir, 
 that the custody of my prisoner must not be risked.” 
 
 “Of course not, 7 * assented the colonel. 
 
 “Well, then, where shall T meet you to-morrow, sir?' 
 
 “When you are ready to go down to the steamboat 
 landing, you may call here for me. I will wait for you.’ 7 
 
IOI 
 
 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 “All right, sir. Good-evening, sir.’’ And the police¬ 
 man bowed himself out. 
 
 The colonel sauntered down the room, and was quickly 
 hailed by an old acquaintance—an old Washingtonian— 
 who challenged him to a game of euchre. 
 
 He sat down at the table and played until bedtime, and 
 got very badly beaten, for his thoughts wandered far 
 from the game. 
 
 At about eleven o’clock the next morning, while Col. 
 Pryor sat in the reading room of the hotel^ perusing the 
 morning papers, Policeman Colby made lus appearance. 
 
 The colonel sprang up to meet him. 
 
 “I thought it was best to take time by the forelock, sir," 
 said the officer, when the brief greetings were past; “for 
 it is necessary for us to be at the landing when the steamer 
 comes in, and there is no certainty as to the hour of her 
 arrival. It is just as apt to be sooner as it is to be later 
 than her usual time. 
 
 “How is that?” inquired the colonel, who was drawing 
 on his gloves. 
 
 'Well, sir, it is this way. She’s a coaster, and has her 
 regular stopping places, and her delay at these will de¬ 
 pend upon the amount of freight she may have to take 
 aboard. Then, again, there are irregular stopping places 
 where there are no wharfs, and where she has to send off 
 a rowboat to the shore wherever she sees the signal of a 
 red flag hoisted. If there should be a good manv of 
 the *se, she would be later reaching here. If there should 
 be none, she would be sooner than her regular time.” 
 
 “And there may not have been any delays yesterday, so 
 she may arrive soon. Come, let’s hurry! I would not 
 miss our man for much, I can tell you,” said the colonel, 
 hastily taking his hat from the rack, and turning to leave 
 the hotel. 
 
 The policeman followed closely. 
 
 ( ol. Pryor signaled a hack, which he and the policeman 
 entered. 
 
 The colonel gave the order, “To the steamboat landing 
 at the foot of Sixth Street,” and they were driven off in 
 that direction. 
 
 They reached the wharf in good time. The colonel 
 paid the driver, dismissed the carriage, and sat in a cor- 
 
102 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 ner of the porch of the hotel while awaiting the arrival 
 of the boat. 
 
 There were loungers passing in and out from the porch 
 to the bar within, and from the bar to the porch. But 
 none of them came near the two men who had seated 
 themselves at the other end. Col. Pryor gave his com¬ 
 panion a cigar and lighted one for himself. They smoked 
 in silence for some little time, and then the colonel took 
 out his watch, looked at it and said: 
 
 “IPs now half-past twelve. Til go in and see if I can 
 borrow a spyglass to look out for the boat. ’ 
 
 He went into the hotel and in a few minutes returned 
 with a glass in his hand. He raised it to his eye, focused 
 it to his sight and pointed it down the river. 
 
 “I think I see her,” he said, at length, lowering his 
 glass and handing it/to the policeman, adding: “You 
 take it and look.” 
 
 The latter obeyed, and after a trial of the instrument, 
 said in returning it: 
 
 “Oh, no, sir; that is the Alexandria boat. She lands 
 at Seventh Street wharf.” 
 
 They resumed their seats and waited two long, dreary 
 hours. Then their patience was rewarded, for. a few 
 minutes after two o’clock, they sighted the Baltimore , 
 which in due time came steaming, puffing and blowing 
 up to the wharf. 
 
 There were a great many passengers on the deck— 
 men, women and children, with great quantities of lug¬ 
 gage, that seemed to indicate that they were summer so¬ 
 journers returning in the cool September weather from 
 seaside and mountain resorts. Some of the men leaped 
 ashore before the gangplank could be adjusted, eager t<b 
 reach their own destinations, or to secure hacks for their 
 families. 
 
 Col. Pryor and Policeman Colby closely scanned every¬ 
 one that passed them. But again and again, in answer 
 to the policeman’s silent look of inquiry, the colonel as 
 silently shook his head. The gangplank was dropped 
 and more men, together with women and children, poured 
 over it to the shore, and dispersed, some to enter waiting 
 private carriages; some to get into hired hacks or omni¬ 
 buses, and others to walk away. 
 
103 
 
 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 At length, when the,passengers had all dispersed, and 
 the place was deserted by all except the stevedores and 
 idlers, the two men looked at each other in disappointment 
 and perplexity. 
 
 “Clearly our man is not here,” said the colonel. m 
 
 “Are you sure he has not passed us in the crowd ?” in¬ 
 quired the officer. 
 
 “Certain/ replied the colonel. 
 
 “He may be still on the boat,” suggested the policeman. 
 
 “That’s so,” exclaimed Nat Pryor, with sudden anima¬ 
 tion. “And, come to think of it, there is nothing more 
 likely. You see, he can’t be proud of his cursed vocation. 
 He must have some sense of shame regarding it. And 
 so he /has probably kept his niggers below, and is waiting 
 till the coast is clear before bringing them up and cart¬ 
 ing them off to the pen. We will watch here a little while, 
 and if he does not show up, we will go on board and look 
 • after him. What do you say?” 
 
 “All right, colonel,” assented the policeman. 
 
 They waited and watched. Stevedores and laboring 
 men came and went between the boat and shore, but there 
 was no sign of Wharton. 
 
 At length Col. Pryor suggested that they had waited 
 long enough, and might now go on board and make in¬ 
 quiries. Policeman Colbv agreed. 
 
 The two men boarded the steamer and asked to see the 
 captain. A bluff old salt, whose only bridge of rank was 
 hi$ gold-banded cap, came forward, pointed texhis head 
 by way of salute, and stood waiting for his visitors to 
 make known their business. 
 
 “Capt. Spilman, I presume, sir?” said Col. Prvor, po¬ 
 litely. 
 
 “The same, sir, at your service,” replied the old sailor. 
 
 “Excuse my question, but did a—a—”—oh, how Nat 
 Pryor hated to call the negro trader and child stealer a 
 man !—“a—a—cursed scoundrel named Wharton come 
 up by your boat to-day ?” 
 
 “No, sir, he did not,” replied Capt. Spilman, in no way 
 surprised or offended at the strength of the colonel’s ex¬ 
 pressions. He knew the use of strong language himself 
 on occasions. 
 
 “He was expected by this boat,” said the colonel, while 
 
104 
 
 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 the policeman keenly but stealthily watched the counte¬ 
 nance of the old seaman. 
 
 ‘'Well, sir, he did not come by her this time, thank 
 God !” bluntly exclaimed the captain. 
 
 “Why thank God?” inquired the colonel, while the po¬ 
 liceman took mental notes. 
 
 “Why, sir, I had just as lief have the devil on my boat 
 as him with flesh and blood freight! That’s why!” 
 
 “Do you know where he is now?” 
 
 “Buying niggers down in the lower counties, I reckon. 
 I know I took him down last week. Had to take him, 
 curse him! Would have to take the devil if he came 
 aboard and offered to pay his passage! Might I ask what 
 you want with him?” inquired the captain, turning in¬ 
 stinctively toward the policeman. 
 
 The latter exchanged glances of mutual intelligence 
 with Col. Pryor, and then answered: 
 
 “On a matter 1 am not at liberty to discuss until we find 
 the man; but if you read the daily newspapers, captain, 
 you will not remain long in ignorance!” 
 
 “H’m! Just as I expected. He’ll end his'days in the 
 penitentiary, if not on the gallows,” said the old seaman, 
 in a tone of satisfaction. 
 
 “Come, Colby, we need not detain the captain any 
 longer. Good-afternoon, Capt. Spilman. We thank you 
 for the information you have given us,” said Col. Pryor> 
 lifting his hat courteously as he turned away. 
 
 The old sailor pointed to his head and said, “Not at 
 all,” turned and went about his business, and was soon 
 heard cursing somebody or other high and low, from his 
 “eyes” to his “gizzard.” 
 
 “We will go to the pen and make inquiries there; per¬ 
 haps we can hear something; at all events, I promised that 
 poor devil, Ben, to see him this afternoon. He would 
 arouse the neighborhood with his bowlings if I were to 
 disappoint him,” said Col. Pryor, as the two men left 
 the boat in company and walked toward the slave pen. 
 
 ft was quite late in the afternoon when they reached 
 the gate. The policeman knocked and they were imme¬ 
 diately admitted by the keeper in person. Almost the 
 first thing Nat Pryor did after nodding to the man was to 
 look across the yard toward Ben’s corner, half expecting 
 

 the impulsive creature to run and fling himself into his 
 arms, or more likely around Ins legs. Cut the shed was 
 empty, ‘‘swept and garnished,” evidently made ready for 
 some new occupant. There was no sign of Ben about the 
 place. Before even inquiring for possible news of \\ har- 
 ton, Nat Pryor turned to the keeper and said: 
 
 “I don’t see Ben anywhere about here! Where is he? 
 
 “That’s more than I can tell, sir. Wharton came here 
 quite unexpected last night and took him away,” replied 
 the keeper. 
 
 The colonel and policeman looked at each other in con¬ 
 sternation. 
 
 “Skipped !” said the latter. “Got an inkling that some¬ 
 thing was up, and made tracks!” 
 
 “J thought vou told us that lie was to come bv this after- 
 nodn’s boat! How is it that he came last night?” cle- 
 manded the colonel. 
 
 “By the cars, I reckon, sir,” answered the keeper, talc¬ 
 ing the question literally. “And I was quite astonished at 
 seeing him so suddenly.” 
 
 “How did he account for his unexpected arrival?” 
 
 “No way at all, sir. When 1 expressed some surprise 
 at seeing him lie made no reply, but asked me to wake 
 up that nigger, Ben.” 
 
 “Had he other darkies with him?” 
 
 “Not one, sir.” 
 
 “Did lie explain the reason of coming empty-handed, 
 so to speak, as well as unexpectedly?” 
 
 “No, sir. He never explained anything. He was flus¬ 
 tered, and mum, and anxious to get away with his ni •- 
 irer. 
 
 “Did you tell him that I wished to purchase Ben,” in¬ 
 quired tlie colonel. 
 
 “That I did, sir. I told him that the gentleman who 
 bought the girl and child had come here to buy the bov.” 
 
 “And what did he sav?’’ 
 
 “He laughed and said: Then T shall get the lunatic 
 off easier than T expected.’ And T thought he meant that 
 he would get him off his hands by selling him to you, but 
 f found J was mistaken; for, when Ben came along grin- 
 mng, and told him that he had found a new, good master, 
 who was going to buy him and take him home to Servv’ 
 
io6 Searching and Dodging. 
 
 Wharton said: ‘I know. All right. I am going to take 
 you right away to your new master.’ And he winked at 
 me. I don’t approve of such (deceit, but it was not any 
 of my business, and, besides, it saved a hullabulloo that 
 Ben would have raised, and bring the police, perhaps. So 
 the boy went away quietly and gladly enough with his 
 owner.” 
 
 ‘‘Where did they go?” inquired the policeman. 
 
 “I couldn’t tell you, sir. I have no idea. He would 
 not answer any questions I asked him. He even resented 
 them, sir.” 
 
 ‘‘Did he take the negro away in a hack?” 
 
 “No, sir; they walked off.” 
 
 “Then we cannot trace them by the hackman,” said the 
 colonel. “What time was it when they left here?” 
 
 “Between ten and eleven o’clock. His home is in Balti¬ 
 more. He may have gone there,” suggested the keeper, 
 who did not seem inclined to shield the culprit. 
 
 “We. had better make inquiries at the railway station,” 
 said the policeman. 
 
 “Would you think it wrong in me, gentlemen, to in¬ 
 quire what Wharton has been up to? What he is wanted 
 for? For it does look now as if he had cut and run,” 
 said the keeper, who was as full of interest in the subject 
 as the old steamboat captain had been. 
 
 The colonel and policeman again exchanged glances, 
 and then the latter said: 
 
 “Well, as the fellow seems to have got an inkling that 
 we are after him, I may as well tell you that I have a 
 warrant for his arrest for child stealing.” 
 
 “Yes,” hotly exclaimed the colonel, “the accursed vil¬ 
 lain sold a free white child to me, along with the girl, 
 Servia, as her own ! And if I ever get sight of him, 
 curse him ! I will throttle him before the hangman has 
 a chance!” 
 
 “Whew-e-e-e-ew!” breathed the keeper, in a long whis¬ 
 tle. And then he would have asked a dozen questions, 
 but the colonel hurried the policeman, who was himself 
 only too anxious to go, and so bade a hasty good-afternoon 
 to the man and hurried away. * 
 
 “I am vexed enough at the rascal giving us the slip, but 
 I. am even more sorry for that poor wretch, Ben. Never 
 
( 
 
 The End of Wharton. ^ 107 
 
 mind, he’ll go mad some of these days and kill his tor¬ 
 mentor. And that will save the State some expense,” said 
 Nat Pryor, as they walked toward the avenue. 
 
 Their first inquiries were made at the railway station, 
 but without result. No ticket had been taken there from 
 any man answering the description of Wharton, or who 
 was accompanied by a negro man of any description. 
 They visited e^iery stage office, and every steamboat land¬ 
 ing about Washington, without finding the slighest trace 
 of the fugitive. 
 
 The next day Col. Pryor caused to be inserted in the 
 principal newspapers two advertisements. One, offering 
 one thousand dollars reward for the apprehension of Wil¬ 
 ful Wharton, charged with the abduction and selling of a 
 free white child into slavery; and another, asking for 
 information concerning the next of kin to an infant girl 
 about three years old, by name Zenobia de Leon, who 
 was rescued from the wreck of the steamer Errand Girl, 
 which was lost in a gale off Point Lookout, on the first 
 of the present month. 
 
 Then, having done all he could 'in the premises, yet dis¬ 
 appointed and disheartened, Nat Pryor took the morning 
 train for Misty rock, and went home to await further de¬ 
 velopments. ^ 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 TIIE ENI) OF WHARTON. 
 
 For ’tis the sport to have the engineer 
 Hoist with his own petar. — Shakespeare. 
 
 The records of criminal jurisprudence show us that it 
 is often by some trivial though fatal oversight on the part 
 of the criminal that the most carefully contrived crimes 
 are discovered. 
 
 Wharton’s crime, however, was not premeditated, but 
 
 impulsive. Maddened by the loss of two valuable young 
 
 negro men in the wreck of the Errand Girl , and tempted 
 
 by cupidity, opportunity and the delusive appearance of 
 
 impunity, he had ventured to sell the free Spanish orphan, 
 
 with the slave mulatto girl, falsely passing them off as 
 
 % 
 
io8 
 
 The End of Wharton. 
 
 mother and child. He knew that, though the girl might 
 at first opportunity reveal the fraud, her unsupported 
 testimony could never be received against him; and there 
 was no one left alive who could corroborate it. Ben, from 
 his color and condition of slavery, and the child, from 
 her infancy and ignorance, were equally incompetent wit¬ 
 nesses. But he forgot the circumstance that the very in¬ 
 congruity of an alleged Maryland slave child prattling in 
 a foreign language would in itself excite wonder, sus¬ 
 picion and comment, leading to investigation, and ending- 
 in discovery. He forgot, also, that the office of the 
 Errand Girl , like that of every other steamer, kept a com¬ 
 plete list of the passengers that sailed on every voyage; 
 so that, on the last list of passengers on the doomed 
 steamer would be found the names of the Spanish party, 
 with that of the child among them. He forgot, finally, 
 that the captain and crew of the Carrier Dove would give 
 a correct list of the rescued pary, and among them would 
 appear the name of the Spanish child; and that both these 
 lists would identify her as the daughter of Lorenzo and 
 Dolores de Leon, of Cadiz, Spain. Nor did he think of 
 such awkward contingencies until they were suddenly 
 forced on his attention. 
 
 He was not a newspaper reader; in fact, he seldom 
 looked into a book or paper; so it was from sheer dull¬ 
 ness, or what in a finer mind would be called ennui, that 
 on the day of his embarkation on the steamer Baltimore, 
 for a trading tour through the lower counties of Mary¬ 
 land, and when the boat was about halfway down the 
 Potomac River, he picked up a copy of a morning paper, 
 and at the head of the first column of the first page read: 
 
 “Further particulars of the wreck of the Errand Girl . 
 'Full lists of the lost and saved. Heroism of a slave girl. © 
 
 In much nervous dread Wharton hastily read down the 
 column, giving now a full account of the disaster to the 
 steamer. In great trepidation he looked over the lists of 
 the lost and saved. Among the former were the names 
 of Lorenzo and Dolores de Leon, and Maisa Morena, all 
 of Cadiz, Spain. Among the latter was the name of 
 Zenobia de Leon, a child, of Cadiz, Spain. This was, in- 
 
The End of Wharton. 109 
 
 deed, sufficiently alarming; but, oh! damning disclosure! 
 here, near the same column, was this heading: 
 
 “Heroic deed of a slave girl.” 
 
 Then followed a full account of Servia’s rescue of the 
 little Spanish child, at the imminent risk of her own life. 
 The article ended with the earnestly expressed hope of 
 the writer that the friends of the rescued child would re¬ 
 ward this heroic young girl by purchasing her freedom 
 and giving her an education. 
 
 “L)- these meddling newspaper reporters!” fer¬ 
 
 vently aspirated Wharton, from the very bottom of his 
 heart. “Tney are worse than the detective police! They 
 are always meddling with a man's business that is none 
 of theirs, curse them ! This will soon bring a hornets’ nest 
 about my ears ! Now, if I am to keep out of the peni¬ 
 tentiary, I must get out of the country, and durned 
 quick!” 
 
 No one on the boat knew anything about his sale of 
 the Spanish child, yet his stricken conscience, or rather 
 his stimulated consciousness, led him to shrink from every 
 eve, and avoid his fellow passengers as much as possible. 
 
 He went ashore at the first small wharf at which the 
 steamer stopped, and waited there until he got a chance to 
 board a small coasting schooner bound for Baltimore; 
 thus, for the. present, giving up his trading tour. With 
 a fair wind he reached Baltimore on the evening of the 
 next day, and took the night train for Washington, where 
 he arrived about an hour before midnight. Alreadv he 
 feared the bloodhounds of the law were upon his track, 
 yet he wished to secure his property, for he had little 
 enough of it left now; and so. he took advantage of the 
 lateness of the hour, and the darkness of the night, to 
 skulk over to the island and visit the pen, where his sud¬ 
 den appearance startled the keeper half out of his wits. 
 
 How the news that he received there confirmed his fears 
 that the avengers were after him ; how he deceived Ben 
 with the tale that he was going to take him to his chosen 
 master, who would in his turn take him home to Servia, 
 has been already described. 
 
 After leaving the pen, Wharton did not risk returning 
 
no 
 
 The End of Wharton. 
 
 
 to the Washington station, but, followed by the negro, he 
 walked on beside the railroad track until he reached the 
 way station at Bladensburg, where he waited for the early 
 morning train to come up. 
 
 While they sat on the outside of the ticket office Ben, 
 who had been growing suspicious jyad uneasy, at length 
 ventured to inquire : 6 
 
 ‘‘Fey is yer takin’ ob me, Marse Wharton?’' 
 
 “To your new master, you fool! Didn t I tell you so?” 
 surlily replied the trader. 
 
 Ben was somewhat abashed by the tone of this answer, 
 but was also too deeply troubled in his simple mind to be 
 quitb silenced, so he ventured again to say: « 
 
 “I Bought as my new marse were in Washington.” 
 
 “No, you idiot! he went to Baltimore yesterday after¬ 
 noon, and left word that I was to bring you after him. 
 Now do you understand?” growled Wharton. 
 
 “Oh, yes, marse, I un’erstan’s now. T’anky, marse,” 
 replied the simple negro, with his taith quite restored. 
 
 One more conversant with railroad travel might have 
 wondered why Wharton had walked all the way to Blad¬ 
 ensburg to take the Baltimore train, instead of taking it 
 at Washington; but Ben knew nothing of railroads or rail¬ 
 way stations. He did not know, therefore, where he now 
 was, or what they were waiting for, and he was too shy to 
 inquire. 
 
 It was not yet quite light when the roar of the ap¬ 
 proaching train was heard rushing upon them. 
 
 “My Lor’ A’mighty, marsq, w’at dat? Is it a yerf- 
 quake?” demanded Ben, in a panic of terror, as he heard 
 the thunder of the train, and felt the tremor of the 
 ground. 
 
 Wharton burst out laughing as he replied: “No, you 
 fool! That is the train that took your new master to 
 Baltimore yesterday, and will take us this morning.” 
 
 The laugh and the reply restored Ben’s failing cour¬ 
 age, which might have entirely expired as the train 
 snorted, throbbed and shook the earth in running up to 
 the station. 
 
 When it stopped, several passengers got out, laughing 
 and talking, and entered carriages that came out of the 
 shadows of the trees to receive them, and thev were 
 
Ill 
 
 The End of Wharton. 
 
 driven off, still laughing and talking. Their demeanor 
 further confirmed Ben’s restored courage. That rushing, 
 ' snorting, fire-breathing monster was the most awful beast 
 or devil he had ever dreamed of after overloading his 
 stomach with too much hog and hominy for supper. But 
 it could not be so horrid as it looked, when ladies and 
 gentlemen came out of its insides, laughing and talking! 
 All this passed quietly through Ben’s mind, while the por¬ 
 ters were throwing out the baggage, mail bags, etc. 
 
 There seemed to be no other passengers from this sta¬ 
 tion when Wharton, with Ben, trembling with awe, en¬ 
 tered the cars and took their seats. Just before the train 
 started a man came rushing up, apparently out of the 
 woods, and nothing but a carpetbag in his hands, and a 
 ticket in his hatband, and jumped aboard the train. Ben 
 stared, expecting something terrible to happen to that 
 rash man for taking such a hasty liberty with such a hor¬ 
 rid monster. The train started, however, without acci- 
 ' dent. 
 
 Ben sat near the window in the left-hand corner at the 
 back of the smoking car, which Wharton had probably 
 chosen because it was so full of smoke that he would be 
 less likely to be recognized. Ben’s master sat beside him, 
 smoking as if for a wager. 
 
 The~negro sat by his window and watched. He saw 
 fields, fences and farms fly behind him with the swiftness 
 of the wind. Ben stared with suspended breath, starting 
 eyes and gaping mouth. 
 
 “Now the Lor’ A'mighty hab messy on my po’ soul! 
 To be ca’ed ’way on a fing tearing off like mad, breaviiV 
 fire an’ brimstone, an’ tbrowin’ de lan’ behine it! Oh, 
 Lor’! oh, Lor !” he muttered to himself, unable to keep 
 silent under such awful circumstances. 
 
 “Be quiet, you lunatic!” growled Wharton, in a deep, 
 threatening voice. 
 
 “Oh, Lor’, marse! but dis yere is jis’ like a ho’id 
 dream!” muttered Ben, in a tone* of awe. 
 
 “If you speak another word I will take you out and set 
 you on the top of the engine!” growled Wharton, in a 
 fierce undertone. 
 
 Now Ben did not know what the engine meant, but he 
 had a horrible suspicion that it was the month the 
 
112 
 
 The End of Wharton. 
 
 monster which belched forth fire and brimstone; so he 
 subsided into absolute silence, which lasted until the end 
 of his fearful journey. 
 
 It was still early in the morning when the train slowed 
 up and slid into the Baltimore depot. The day was dark 
 with clouds and drizzling rain. Wharton signaled a hack, 
 entered it, followed by Ben, and directed the driver to 
 go to the foot of Fell Street. When the hack started Ben 
 was so glad to be safely out of the clutches of the fire- 
 and-brimstone-breathing beast that he smiled from one 
 big ear to the other, displaying a fine row of ivories, and 
 trying to be conciliating as he said : 
 
 “I nebber yode in a real city ca’age in all my life 
 befo'. An' 1 feels mouty pee-oud, Marse Wharton!” 
 
 “Hold your jaw, can’t you?” was the amiable response. 
 
 The boy was again snubbed into silence. 
 
 When they reached the foot of Well Street Wharton 
 paid and dismissed the hack, and, followed by Ben, en¬ 
 tered a low saloon, where he called for breakfast for him¬ 
 self and Ben. Wharton was accommodated at a small 
 pine table in the dingy dining room, and the darky was 
 sent to the kitchen. When Wharton had finished his 
 morning meal he called up Ben, who had not half finished 
 his, and walked, attended by the negro, down to the 
 wharfs to look for a certain vessel that he knew must be 
 at her landing place about this time. 
 
 Yes! "file Wanderer , Paul Wallo, master, was at her 
 wharf. The Wanderer was a craft which, both as to her 
 build and rig, and business, has gone rather out of fash¬ 
 ion. She was a brig, of which the captain was principal 
 owner. In the terms of this day, she would be called an 
 “ocean tramp,” for she had no regular ports. She traded 
 between the United States, West Indies and Europe: re¬ 
 ceiving or delivering her cargo, and recruiting her crew, 
 wherever she could. She was now bound for Havana 
 direct, with a miscellaneous cargo of cotton goods, hard¬ 
 ware and pottery. Her crew was as mixed as her cargo. 
 It was made up of Americans and Englishmen, who could 
 speak a little broken Spanish; Spaniards and Portuguese, 
 who could manage to make themselves half intelligible in 
 fractured English; and West Indian creoles and negroes, 
 
The End of Wharton. 1x3 
 
 who spoke a jargon of both tongues. So the deck of the 
 brig was a Tower of Babel at times. 
 
 Wharton boarded the Wanderer , followed by the 
 young negro, who, growing more and more doubtful and 
 anxious, as they stepped on the deck, dared to ask: 
 
 “Marse Wharton, sah, is my new mas’er aboa’d dis 
 yere ship, sah ?' 
 
 “Yes, you donkey, of course he is; or, if he is not, he 
 will be soon. He is going on a voyage, and means to take 
 you along with him.” 
 
 “He tole me how he were goin’ fo’ ter cawy me home 
 ter Servy, sah,” said Ben, uneasily. 
 
 “Well, so he is, you big bull calf. He is going home 
 by water, like we came to Washington by water.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, marse; but,” said the boy, as his color paled 
 as much as it could, “is yo’ gwine long o’ we, too?” 
 
 “Of course I am ! ’ • 
 
 “Oh, Lor’! Oh, my Lor’! my Lor !” groaned the 
 negro, wringing his hands. But before the angry trader 
 could demand an explanation of this emotion the captain 
 of the brig came forward to meet his visitor. 
 
 Poor Ben slunk out of sight, squatted down on the 
 deck and buried his face in his hands, muttering: 
 
 “Jonah ’boa’d ag’in! Jonah 'boa’d ag'in! De wes- 
 sel’s good as gone !” 
 
 Meanwhile, the captain of the brig joined Wharton. 
 Capt. Wallo was of Spanish-American birth, supposed to 
 have been originally of New Orleans. He was a tall, 
 dark, swarthy, iron-gray-bearded man, about fifty years 
 of age. His dark blue sailor dress was ratber shabby, 
 and the gilt band on his cap. was tarnished. 
 
 “How are you, Wharton ? What can 1 do for you to¬ 
 day ? Or what can you do for me? Which is it?” he 
 curtly demanded, without removing his hands, which 
 were deeply buried in bis trousers pockets. 
 
 “Not much on either hand. I am going to Havana, if 
 you can take me. I have a nigger boy with me and would 
 like to have him work his passage,” answered the trader. 
 
 “Certainly. That’s all right, if you mean that young 
 giant there!” exclaimed the skipper, laughing, 
 
 “Yes, I mean him.” 
 
 “A big boy. I would like a few more of that size.” 
 
114 The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 “When do }^>u sail?*’ inquired Wharton, anxiously. 
 
 “With the first tide to-morrow; so you will have to be 
 ready.” 
 
 “I shall be ready. When you have unloaded at Havana, 
 
 where next ?” 
 
 “How do I know? It depends on what kind of a 
 cargo I take aboard. I may come straight back here. I 
 may sail for Liverpool, Havre, or some German port.” 
 
 “H’m! ’ grunted Wharton, looking down, thoughtfully. 
 
 “If you have any freight you must see to getting it 
 aboard this morning.” 
 
 “I have nothing but that carpetbag in the boy's hand,” 
 replied Wharton, who would have liked to go to his 
 boarding house in the city to get some of his effects, but 
 did not dare to run the risk of being arrested by an offi¬ 
 cer on his track. Observing that the skipper looked sur¬ 
 prised, he hastened to add: “I need nothing more for 
 the voyage, and I do not mean to make any stay on the 
 island. So now, capt^n, you may put that nigger to work 
 as soon as you please. It will keep him from making a 
 fool of himself about the sweetheart he left behind. If he 
 shirks, I give you leave to set the cat on him,” added 
 Wharton, with an ugly laugh. 
 
 “All right,” said Capt. Wallo. And the men parted 
 company—the skipper to resume his duties, and the trader 
 to skulk about the ship in obscure places. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE FATE OF A JONAH. 
 
 Hie Wanderer sailed on the first flood tide the next 
 
 t 
 
 morning. Wharton was the only passenger, and was ac¬ 
 companied with a berth in the little cabin occupied by 
 the skipper and the mate, and with a seat at their table, 
 which was always laid for meals in the same cabin. In 
 this fine, September ^weather Wharton spent the whole 
 day and a greater part of the night on deck, in a half- 
 intoxicated state, for he had been drinking deeply since 
 his flight from Washington. Ben had a bunk in the fore- 
 
The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 
 castle, and messed with the colored seamen. He worked 
 hard and willingly all day, and became a favorite of the 
 sailors. 
 
 But Ben was puzzled, suspicious, distressed. Where 
 was his new master? He had not seen a sign of him 
 since he came on board, and he could not question Whar¬ 
 ton, who kept entirely out of his way. Why? Ben 
 brooded, and out of his brooding came a suspicion that 
 slowly grew into a certainty, it was by no process of 
 ratiocination that the young giant’s nebulous doubts crys¬ 
 tallized into conviction. He was incapable of reasoning, 
 but he was just as sure that Wharton had run away from 
 the police, and had entrapped him into coming quietly, 
 as if he had mentally reasoned the whole matter out. But 
 what for? For selling a white child! That fact flashed 
 upon him with sudden conviction/" 
 
 “Oh, Jonah ! Jonah !” he cried, dropping the holystone 
 with which he was cleaning the deck. “Oh, Jonah! 
 Jonah! boa’d de wessel, aid de wessel's good as gone!’’ 
 
 “Vod ees zee madder vees you. Snowball?” inquired 
 a little, dark, Spanish sailor, who was near the foremast, 
 busy with the rigging. 
 
 “Jonah! Jonah! J<5nah’s on de wessel, ah’ de wessel’s 
 good as gone!” cried Ben. 
 
 “Zjonah? Vot ees Zjonah, zen ?” inquired the litile 
 Spaniard. 
 
 But before Ben could explain, the firm footstep and 
 peremptory voice of the mate was heard approaching. 
 
 “Look alive, there, my lads!” And this put an end to 
 the brief conversation for the time being; but after that 
 Ben was frequently heard to bewail the baleful mystery 
 he called “Jonah.” 
 
 Lt w'as a stormy season of the year. Equinoctial gales 
 might reasonably be expected, therefore no special inter¬ 
 position of the avenging fates was needed to bring on the 
 sudden squalls, head winds, twisters and other eccentrici¬ 
 ties of wind, wave and weather that beset the voyage of 
 the Wanderer. But Ben always shook HTs woolly head 
 in the most ominous manner, as (he muttered under his 
 breath, “Jonah ! ’ 
 
 Off Cape I fattcras the brig encountered a hurricane. 
 1 he skipper, who was careful as well as bold, was pre- 
 
n6 
 
 The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 pared for it. He kept his “weather eye” open, and 
 watched the barometer carefully. When he saw the 
 mercury begin to rapidly fall, he trimmed the ship, and 
 carried only sail enough to steady her so that she would 
 obey her helm. 
 
 One night, during a lull in the storm that had been bat¬ 
 tering the brig for nearly two days, the sailors off duty: 
 were assembled in the forecastle, spinning yarns and sing¬ 
 ing songs. During applause in the singing and story¬ 
 telling, Jose, the Spaniard, said to Ben: 
 
 “Gome, now zen, Snowball, dell uz vot do you mean by 
 zee Zjonah?” 
 
 “Yeez, py tamnJ Who eez zee Zhonah, oon boa’d deez 
 zhipe, vot mages ze gales to blew?" demanded the little, 
 dark Portuguese, whose name was Diego. 
 
 “Yes! Who is he, Snowball?" inquired Bill Jones, the 
 Englishman. 
 
 “Come, tell the yarn/’ said a third. 
 
 “No, sing us a song. You black snowballs are as full 
 of songs as a bladder is of wind/’ said a fourth. * 
 
 “D- songs ! Spin us a yarn !’’ 
 
 “To the devil with yarns! Sing us a song!” 
 
 “Tse do bof, gemplemen,” said Ben, conciliatingly. 
 
 “Fire away, then!" said the chorus. 
 
 “I'll sing yer de song ob ‘Marse Jonah an’ de W’ale,’ as 
 my po’ mammy wot is goiT ter glory tell it ter me, an' as 
 Servy”—here poor Ben broke down and cried a little, 
 but soon recovered himself and continued: “As Servy 
 readed it ter me outen ole misses’ big Bible!” 
 
 The negroes, even the stupid ones, have all some gift 
 of improvisation. Ben began and sung the following dog¬ 
 gerel : 
 
 Ben’s Song. 
 
 “Marse Jonah, him wer’ monghty bad! 
 
 Eben w’en a yittle lad ! 
 
 Wouldn’t mine bis mammy’s word, 
 
 Nor his daddy’s, nor Jiis Lord! 
 
 Den he yunned away ter sea, 
 
 An’ de farm wer’ yid ob he. 
 
 But i is’ as soon’s he stepped aboa’d 
 Sich storms ariz ! Oh, Lord ! oh. Lord ! 
 
 De t’under yolled wid might an’ main! 
 
 Up yoared de win’, doun poured de rain 2 
 
ii 7 
 
 The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 ‘It’s Jonah’s sins/ de sailors swored, 
 
 An’ den dey hev him oberboa’d. 
 
 An’ f’om de sea upriz a whale 
 An’ swallered Jonah, head an tail! 
 
 An’ den de win’ fell saft as silk, 
 
 An’ de sea as mild as mammy’s milk! 
 
 An’ dis de moral 1 would teach, 
 
 We inus’ii t keep on lioa’d no sicli 
 Wot on de sea would fetch a storm, 
 
 An’ do us all a mortal harm!” 
 
 “Bravo! Bully for you! Bully boy! cried a chorus 
 of seamen, clapping their hands. 
 
 “But who is this Jonah on hoard this ship. Snowball ? 
 Give us a name!” cried the Englishman. 
 
 “Gemplemen!” said Ben, solemnly; “I has sung yer a 
 song bout de fuss Jonah, as my mammy telled me ’bout, 
 an’ Servy read ’bout. Now I’ll tell yer a true sto y bout 
 de Jonah on dis wessel.” 
 
 “Go on ! Go on!” cried the sailors, in a chorus. 
 
 “Gemplemen, yer hears dat win’ a-roarin’ an a-roarin 
 like a lion, doane yer? ’ 
 
 “Yes!” cried the chorus. 
 
 “An’ yer see de wile wav’s a-risin’ an’ lcapin’ like 
 sharks, longin' ter swaller de ship, doane yer?” 
 
 “Yes! Yes!” they all cried. 
 
 “An’ yer feels de snip unnerneaf oh yer a-wallerin' an’ 
 a-wallerin' like it wer’ tryin’ ter spill yer outen de sea, 
 doane yer?” 
 
 “Yes! Yes! Yes!” 
 
 “Well, gemplemen, neder de win’s nor de waves, nor 
 de ship, aine got no grudge ag’in yer, gemplemen! Wot 
 dey wants ter git yid ob is Jonah! An’ dey gwine ter git 
 yid ob Jonah, ef dey has ter 'stroy de ship! Mine, I tell 
 yer the gospel truth!” 
 
 “Yes, but who is Jonah? Who is Jonah?” demanded 
 the men. 
 
 “Gemplemen, I’se gwine ter tell yer ’bout he. Gemple¬ 
 men, I sailed on a steamboat 'long o’ dis Jonah not more’n 
 a mont’ ago. An’ de boat were wrecked! Yes, sail, 
 wrecked all ter smash, ’case dis same Jonah were abo’d 
 ob her! Yes, gemplemen, an’ eberybodv jounded Yep’ 
 ’twer Jonah hissef! De debbil tuk care ob he. An dis 
 
n8 Tlie Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 1 •> . • s : : 
 
 bressed wessel good as gone now, wid dis yere Jonah 
 aboa’d ob her! Yes. sah !” 
 
 ‘‘But who the devil is he, nigger?” impatiently de¬ 
 manded the American sailor who was present. 
 
 “He’s de berry wickedest, cussedest, 'fernalist willian 
 as ebber drawed de bref ob life! Now I tell yer wot he's 
 name is, an' wot he done. -W’ich his name it is Whar¬ 
 ton!” : . : 
 
 “What! The cabin passenger?” demanded the Eng¬ 
 lishman. 
 
 “Dat berry same! An’ now I jes tell yer w'at he 
 done!” said Ben. 
 
 “Spin us the whole yarn!” all demanded. 
 
 Ben told his story of the cruel sale at the Godfrey 
 . / farm, and of the heartrending parting with friends; the 
 voyage of the Errand Girl, the storm, the wreck of the 
 steamer, the rescue of himself, Wharton, Servia and the 
 little Spanish child, saved by Servia; the slave pen at 
 Washington, and the sale of Servia, with that of the child, 
 as mother and daughter; and, finally, tlm- deception by 
 which he himself was entrapped, and drawn quietly on 
 board the Wanderer. 
 
 “An’ sure’s yer born.” he said, in conclusion, “de wes- 
 sel’s doomed to dest’uction wid dat Jonah aboa’d! ’ 
 
 While he was telling the story the roar of the winds 
 and waves played a fearful accompaniment. The gale 
 was rising in force and fury. 
 
 Sailors are proverbially superstitious. And now that 
 the terrible tale was all told—now that the howling of the 
 wind, the roaring of the sea, and the tossing of the ship 
 increased with every moment—deep, fierce whisperings 
 were exchanged between the men. % 
 
 o 
 
 They were, however, interrupted by three sharp knocks 
 overhead, and the voice of the mate shouting: 
 
 “All hands, ahoy!” 
 
 The men tumbled up and rushed on the deck. The 
 ship rocked, tossed, rolled and pitched, with wave after 
 wave dashing over her bows, so that none but the most 
 practiced seamen could keep their footing on deck. 
 
 The halyards of the fore topgallant sail became so en¬ 
 tangled that the sail could not be shortened. 
 
The Fate of a Jonah. 1x9 
 
 “Aloft and cut away the fo’ t’galn s’l!” commanded the 
 mate. 
 
 Bqn understood the command, and rushed up the fore 
 rigging with the agility of a monkey. His training in 
 climbing trees in coon hunts stood him in good stead now. 
 
 “Yes! You do that! We’ll attend to the rest!’ hissed 
 the voice of the Englishman, as Ben scrambled up the 
 rigging into the darkness above. 
 
 “Keep below, Wharton! You are not in a condition 
 to come on deck in such weather!” the voice of the cap¬ 
 tain was heard to call to his passenger, who came stag¬ 
 gering up from the cabin. _ 
 
 Apparently no attention was paid to this advice by the 
 trader, who went reeling along tEe deck, catching at the 
 rigging here and there to save himself from falling. 
 
 And now came the sudden, swift and awful retribu— 
 tion! It was in this way: All that could be done to save 
 the ship had been done. Ben had succeeded in cutting 
 away the fore topgallant sail; all the other sails were close 
 reefed, and the ship was made snug and trim, with the 
 skipper at the wheel. The Wanderer had been driven 
 swiftly before the gale. There was a pause of awful ex¬ 
 pectation. Should the wind shift suddenly., the chances 
 of the ship were small. 
 
 A group of sailors were standing near amidships, with 
 their heads bent down together, muttering in low, threat¬ 
 ening tones. Ben was not among them. He had just 
 slid down from his perilous duty, and was recovering his 
 foothold. 
 
 The men became more and more excited. An intense, 
 but suppressed, fury was betrayed in every tone, glance 
 and motion. 
 
 “T’other craft was lost, and he aboard, mind you, 
 lads!” hoarsely whispered one. 
 
 “But he was saved! The devil took care of his own!” 
 malignantly growled another. 
 
 “Let the devil save him this time! lie must go! He 
 must go!” hissed a third. 
 
 “Only way to save the ship, lads !” muttered a fourth. 
 
 “Mum! Here he comes! Now, no shirking! All to¬ 
 gether. and all over in a minute! Hish! Look alive, 
 and make no noise i” whispered the Briton. 
 
120 
 
 The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 Wharton, the doomed, but unconscious, victim of sailor 
 superstition and savage retribution, .came sauntering and 
 staggering along toward the group of half-maddened men. 
 
 “Now!” muttered the Briton, in fierce, guttural tones. 
 
 “Zjonah!” hissed the Spaniard, between his clinched 
 teeth. 
 
 “Child stealer!” mocked the Yankee. 
 
 They gathered around him with dark, scowling looks. 
 Wharton dropped the pipe from his mouth, and stared 
 at them in a sudden panic of terror and amazement. They 
 closed on him. They seized him. 
 
 “What the devil do you mean?” he shrieked. “Help! 
 Murder!” 
 
 But the howling of the blast drowned his voice, as with 
 one great, swaying heave they lifted him, stiff shrieking 
 for help, and struggling for life, and crying for mercy, 
 and threw him headlong into the roaring hell of waters 
 
 below. 
 
 This deed of savage vengeance and sailors’ superstition 
 was the wild impulse and action of a crisis. It was over 
 in an instant. 
 
 When the sailors came to their senses, and looked at 
 each other in more of dismay than triumph, they were 
 startled by the voice of the mate, who was hurrying to¬ 
 ward them. 
 
 “What the deuce is all this row?” 
 
 “Man overboard, sir,” answered the Briton. 
 
 “The devil! Who is it?” demanded the mate, in con¬ 
 sternation, for he knew the case was hopeless with the 
 ship in such a sea as that. 
 
 “The devil it is,” muttered several of the men under 
 their breath. 
 
 “It is the passenger, sir!” replied the Englishman. 
 “ 'Fraid he was drunk, sir!” 
 
 “Poor wretch! I heard the daptain warn him!” said 
 the mate. 
 
 Ben had come running up during the colloquy, and 
 heard the few last words that told him the victim was the 
 treacherous trader. In an instant his jacket was off, in 
 another his waistcoat followed, and in a third he would 
 have cast himself into the boiling sea had not the men 
 laid hold of him and held him fast. And it took all their 
 
121 
 
 The Fate of a Jonah. 
 
 united strength to do it, for Ben struggled with all his 
 might to free himself and leap into the sea to save his 
 owner. 
 
 
 Yes! Ben, the poor slave, the “idiot,” the “big baby, 
 as he was contemptuously called, the giant who blub¬ 
 bered like a child at being torn from home and friends— 
 Ben would have risked his life then to save his tyrant! 
 “What are you after, you infernal black lubber? Stop 
 
 that!" ordered the mate. 
 
 “Lor’ A’mighty, marse! I can't let a man drown out 
 try in' ter help ’im !” 
 
 “You can’t help him!” 
 
 “I kin swim, marse! ’ pleaded the negro. 
 
 “You lubber! a lifeboat couldn't float in such a sea. 
 Besides, the man is dead and half a mile astern by this 
 time,’’ said the mate, who could not help admiring Ben’s 
 heroism, though he ascribed it partly to his ignorance of 
 certain death in such a desperate venture. 
 
 Ben sighed and ceased to struggle. He had never in¬ 
 tended, with all his song singing and yarn spinning, to 
 tempt the sailors to throw “Jonah” overboard, nor did 
 he now even suspect that they had done so. He thought 
 the catastrophe to he a fatal accident. 
 
 Strange coincidence! Within a short time the wind fell 
 to a mild and favorable breeze. The storm, with its dan¬ 
 ger, was over; and with full sail and a favorable wind 
 
 the Wanderer continued on a prosperous voyage. 
 
 Nothing thenceforth could convince the sailors who 
 had offered up a victim, that the sacrifice of the wicked 
 trader had not appeased the storm spirit and saved the 
 ship. And many a time, in after years, in the forecastles 
 of other ships, and in midnight watches on deck, was the 
 story told of how the Wanderer was pursued by storms, 
 and nearly wrecked, through having a Jonah on board, 
 and how she was only saved by throwing Jonah into the 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 OLIVER. 
 
 His waggish face, that speaks a soul jocose, 
 
 Seems molded in the cast of fun and glee; 
 
 And on the bridge of his well-arched nose, 
 
 Sits laughter plumed and white-winged jollity. 
 
 —Tennent. 
 
 It was after nine o'clock at night when the train that 
 carried Col. Pryor slowed up into the little wayside sta¬ 
 tion of Halfdown and stopped. 
 
 He was the only passenger for that place. He got off, 
 and the train passed on, whirling-out of sight and hearing. 
 The colonel stood alone on the platform. The one porter 
 had disappeared, his duties being over for the night. The 
 ticket agent had not once shown himself; his duties being 
 ended, he was probably engaged in making up his bunk, 
 preparatory to going to bed. 
 
 The genial colonel was in a quandary. In the hurry 
 and worry of his short sojourn in Washington, he had 
 forgotten to notify his people of the train by which he 
 should return, so that they might send a buggy to meet 
 him. There never was by chance a hack for hire at this 
 little, obscure station. And the nearest inn was at Misty- 
 rock, six miles away. The colonel's prospects now seemed 
 dismal enough. He must arouse the agent who slept at 
 the station, and ask the privilege of sitting up all night in 
 the waiting room, and in the morning he must walk six 
 miles to Mistyrock to hire the one public hack the place 
 boasted of. - 
 
 Well, he could do that, he thought. In the meantime, 
 the night was so fine, the mountain air so fresh, he pre¬ 
 ferred to promenade the platform, and stretch his legs 
 before disturbing the agent. Pacing up and down, the 
 colonel looked about him. 
 
 A brilliant, blue-black, starlit sky gleamed over the pine- 
 clad hills around. After the thunder of the passing train, 
 the stillness and solitude seemed awful. As the colonel 
 glanced about, he heard a soft “Gee up!” and saw emerge 
 from a deep, wooded hollow between two hills, a horse 
 
 
Oliver. 
 
 123 
 
 and buggy, driven by a boy about twelve years of age. 
 When they drew near, and within the range of the solitary 
 • light of the station, he recognized his own shabby, old 
 'buggy, his young, white horse, Ipse Dixit, and his twelve- 
 year-old son, Oliver. He drew a breath of relief and 
 thankfulness. 
 
 "‘Hello, Noll!" he said, going to meet him. 
 
 "Hello, young marse!” responded the boy, drawing up 
 and springing from the buggy. 
 
 “You young rascal!” cried the colonel; “how many 
 times have I told you not to address me in that absurd 
 manner ” 
 
 “Never called you anything else since I first learned to 
 talk, dad, and I m too old to change now,” said the b v 
 “But, jump in, dad, and let's get away from here la fore 
 the express pa'sses. It doesn't stop here, but it is due in 
 a few minutes, and if Ipse Dixit should hear it con iug, 
 he will run away, and kick the buggy to smash and break 
 our necks. Indeed, he told%ie he would/’ 
 
 The colonel got into the buggy, followed by Oliver, v .0 
 took the reins and turned the horse’s head away from the 
 railroad, and drove into the turnpike that crossed it ... 1 
 led to Misty rock. 
 
 “Ipse Dixit is a fine colt, but he’s a little too stubborn 
 and self-conceited. He"swears that no one shall ever f ol 
 or bully him again into coming into sight or hearing of 
 the infernal railway train. I brought him here yesterday 
 for the first time, not knowing his objections. But as soon 
 as he heard the train coming he ran away, threw me out, 
 and kicked the dogcart into kindling wood !” 
 
 “Threw you out, Noll!” exclaimed the colonel, in 
 dismay. 
 
 “Oh, he didn’t hurt me. He landed me in a pool of 
 water. I was ohly wet. 1 was able to pick myself up and 
 walk back to the station to sec if you had arrived by that 
 train. Of course, you hadn’t, young marse. After the 
 train had gone on again, the porter helped me to catch 
 the colt, and loaned me a saddle and bridle, and so 1 got 
 home safe!” 
 
 My good Noll, how thoughtful in you to come to meet 
 me. And I forgot to write,” said the colonel. 
 
 “Of course you did, young marse. You always forget 
 
124 
 
 Oliver. 
 
 when you yourself are concerned. But never mind, dear, 
 old boy! You have me to look after you. Well, the old 
 dogcart’s gone beyond repair; so when I harnessed Ipse 
 Dixit to the buggy this afternoon, I solemnly promised 
 him to bring him no nearer to the station than the deep 
 grove, and keep him safe there until the monster had come 
 and gone! That’s the reason you did not find me waiting, 
 dad.” % 
 
 They were now driving along a fairly good turnpike 
 road, cut through a deep, narrow rut, through a thick, 
 pine forest that covered the hills rising on either side. 
 
 “All well at home, Noll?” inquired the colonel. 
 
 “ ’Live and kicking,” replied the boy. 
 
 “Have you seen anyone from Horah Hall?” 
 
 “Old Si has been here.” 
 
 “Did he bring any -news or message from—from- ” 
 
 “My stepmother-in-law' to be? No, young marse, he 
 didn't?’ 
 
 “Noll! don’t speak in a frivolous tone of that lady, my 
 son,” said the colonel, with gravity. 
 
 “All right, dad! But talking of sons reminds me of 
 something I had to propose.” 
 
 “Well, what is it, Noll?” 
 
 “Let us give Ipse Dixit to young Murdok Horah. 
 
 They’d suit each other to a T.” 
 
 - 
 
 Nat Pryor burst into a roar of laughter. It took but 
 little to excite his sense of humor. 
 
 “It would be a *pull Dick, pull devil,’ between them, 
 certainly, my boy. One of them would kill the other 
 within thg year, that’s sure. But, hush, Noll! We must 
 not jest so about him. He is the only son of his mother, 
 and she is a widow, you know, my boy.” 
 
 “Well, and I am the only son of my father, and he’s a 
 widower!” declared the irrepressible Noll. 
 
 “1 wish lie was as much of a comfort to his good mother 
 as you are to your old dad, my boy,” said the colonel, 
 ‘very gravely. 
 
 “Now, young marse!” exclaimed Oliver, deprecatingly. 
 
 But here Ipse Dixit began to see ghosts in the dark road 
 before him, and refused to go forward. The colonel took 
 the reins from the boy’s hands, and soon reduced the ani- 
 
Oliver. 
 
 125 
 
 mal to obedience, and they passed the haunted spot and 
 went on. 
 
 It was about half-past ten when they reached the tavern 
 in Mistyrock. The house was not closed. All the lights 
 were burning, and the servants indoors and outside seemed 
 on the alert. 
 
 “Put the colt up, Peter, and give him a good rub down 
 and feed," said the colonel, as he got out of the buggy 
 and threw the reins to the hostler. 
 
 “We go no further to-night, Noll,” he said, as lie en¬ 
 tered the house, followed by his son. 
 
 They were shown into a small parlor, with bare floor 
 almost as white and smooth as ivory, bare, whitewashed 
 walls, decorated with cheap colored prints, illustrating 
 scenes in the Revolutionary War, and the portrait of Gen. 
 Washington hung over the mantel. A mass of evergreen 
 pine firs filled the fireplace, and scented the room. V 
 round walnut table and a lew walnut chairs, with a rocker, 
 completed the furniture. 
 
 Oliver drew the rocker up to the table, and the colonel 
 sank into it, and gave the waiter who attended them an 
 order for their supper to be served there. When the man 
 had left the room, Oliver drew a chair to the table, and 
 seated himself opposite his father. 
 
 I he light from the hanging lamp over their heads shone 
 down upon as fine a lad as could be found in the whole 
 country. I\ot that he was so handsome, but he was tall, 
 stout and well grown for his twelve years. His rather 
 large, but shapely, head was covered with a thick mass of 
 fine, curly, red hair, that grew back from his broad, full 
 forehead and temples, giving his countenance a singularly 
 frank and open character. His features were massive, hut 
 regular. His eyes were blue, fringed with long eyelashes 
 and arched with eyebrows a little darker than bis hair! 
 IIis mouth was large, but perfectly formed, with a sweet 
 expression, which, together with his open brow and frank 
 h ue eyes gave a winning charm to his face. His com¬ 
 plexion was fair, but somewhat freckled. 
 
 He wore a suit of blue tweed and a straw hat. which 
 ne had now thrown on the floor. 
 
 lie fore any conversation could be carried further be- 
 
126 
 
 Oliver. 
 
 tween father and son, two negro waiters entered the room, 
 one wdth a tablecloth, which he proceeded to lay, and 
 another with a tray containing the supper, which he ar¬ 
 ranged upon the table. 
 
 Both father and son were hearty feeders, and they soon 
 made a goad meal. When they had finished, the colonel 
 asked to be shown to the room that had been prepared for 
 himself and his son. It was late when they went to bed, 
 but they made up for lost time by sleeping soundly, until 
 *the movements about the house awakened them in the 
 morning. 
 
 *. They took an early breakfast, had the horse hitched to 
 the buggy, and started for home. It was a rough drive 
 along a tortuous road, zigzagging, rather than winding, 
 ‘among the deep ravines, down to the dell called ‘‘The 
 Notches/’ from the peculiar nature of the rocks surround¬ 
 ing it. 
 
 As soon as the colonel delivered the reins to the groom 
 jvho came to take them, he said: 
 
 “Put up Ipse Dixit and harness the brown horse to the 
 jbuggy, Tim, and look sharp about it! I am going to drive 
 
 fever to Iiorah Hall/' < 
 
 * . \ 
 i The man led Ipse Dixit away, and soon returned with 
 
 the relieving animal. Col. Pryor never left the piazza, but 
 
 walked up and down until the buggy was ready. Then, 
 
 'with the agility of a young man, he jumped in and drove 
 
 aw ay. 
 
 “Funny,” murmured Oliver to himself. “Dad's been 
 courting that widow ever since I can remember, but he 
 doesn’t seem any nearer getting, her now than when he 
 first began! Poor dad! Went to Washington on her 
 business, too. I wonder what it was for ? Dad didn't tell 
 me, and I didn't ask him. He don’t like to be questioned 
 where she is concerned. Not he! Poor, young marse." 
 
 Oliver’s habit of calling his father “young marse" was 
 not a jest, nor yet a caprice. The poor boy lost his mother 
 when he was but a few months old, and had been nursed 
 by a strong, healthy, colored woman on the farm, who 
 always addressed her master as “young marse." 
 
 There had been an “old marse” years before, but he 
 was dead. There was no white person about the house 
 
Oliver. 
 
 12 7 
 
 • except the widowed father and his motherless son. All 
 the negroes on the place called the man “young marse, ’ 
 and the child “little marse.” And so the baby boy knew 
 no other name for his father except “dad,” as the colonel 
 called himself when he would say to the child, “Come to 
 poor dad.” At first the trick amused the father, arid he 
 would roar w r ith laughter at hearing himself called “young 
 marse” by his infant son. But as the boy grew older the 
 man grew niLre ashamed of the absurdity than amused 
 at the humor of the appellation, and tried in vain to break 
 the l*ay of it. But the habit seemed too deeply rooted to 
 be eradicated. 
 
 Col. Pryor, with his fresh horse, drove along the rugged 
 road, zigzagging as before, in and out among the rocky 
 heights and wild woods, and finally down into the deep 
 dale in which Horah Hall, shrouded in its old trees, was 
 situated. 
 
 As he drove through the neglected grounds he solemnly 
 shook his head, muttering to himself: 
 
 “ I he place wants a master, that it does! Even as poor 
 a master as Xat Pryor would be better than none at all.” 
 
 As he passed through the tangled thicket of untrimmed 
 trees and straggling undergrowth, and entered the open 
 space just before the house, he came upon Old Si, who 
 was engaged in lazily raking up the fallen leaves and sing¬ 
 ing to himself: 
 
 “I walm to go wcy Ma’y’s gwine, 
 P’ayin' on fie golden harp, 
 Earin' cake an' jinkin’ wine, 
 P’ayin’ on dc golden harp!” 
 
 “Good-morning, Josias/’ said the colonel, laughing. 
 
 The negro started and dropped his rake. 
 
 “My Lor A'mighty, marse, how yer scared me ! Comm’ 
 on a body yike de day of judgment!” 
 
 If it had been that awful day, and 1 had been the angel 
 with the trumpet, I should have found you well prepared, 
 
 Josias. Raking leaves and singing hymns/’ laughed the 
 visitor. 
 
 “Yes, bress de Lor’, marstei^ I hopes dat’s so,” said the 
 negro, with edifying self-complacency. 
 
128 Oliver. 
 
 “But is that your notion of the joys of the blessed in 
 heaven, Josias?” 
 
 “Wot, marser?” 
 
 “ ‘Eating cake and drinking*" wine/ ” 
 
 quoted the colonel, still laughing. 
 
 “Ob co se it is, sah! Settin’ down ter de table ’long ob 
 Moses, an' David, an' Job, an’ de oder 'posies! 'cordin’ 
 to de Scripter." 
 
 Self-convicted of the irreverence in laughing at the 
 negro’s simple faith, the colonel checked the mirtfPthat 
 was bubbling up in his breast and gravely inquired: 
 
 “How s your mistress?” 
 
 “Berry well. I t'anks yer, marse colonel! Powerful well 
 ebber sence she hab dat yittle gal ob Serby's to play ‘long 
 ob! Youn' mist’ess jess like a chile 'long ob a doll baby! 
 Aine yer gwine inter de house, marse colonel? Youn’ 
 mist’ess got nobody but de yittle gal 'long ob her dis 
 mornin',” said the negro, persuasively. 
 
 “Of course I am going in. Here, look after my horse 
 and buggy. Where is the boy?" inquired the colonel, as 
 he jumped out and gave the reins to Si. 
 
 “Marse Murdok gone 'way sumwhuze wid his gun to 
 shoot birds. Lor’! how dat boy do lub ter kill fings! 
 H’m!” groaned Si. “W'y, he do kill just fer de fun ob 
 killin’! Killin' fings fer nullin’ 'tall! Fings as doane do 
 no harm, an’ fings w’at aine good to eat! Taine no use 
 ter say nuffin’ ter 'im, nudder! Tudder day I tell 'im ter 
 'member who seed de sparrows fall.” 
 
 “What did he say?” inquired the colonel. 
 
 “Fotch me a clip ober de top ob my head wid his gun 
 dat would hab sont me ter glory ef I hadn’t a strong head 
 ob my own. Wid de butt ob his gun he did it!" 
 
 Impulsive Nat Pryor now suddenly remembered that 
 he was committing another misdemeanor by encouraging 
 the servant to talk disparagingly of his young master, so 
 he said, abruptly : 
 
 “Take the animal to the stable, Si,” and then he hur¬ 
 ried up the steps leading to the front door and sounded 
 an alarm on the cast-iron lion’s head. 
 
 Tile door was opened by 'Brush, who bowed and made 
 
Oliver. 
 
 129 
 
 way for the visitor to enter. Col. Pryor walked into the 
 hall and sat down in one of the oaken chairs, saying: 
 
 “How are you, my man ? Give my compliments to your 
 mistress, and say that I would like to pay my respects to 
 her in per*son if she should be disengaged.” 
 
 “Yes, sah. Woane yer go inter de parlor, sah ?” 
 
 “1 won’t stir, if you please, until you give my message 
 to your mistress,” said the colonel, taking off his luvf, and 
 drawing out his pocket handkerchief to wipe his face. 
 Fatigue was beginning to tell on even stout Nat Pryor. 
 
 The negro hurried away, and soon returned with his 
 mistress’ compliments, and a refpiest that Col. Pryor would 
 walk into her sitting room. 
 
 Nat Pryor rose and went down the dark hall, preceded 
 by the negro, who opened the last door on the left hand, 
 ■bowed and retired. 
 
 The visitor entered the gloomy hack parlor, with its 
 dark, wainscoted walls, its dull, crimson window curtains, 
 aid its somber, black walnut furniture. 
 
 In the right-hand corner of the opposite end of the 
 room, just where the parted breadths of the liTurky, rtd 
 window curtains let in a ray of light, sat the widow and 
 the child—Isabel Horali, still in her mourning, in a high- 
 back chair, uncomfortable enough to be penitential, en¬ 
 gaged in knitting—no pretty fancvwork—but a stocking. 
 
 In a child’s chair at her feet sat the little Zenobia. The 
 one stream of light fell directly on her bright form. It 
 needed but a glance at the group to see that Old Si was 
 right in his story that the sad widow delighted in the 
 Spanish infant as a child delights in a doll. The beautiful, 
 dark, little creature was artistically and harmoniously 
 dressed, all in one color that suited her. She wore a slip 
 of rich crimson cashmere, bound around the waist with a 
 broad sash of the same hue. A narrow ribbon of the same 
 color twined in and out among the glossy, black curls of 
 hei lovely little head. Black silk hose and tiny crimson 
 boots completed her dress. She glowed like some richly 
 plumaged bird of the tropics in the stream of light from 
 the window. All around her, on the polished oak floor, 
 
 wire strewed her toys—dolls, birds, picture books, et 
 cetera. 
 
 Nat Pryor took in the whole scene at a glance. 
 
Oliver. 
 
 * 3 ° 
 
 The tiny lady was the first to notice the visitor. She 
 laid down the doll she had been nursing as tenderly as if 
 it were her child, rose, bowed her little head with exquisite 
 grace, and said: 
 
 “Buenos dias, mi senor .” 
 
 “Good-morning, my beauty! How do you do?” re¬ 
 sponded the hearty colonel, stooping to kiss her. But she 
 drew a little back, and gave him her hand instead of her 
 lips, saying: 
 
 “ Gracias , mi senor!" 
 
 “I said she was a princess! She gives me her hand to 
 kiss like a queen !” laughed Nat Pryor, instantly recover¬ 
 ing himself to bow 7 to Mrs. Horah, who had risen to re¬ 
 ceive him. 
 
 “Good-morning, madam. I hope I find you well,” said 
 the colonel, offering his hand. 
 
 “As usual, thank you/’ she answered, coolly, and only 
 touching the tips of his fingers. For Isabel Horah seemed 
 to think it necessary to keep her silent suitor at some dis¬ 
 tance ; more especially after she had received services from 
 him. 
 
 “Pray be seated, Col. Pryor,” she said, indicating a 
 chair. 
 
 He dropped into it, feeling, poor fellow, as if a douche 
 of ice-cold water had been thrown over him. For a time 
 he was speechless. 
 
 “You have taken a great deal of trouble on this poor 
 child s account, and I thank you in her name.” 
 
 “Don’t mention it, dear madam. I would have taken 
 much more for”—you he was about to say, but she would 
 not allow 7 him to go further. 
 
 “May I inquire what success you have had?” she has¬ 
 tened to ask. 
 
 “Not much, madam, I am sorry to say. The scoundrel 
 —I beg your pardon—Wharton has fled. The police are 
 after him. Whether they will catch him or not is another 
 question. He has probably left the country. However, 
 I have offered a reward for his apprehension.” 
 
 “And concerning the child?” 
 
 “I have ascertained that she is undoubtedly the daugh¬ 
 ter of Senor Lorenzo and the Sehora Dolores de Leon, of 
 Cadiz, Spain, passengers on board the Errand Girl, and 
 
Oliver. 
 
 131 
 
 who were lost in the wreck of that steamer. I have caused 
 advertisements to be inserted in the principal newspapers 
 in the large cities in the country, addressed to the orphan s 
 nearest of kin, or next friend; describing her by name, 
 personal appearance and probable age, with the story of 
 the rescue.” 
 
 “I thank you, sir. That is all, I presume, that can be 
 done at present. And we must have patience. But the 
 tutor you were so obliging as to say that you would en¬ 
 deavor to find for my son?” 
 
 “I am very sorry to say that I have not beert able to 
 find one as yet; but I inserted an advertisement in two 
 newspapers for such a one as I hoped might suit you, and 
 gave the address of the post office, Mistyrock.” 
 
 “I thank you again, Col. Pryor. You lay me under 
 many obligations. May Heaven reward you, for 1 never 
 can,” said Isabel Iiorah. The words were earnest, but 
 the tone was cold, and, as a whole, her answer meant to 
 convey more than met the ear^ 
 
 The hapless suitor understood her, and sighed forth his 
 answer. 
 
 “To serve you is the greatest, if not the only, happiness 
 of my life, Mrs. Horah. I beg that you will give me that 
 happiness as often as you can/’ With these words he 
 rose to take leave. He had hoped that she would invite 
 him to dinner. And she would have done so, but she was 
 afraid. 
 
 It was a curious relation, theirs. Nat Pryor was. or 
 seemed to be, her brother, friend and counselor, all in one. 
 And he seemed to take great pleasure in holding this re¬ 
 lation toward her. But he wanted to marry her, and she 
 wrs afraid iTSrmight do so some day. 
 
 “Good-morning, Mrs. Horah,”’*he said, offering his 
 hand. 
 
 “Good-morning, and thank you again, Col. Pryor,” she 
 replied, just touching his fingers. 
 
 “By-by, baby!” he said, to the little senorita. 
 
 Adios, mi senor , * she answered, bowing and giving 
 her hand with her sweet, infantile grace. 
 
 Col. Piyor left the house, and drove home, half angry 
 with his fair, cold neighbor. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ZEN OB I A, THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 Know w£ll my soul, God’s hand controls 
 Whate’er thou fearest; 
 
 Round Him in calmest music rolls 
 Whate’er thou hearest. 
 
 What to thee is shadow, to Him is day, 
 
 And the end He knoweth; 
 
 And not on a blind and aimless way 
 Thy spirit goeth.—W hittier. 
 
 The advertisement for a tutor for young Murdok Pforah 
 had been answered by about' a dozen applicants; most of 
 them, as usual, graduates of Northern colleges. But one 
 of them was a middle-aged Scotchman, an M. A., who had 
 been a public schoolmaster in Washington, but who, on 
 account of his failing health, desired lighter duties and a 
 change of scene. 
 
 “Now we have found the right sort of a man for the 
 young gentleman,” said Col. Pryor, when he was, as usual, 
 consulted by Mrs. Horah. “None of your young chaps, 
 who, not having learned to control themselves, cannot con¬ 
 trol the boy, of course, or command respect or confidence. 
 No, indeed, hut a man of middle age, grave, scholarly and 
 experienced, as I judge this man to be by his letter. I 
 advise you, by all means, to engage Mr. Alexander Mc- 
 Kaul—though if he leaves the charge of a large public 
 school, with the idea of finding it lighter work to look 
 after the education of this young ruffian, I think he will 
 find himself very much mistaken, and will wish himself 
 back with all his heart,” he added, mentally. 
 
 Of course, Isabel Horah took her neighbor’s advice, 
 and engaged the Scotchman. 
 
 In due time he arrived at Horah Hall. A tall, gaunt, 
 red-haired Highlander, with bald crown, side whiskers, 
 high nose, high cheek bones, strong chin, resolute lips and 
 keen, light blue eyes. Evidently one who would stand no 
 nonsense from man, woman or child. 
 
 Mrs. Horah received him politely, but with many mis¬ 
 givings. Young Murdok greeted him sulkily, and made 
 
Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 *33 
 
 tip his mind that “the beggarly Scotchman” was the most 
 objectionable of all the tutors he had had, and had driven 
 away, and that there was likely to be a death struggle be¬ 
 tween them for the mastery. The only reason why the 
 young rebel did not at once repel the new teacher and 
 insist upon his being sent away, was that he anticipated 
 so much “fun” in opposing and tormenting the tutor, well 
 knowing that the rebellion would be sustained by his 
 mother. 
 
 So Mr. McKaul was duly installed in the schoolroom, 
 and Murdok resumed his lessons. But, as may be readily 
 supposed, Mr.'Alexander McKaul did not remain long at 
 Horah Hall. His engagement ended in a domestic cy¬ 
 clone. The way of it was this : 
 
 In a high altercation between master and pupil, the lat¬ 
 ter suddenly threw an inkstand at the head of the former, 
 which just missed laying open his scalp. Whereupon the 
 stalwart Scotchman seized the young ruffian, and then and 
 there gave him the first “discipline” that “Murdok Horah s 
 son” had ever received, in about as severe a thrashing as 
 ar.v schoolboy ever got. 
 
 The noise of the man’s blows, and of the boy’s roars 
 and struggles, brought the mother and all the household 
 running into the room. Cut not immediately did the de¬ 
 scending shower of blows cease at the entrance of the 
 horrified crowd. McKaul was too deeply interested and 
 absorbed in his duty to notice the intruders until the cries 
 ot the mother to her servants reached his ears over the 
 howling of the young culprit. 
 
 “Seize that madman! He will kill my son!” she 
 screamed, running herself to the rescue. 
 
 Crush, Si, Delphy and Cindv fell upon the luckless 
 Scotchman, ■ and held him while young Murdok broke 
 away, rushed from the room, and tied' from the house, 
 
 showing that his flesh only suffered, and that his hones 
 were sound. 
 
 But Isabel Horah was beside herself, forgot that she 
 was a gentlewoman, lost all self-control, and gave way to 
 the fury that possessed her. Without deigning to ask 
 au, explanation, or to address a single word to the tutor 
 said to her servants who held the man between them 
 m Midi a vise that it seemed he could not struggle: 
 
134 
 
 Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 “Take that brute and cast him forth from the house! 
 And if he doesn't leave the place instantly, set the dogs 
 on him! ’ And without another word, but with a look 
 of deadly hate and scorn, she swept from the room to go 
 and look after her injured and outraged son. 
 
 The servants did not immediately obey their mistress’ 
 commands. Indeed, they secretly sympathized with the 
 tutor, and thought the young miscreant had only got his 
 deserts—his rights, indeed, out of which he had been kept 
 too long alreadv. 
 
 “Release me, ye doited fules!” said the Scotchman, 
 falling back on his dialect as he sometimes did. “Re¬ 
 lease me! I am no that unweeling to go. I would na 
 strive in a leddy’s presence, but now, gin ye dinna loose 
 me, I'll lay the four o’ ye flat on your backs!” And sud¬ 
 denly he broke from them all, and stood at bay. 
 
 But it was only the surprise of the effort that made it 
 successful. * 
 
 “Marse teacher," said Si, as the oldest of the party, 
 speaking for the rest, “Mist’ess* o’ders mus' be ’beyed. 
 But we doane wahne ter be ha’sh, nor likewise dis’spec’- 
 ful. So ef yer 11 le’me go wiv yer ter yer room I'll hc'p 
 yer ter pack yer fings, ’fo yer go.” 
 
 “Come along, then, if you are to be my jailer!” said the 
 Scotchman. 
 
 “No, marse teacher, not dat! I kno’s w’at’s jue ter 
 flarnin better’n dat! Tse yer ’bejunt servant ter com¬ 
 mand, sah,” said Si. with one of his best bows. 
 
 Meanwhile, Isabel Horah had gone through all the 
 lower rooms, searching for her boy, without finding him. 
 She went out on the piazza, where she found Servia, with 
 the little Zenobia. 
 
 “Have you seen Master Murdok?” she anxiously in¬ 
 quired. 
 
 “Yes, madam. He passed out here a few minutes ago 
 and went around in the direction of Celia’s cottage,” re¬ 
 plied the woman. 
 
 “Ah!” sighed Isabel Horah, with a jealous pang, for it 
 occurred to her, not for the first time, that it was ever 
 to Celia that the boy went for sympathy in his real or 
 imaginary troubles. Ever to Celia, notwithstanding all the 
 love, all the worship, she, his mother, lavished on him. 
 
135 
 
 Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 “It is hard!” she said to herself. “It is very hard! It 
 is because the woman nursed him, I think. I do wish 
 from the bottom of my heart I had never let her do it!’' 
 Feeling sure that Celia would do everything that she her¬ 
 self could do to comfort the sufferer’s mind and body, 
 and being too much hurt to follow him to his chosen 
 refuge in the negro’s hut, Isabel Horah reentered the 
 house to wait for his return. 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when he entered his moth¬ 
 er’s sitting room, threw down his cap and demanded : 
 
 “Is that beggar gone?’ 
 
 “Yes, my dear, hours ago. Of course, he could not be 
 permitted to remain here one moment after his outrage¬ 
 ous conduct,” she answered, soothingly. 
 
 “Was he hunted off the grounds by the dogs? Did they 
 tear him? I wish they d killed him! And now,” he con¬ 
 tinued, without waiting to hear an answer to his question, 
 * I tell you what, once for all! I am not going to have 
 any more of these beggarly, sneaking, poor white trash, 
 as Celia calls them, about me! I 11 have a gentleman for 
 my tutor, or 1 will have none at all! There are poor gen¬ 
 tlemen in the world. Celia says there are. And I will 
 have one for my teacher! I am master of Horah, I am! 
 and not to be insulted and assaulted by the scum of the 
 earth, and that I 11 tell you !’ he savagely exclaimed. 
 
 “Murdok, my dear, we will try to find such a gentleman 
 as you desire, though it will be difficult to do so,” said 
 this fond and foolish mother, whose mistaken indulgence 
 was preparing the ruin of her son. 
 
 Of course she could not advertise for a poor gentleman 
 
 as tutor in so many words, but she would consult Col. 
 
 Pryor So, on the day succeeding the domestic storm 
 
 r h f" Na . t .J >r >; or happened to call on her, she, as usual, 
 laid her difficulty before him. 
 
 The good colonel was shocked, disappointed and quite 
 discouraged by the summary dismissal of the Scotch tutor 
 and, for some minutes, could find nothing to say At 
 length an impulse to shift all future responsibility'from 
 ins own shoulders led him to suggest: ' ■ 
 
 ‘‘I. would consult the rector, madam. Melville mi»ht 
 make private inquiries among his confreres of the min is- 
 
136 Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 try, and discover among them the treasure you are in 
 search of.’’ 
 
 “It is an inspiration, Col. Pryor. I will -act upon it im¬ 
 mediately,” said the widow, gratefully. And soon after 
 
 the good neighbor took leave and went away. 
 
 \ 
 
 % 
 
 * * * ;|c * * * 
 
 Meantime, days passed into weeks, and weeks into 
 months, and nothing was heard of the absconded trader, 
 and no response came to the advertisements for the little 
 Spaniard’s next to kin. At length all hope from either 
 quest was resigned, and the advertisements were with¬ 
 drawn. 
 
 “I am not sorry, however, that that miscreant, Whar¬ 
 ton, has never been apprehended and brought to trial, 
 much as he deserves the severest punishment; nor am I 
 sorry that no one has come forward to claim little Zeno- 
 bia,” said Mrs. Horah to her old friend one morning, 
 when he was paying one of his frequent visits. 
 
 “And why, my dear lady, after you have gone to so 
 much trouble and expense in advertising?” inquired the 
 colonel. 
 
 “You took all the trouble, colonel. It was our duty to 
 make public quest, but I am not sorry—no, indeed! I 
 am heartily glad that it came to nothing in both in¬ 
 stances !” 
 
 “But, pardon me, why?” 
 
 “Because I have become very much attached to the lit¬ 
 tle one, and I mean to adopt her and bring her up as my 
 own daughter, which I could not do if any kindred came 
 to claim her. And, under these circumstances, I do not 
 wish the disgraceful story of Wharton’s crime in selling 
 her as a slave to come out, as it surely must have if the 
 wretch had been apprehended and brought to trial.” j 
 
 “But, my dear madam, if that story was published 
 through the whole length and breadth of the land, and 
 told from the housetops, it could in no way injure the 
 innocent little victim,” said the colonel in surprise. 
 
 “I am not so sure as to that—in a community like this. 
 Besides, of all the evils, I should deprecate the cruelty that 
 the child herself should ever suffer by the humiliation of 
 
Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 137 
 
 learning the shame to which she had been subjected in 
 being sold as a slave.” 
 
 The colonel stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner, 
 but said nothing. The widow continued : 
 
 “Our neighbors have not the slightest knowledge, or 
 the faintest suspicion, of the real manner in which this 
 child came under my charge, i cautioned Servia from fne 
 beginning to say nothing about it to any living soul. 1 
 know that she lias obeyed me. The story of the heroic 
 rescue of the little Spanish child by the brave colored 
 girl has been made public property by the newspapers; 
 but the story of the humiliating sale of that child as a 
 slave is a profound secret, confined to you, myself, and 
 Servia, whom I can implicitly trust. The secret must 
 go no further. All that my neighbors have heard, and 
 all they must ever know, is that the little Spanish child, 
 rescued by the colored girl, has been ascertained to be of 
 noble lineage, and has been adopted by me in default of 
 her own kindred, and is to be brought up as my own 
 daughter/’ 
 
 Xat Pryor made mental objection to the representation 
 of the orphan as of “noble lineage,” since nothing was 
 positively known of the rank of Sefior Don Ix>renzo or his 
 wife. But lie-said nothing. 
 
 “You understand me, now, I hope, Col. Pryor!” 
 
 ‘‘Assuredly, my dear lady. I understand and appre¬ 
 ciate both your motives and your action. There is only 
 one aspect of the affair, my dear lady-” 
 
 1 he colonel paused. Chosen counselor as he was, he 
 always hesitated to enter a demurrer, however reason¬ 
 able, to any plan proposed by the sovereign of his affec¬ 
 tions, that he had any reason to suspect might be un¬ 
 pleasant to her, however proper or necessary it might 
 seem to him. 
 
 ‘‘What is that, sir r” she inquired. 
 
 ‘Tt is this, my dear lad?. The little Spanish girl being 
 orphaned, and of noble lineage, as vou infer, may also be 
 the hefress of large estates of which she ought not t® 
 lose the right of inheritance-“ 
 
 “Castles in Spain !” interrupted the ladv, with a slightly 
 derisive smile. ' . 
 
 ^ es, madam, replied the colonel, unconscious of any 
 
^ _ / 
 
 138 Zenobia, the Unknown. 
 
 sarcasm. “And lands! Therefore I thought that though 
 we may withdraw the advertisement for kindred for the 
 present-’ 
 
 “After keeping them in the papers for months/’ inter¬ 
 rupted the widow. 
 
 The colonel made a deprecating wave of his hand^ and 
 continued: 
 
 “It might be well in the interest of the child to reinsert 
 the advertisements at intervals, say of from four to six 
 months. What do you think yourself, madam?” 
 
 “I admit that it should be done on the slightest chance 
 of gaining news of Zenobia’s relatives, but I do not be¬ 
 lieve anything will come of it,” replied Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “And her wish is father to the thought,” mused the 
 colonel; but he said nothing. • 
 
 The lady again took up the thread of the conversation, 
 saying: . 
 
 “Now I wish you to take notice, Col. Pryor, that though 
 I consent to the occasional repetitions of the advertise¬ 
 ments for Zenobia’s friends, I will have no more rewards 
 offered for the apprehension of Wharton. I should much 
 rather the miscreant should escape punishment, richly as 
 he deserves the severest the outraged law can inflict, than 
 that the humiliating fact of my pet’s sale as a slave should 
 become public.” 
 
 “Of course your will is my law, dear m^tiam!” replied 
 the colonel, with a polite bow. Under reserved protest 
 he, however, added mentally—-“For I cannot think you 
 are right, angel as you are/' 
 
 “And you understand, I hope, colonel?” she inquired, 
 doubtfully, for she read his frank countenance more 
 clearly than he thought. 
 
 “Well, not quite, dear madam,’’ he answered, with a 
 deprecating smile. 
 
 “In what particular?” she inquired, with some annoy¬ 
 ance. 
 
 “I beg pardon. Only this: As you are so opposed to 
 bringing the child stealer to justice, why did you offer a 
 reward for his apprehension ?’j 
 
 “Why? Don’t you see that ‘circumstances alter cases’? 
 When I offered that reward 
 
Gilbert Godfrey. 139 
 
 “And displayed such a great desire to have the criminal 
 brought to trial,” interjected the colonel. 
 
 “The case was very different then. I confidently ex¬ 
 pected the friends of the orphan to come forward and 
 claim her, and carry her off to Spain before her guilty 
 abductor could be brought to trial, and so the dishonor 
 of her sale would never be known to her, or to her friends. 
 But as they have not come to claim her, and, in all proba¬ 
 bility, never will come, and as I have adopted her, and 
 intend to bring her up in this neighborhood, I do not 
 choose the shadow of that shame to rest upon her. Bah! 
 Did I not tell you all this before?' 
 
 “Well, not clearly; or else I am very obtuse,” said the 
 colonel, with a smile. “But, to change the subject: I 
 met Melville at Mistyrock yesterday, and he desired me 
 to tell you that he had found a gentleman who he hoped 
 might suit you as a teacher for your son, and that to¬ 
 morrow the gentleman would wait upon you with a letter 
 from himself.” 
 
 “I am very glad to hear it. What is his name?” 
 
 “I do not know, but we will hear to-morrow,' replied 
 the colonel, as he rose to take his leave. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 GILBERT GODFREY. 
 
 1 lie star of the uneonquercd will, 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 
 And calm, and self-possessed.— Dingfellow. 
 
 Early in the forenoon of the next day, as Mrs. Horah 
 sat at the front window of her bedroom on the first floor, 
 engaged in sewing, with the little Spaniard playing on the 
 floor at hei feet, and Servia employed in arranging the 
 bureau drawers, she happened to ’look out and saw a 
 young man coming up the walk toward the house. 
 
 It is the new tutor, I suppose. Brush has gone to 
 Mistyrock. Servia, you must go down and admit him. 
 and say that 1 will see him in a few minutes.” 
 
140 Gilbert Godfrey. 
 
 “Yes, madam/’ the girl replied, leaving the room at 
 once. 
 
 Before she reached the foot of the stairs slie heard the 
 knock, and hastened to open the door. 
 
 A young man of about twenty years of age, of medium 
 height, fair complexion, light hair, blue eyes, large fore¬ 
 head and light mustache, stood at the threshold. 
 
 “Master Gilbert!” 
 
 “Servia!” 
 
 These were the first words that burst in astonishment 
 from the lips of the two. 
 
 “Oh. Master Gilbert! Is this, indeed, you, yourself? 
 Thank the Lord! Oh, thank the Lord that 1 see you 
 once more!” exclaimed Servia, trembling with emotion 
 that nearly overwhelmed her. 
 
 “Servia, my girl, I am very glad to see you! Looking 
 so well, too! You must have a happy home here, judging 
 by your countenance, when you first opened the door.” 
 
 “Yes, Master Gilbert, thank the Lord, who ‘tempers the 
 wind to the shorn lamb/ I have a happy home and a good 
 mistress. If it hadn’t been so I should have died, I was 
 so heartbroken at parting from everybody at my dear old 
 home! But walk in, sir. The surprise and delight of 
 seeing you made me forget good manners. This way, sir, 
 if you please,” said Servia, leading on to the back parlor 
 —the obscure, wainscoted room, with its dark crimson 
 window curtains, where the widow usually sat knitting all 
 day long, and where all her counsels with Col. Pryor were 
 held. 
 
 Servia drew aside the curtains and opened the shutters 
 and let more light into the room than it was usually per¬ 
 mitted to receive. Then she drew the old crimson rocking- 
 chair forward for her former young master, and when he 
 was seated, said: 
 
 “My mistress sent her compliments to you, sir, and 
 savs that she will come down to see you in a few min¬ 
 utes.” 
 
 “All right, my good girl. I am not sorry to have a 
 little time in which to ask you about yourself. Are you 
 really happy and contented here?” inquired the young 
 man, with earnest interest. 
 
 “'As happy—yes—I may say happier than I could be 
 
t - 
 
 — Gilbert Godfrey. 141 
 
 anywhere else away from the loved and lost,” gravely 
 replied the girl. 
 
 “Time will soften the sorrow for the dead and absent, 
 Servia,” said the young man, kindly. 
 
 “The Lord will, and He does, sir! The Lord ! Whom 
 my sainted mistress taught me to trust through good and 
 ill,” said Servia, reverently inclining her head. 
 
 “And time is one of Llis mediums, my girl. Servia, I 
 have heard of your brave deed in saving that little Spanish 
 child. Ah, my girl, what a noble deed that was! I call-' 
 not praise it too much, Servia. 1 should have been proud 
 to have done such a deed.” 
 
 “Oh, sir, I scarcely did it myself. It was so sudden, so 
 impulsive, so mechanical; I hardly knew what I did, or 
 had done, until I came to myself on board the Carrier 
 Dove , and was told that I was picked up just as I was 
 sinking, with the child clasped in my arms. I am sure 
 it was the Lord that did that, sir, though I got the credit.” 
 
 “Meek and modest as ever, Servia. But I really do 
 think that the child’s friends should have purchased your 
 freedom, and have secured you suitable employment, 
 where slavery and prejudice against color does not exist. 
 Have they not in any way acknowledged their invaluable 
 obligations to you, Servia? ’ 
 
 “Master Gilbert, the father and the mother of the little 
 one were drowned in the wreck. None of her kindred has 
 come forward to claim her, though they have been widely 
 advertised for the last few months/’ 
 
 “That is strange! What has become of the poor child 
 then ?” , • . 
 
 “My mistress has adopted her, sir,” answered Servia. 
 And then, suddenly remembering her promise of secrecy 
 in regard to the manner in which the child came into Mrs. 
 Horah’s possession, and dreading embarrassing questions, 
 and feeling also very anxious to hear about the people of 
 Godfrey’s Farm, she abruptly, yet respectfully, inquired: 
 
 “How are they all at home, if vou please. Master Gil¬ 
 bert ?’’ 
 
 All who are left are well, Servia, hut great changes 
 have taken place since your mistress left us. Mv brother 
 and myself found it necessary to let the house and farm, 
 and all the old hands who are left have been hired bv the 
 
142 Gilbert Godfrey. 
 
 new tenant The aged and infirm are to retain possession 
 of their quarters, and a portion of the wages of the young 
 and able-bodied is tc be devoted to their comfortable sup¬ 
 port. My brother Gideon and myself have determined-io 
 earn our own living. Gideon is overseer on the same 
 farm that he was once master of, and I have come here 
 to be a private tutor. ’ 
 
 “Oh, Master Gilbert! That you should come to this! 
 Oh, what would my dear old mistress say!” moaned Ser- 
 via, in a heartbroken voice. 
 
 “My poor girl, you have forgotten all your mistress' 
 teachings, if you do not recognize the righteousness of our 
 course. What would she say? If she can look down 
 from her blessed abode and see us, she will say: 'Well 
 done, my sons!' So don’t you take the matter so much 
 to heart, my girl,” solemnly replied the young man. 
 
 “Oh, I would not mind it for myself. I would not 
 mind anything for myself. But for you! for you ! For 
 my dear old mistress’ son. Oh, Master Gilbert! I would 
 have been willing to die if that could have saved you from 
 this!” cried the girl, vehemently wringing her hands. 
 
 Before the young man could do or say anything more * 
 to soothe this uncalled for excess of emotion—which can 
 scarcely be understood by a stranger to the deep devotion 
 sometimes felt by hereditary slaves for indulgent masters 
 and mistresses, such as the unfortunate Godfrevs had been 
 from generation to generation—the door opened, and Mrs. 
 Horah sailed into the room with the majestic air she could 
 sometimes assume. 
 
 She had taken a dislike, almost amounting to hatred, to 
 the whole race of tutors, and meant to make such an im¬ 
 pression on this one as should, she said to herself, “put 
 him in his proper place at the beginning.” 
 
 Young Gilbert Godfrey rose and stood up. She saw 
 before her a pale, refined, intellectual young man clothed 
 in deep mourning. He bowed and silently presented his 
 credentials. 
 
 She took the letter, read the address on the envelope and 
 the line of writing below it: “To present Mr. Gilbert 
 Godfrey.” , 
 
 “Yes, I am glad to see you, Mr. Godfrey. Pray re¬ 
 sume your seat,” she said, with a slight modification of 
 
Gilbert Godfrey. 143 
 
 her majestic air as she sank into the easy-chair that Servia 
 brought forward. It was then that she noticed for the 
 first time the deep emotion of the girl, and, looking at her 
 so'keenly that the latter dropped her eys, she inquired: 
 
 '‘What is the matter with you?” 
 
 “This gentleman is the son of my old mistress, madam/’ 
 falteringly replied the girl, relieving her bosom by a deep 
 sigh. 
 
 “I hope you will excuse her,* madam; she was very 
 much devoted to my mother, who died in the very hour 
 she was taken away from the farm. The unexpected 
 sight of me revived the Vnemory of these sad events, and 
 overcame her,” said the young man, deferentially. 
 
 “Naturally,” assented the lady. Then, turning to the 
 girl, she said: “Servia, you had better retire and try 
 to compose yourself. ’ 
 
 When the latter had dropped her courtesy, and left the 
 room, the lady turned to the young man, and opened the 
 conversation on his new relations toward her son and her¬ 
 self. She determined that, on this occasion, there should 
 be no misunderstanding about the method of conducting 
 his education. After a few preliminary remarks she went 
 on to sav : 
 
 “My son is a very sensitive and high-spirited youth; 
 lordly and masterful, like all his highborn race. Blood, 
 Mr. Godfrey, blood will tell! He is not at all to be treated 
 as an ordinary schoolboy. His inclinations in regard to 
 studies and hours must really always'be consulted; and, to 
 save inconvenience, prav let it be distinctly understood 
 that in the event of any difference of opinion between my 
 son and yourself, you are not. if you please, to try to en¬ 
 force your views upon him, for I warn you that the at¬ 
 tempt would prove a failure. But you are to appeal the 
 case to me. Do you perfectly understand me?” she in¬ 
 quired, rather emphatically. 
 
 1 crfectlv, madam. And pray permit me to say that 
 I shall be glad and grateful to be so far relieved from the 
 most delicate and difficult part of a tutor’s responsibili¬ 
 ties,” replied the young man. 
 
 “I am happy to-hear you say so, Mr. Godfrey. The 
 want of a clear understanding on this point between my¬ 
 self and former tutors has led to much unpleasantness. 
 
144 Gilbert Godfrey. 
 
 May I inquire when you will be able to enter upon your 
 duties here?" 
 
 “As soon as you please, madam. I have only to go 
 to the hotel at Misty rock and get my effects/’ 
 
 “Have you a conveyance waiting at the lodge gates? 
 There is none at the door, I notice.” 
 
 “No, madam. I walked here, and propose to walk 
 back." 
 
 “Walked? Oh, Mr. Godfrey, you really must not think 
 of such an undertaking. The carriage is quite at your 
 disposal, if you must go in person; but if it be your effects 
 only that you need go for, my okl servant, Josias, is per¬ 
 fectly trustworthy, and you can send him in the cart, with 
 an order on the landlord, to bring w r hat you call for," said 
 Isabel Horah, for she had really taken a fancy to this 
 obliging young man. 
 
 “You are extremely kind, madam. If it be quite as 
 convenient, I will hold myself indebted to you for the use 
 of your carriage, as I have some business to transact at 
 the hotel before I fmallv leave it.” 
 
 j 
 
 Mrs. Horah smiled, for she perfectly understood that 
 the business referred to must be the calling for and set¬ 
 tling of his bill. But she said : 
 
 “Quite as convenient, Mr. Godfrey. I will ring and 
 order the carriage at once." 
 
 She rose to do so, but the young man anticipated her 
 and saved her the trouble. 
 
 Brush, who had just returned from his errand to Misty- 
 rock. answered the bell, and received the order. 
 
 He had scarcely left the room when young Murdok 
 Horah came in boisterously from some land wandering, 
 and shouted: 
 
 “Oh, mother! you ought t’ave seen how Lep killed that 
 
 squirrel! How-” He paused suddenly on seeing the 
 
 stranger. 
 
 “This gentleman is your new teacher, Mr. Godfrey, my 
 dear. Mr. Godfrey, here is vour pupil,” said the lady. 
 
 The boy bobbed his head and stared. 
 
 “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Master Horah. 
 I hope we shall become very good friends,” said Gilbert 
 Godfrey, holding out his hand with a smile. 
 
 The refined face and modulated tone of the gentleman 
 
Gilbert Godfrey. 145 
 
 had their effect on the voting savage. Murdok looked at 
 the speaker askance, hut not malignantly, and took the 
 ottered hand, muttering: 
 
 ‘'Yes, I reckon so.” 
 
 At this moment Brush appeared at the door, and an¬ 
 nounced that the carriage was ready. 
 
 “Perhaps my young friend will give me the pleasure of 
 his company on the drive?” said Mr. Godfrey, turning 
 to Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “What do you say, Murdok?” asked the lady, smiling 
 on her idol. 
 
 “All right,” the boy condescended to answer. 
 
 “We shall now have an opportunity to become better 
 acquainted with each other before our studies begin, ’ 
 added the tutor, as he rose to go. 
 
 Godfrey bowed and left the room. Murdok picked up 
 his cap and followed. 
 
 As soon as the carriage had been driven away, Mrs* 
 Horah went upstairs to see Servia, whom she found in 
 her room, with the little Spanish child on her lap. Servia 
 held a primer in her hand, from which she w*as teaching 
 the infant her letters. 
 
 “Servia,” said the lady, hastening at once to the subject 
 that troubled her mind, “I hope you did not forget your 
 sacred obligation; I hope you did not give Mr. Godfrey 
 
 so. much as a hint of—of-” She paused; she did not 
 
 wish to speak plainly before the child, as young as she 
 was, for, though she could not understand the subject 
 
 now, she might remember the words and interpret them in 
 after life. 
 
 Servia understood the question, the pause and the mo¬ 
 tive, and so she answered enigmatically: 
 
 “About the wickedness of Wharton? Oh, no, madam. 
 
 Indeed you may rely on me! That secret is dead and 
 buried in my heart.” 
 
 "I believe you, Servia. I am satisfied,” said the ladv 
 And so the subject was dropped. 
 
 The tutor and his pupil returned in time for dinner 
 Isabel Horah saw at a glance that Gilbert Godfrev had 
 already won the confidence of the boy, though how lie had 
 done it she could not guess. 
 
 W e are not going to begin lessons until to-morrow, 
 
146 Vulture and Eaglet„ 
 
 mother. But after dinner I am going to show Mr. God¬ 
 frey the dogs and horses,'’ said Murdok, as he entered the 
 hall and tossed his cap on the floor. The attentive Brush 
 picked it up and hung it on the rack. 
 
 “With your approbation, madam,” added the tutor. 
 
 “It shall be as you and Murdok please, Mr. Godfrey,” 
 replied the mother. “I wish you to be friends and com¬ 
 panions, as well as teacher and pupil.” 
 
 “Mr. Godfrey’s the best tutor I’ve had yet. He told 
 me how he used to hunt coons with a nigger called Ben, 
 when he was a boy. That-s the kind of fellow I want for 
 a teacher !” exclaimed the boy. 
 
 Mrs. Horah expressed the hope that the kindly rela¬ 
 tions might continue. 
 
 Gilbert Godfrey bowed in silence. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 VULTURE AND EAGLET, 
 
 We shape ourselves, the joy or fear 
 Gf which the coming life is made, 
 
 And fill our future’s atmosphere 
 With sunshine or with shade.— Whittier. 
 
 Young Gilbert Godfrey was more successful in training 
 his contrary pupil than any of his predecessors had ever 
 been. The reason was twofold. It is said that “Govern¬ 
 ment is maintained by rewards and punishments.” In his 
 administration, young Godfrey found the benign or re¬ 
 ward factor—which, by the way, he was only permitted to 
 use—much more congenial to his feelings than the malign 
 or punishment, which he was forbidden to try. So, when 
 he found Master Murdok in an idle mood, he would say 
 to him : 
 
 “Come, Murdok, my fine fellow! let’s get through our 
 exercises, and to-night we will go on a coon hunt!” 
 
 “All right,” the boy would reply, and turn his attention 
 to his lessons. 
 
 Or on another occasion he might say: 
 
 “Now, Murdok, wrestle with that problem until you 
 
Vulture and Eaglet. 147 
 
 conquer it, and then we will lay aside our books and take 
 our guns and go hunting/’ 
 
 Or if, as frequently happened, the young wretch was 
 in a vicious mood, and refused to study on any terms, or 
 to stay in the schoolroom, Godfrey would not contest the 
 question, or even report the case to Mrs. Iiorah, for he 
 knew what boys in general thought of informers and mis¬ 
 chief-makers, but he would refer Murdok himself to his 
 mother, requesting him to consult her. Once he was 
 shocked by hearing the youth reply, “Oh, she! Look 
 here, Mr. Godfrey! Maybe you don’t know it, but I am 
 master here; I am master of the Manor of Horah Hall. 
 Celia says I am." 
 
 “Not until you reach your majority of twenty-one years 
 of age, my boy,” quietly replied the tutor. 
 
 “Father never made a will/’ continued the boy, with¬ 
 out heeding the interruption ; “Celia says so. She' knows. 
 So mother has not even a life interest in Horah Hall. 
 Celia, says so!” 
 
 ‘Oh, Murdok! Murdok!’’ exclaimed the young man, 
 more pained than even his tone expressed. 
 
 “Not that it makes any difference, you know. Of 
 course, mother must always have her home here,” he had 
 the grace to add. 
 
 The tutor made no observation on this concession, and 
 Murdok was the next to break the silence that followed. 
 
 Well/ he said, “am I to ask her to give me a holidav 
 to-day?” 
 
 “No,” gravely replied the tutor, “you need not trouble 
 your mother. I will take the responsibility for once, and 
 authorize your departure / 1 
 
 All right. 'V ou re a brick! cried the boy, seizing 
 his cap and darting from the schoolroom. 
 
 Gilbert Godfrey dropped his head upon his hand in 
 troubled thought. lie was a conscientious young man, 
 and sincerely and earnestly anxious to do his duty. But 
 he asked himself what was his duty between this too in¬ 
 dulgent and confiding employer and his two self-willed, 
 rebellious pupil ? And who was this woman Celia to 
 vyhom the boy so often referred, and who seemed to exer¬ 
 cise so evil an influence over him. Was it not his duty, 
 
148 Vulture and Eaglet. 
 
 lie inquired of his conscience, to warn the mother of this 
 evil? He refrained from sending Murdok to her in his 
 present vicious mood, nor would he report the case to her. 
 He shrank from giving her pain. But, really, it seemed 
 to him now to be his bounden duty to speak to her about 
 the boy’s association with the injudicious, if not iniqui¬ 
 tous, woman who was undermining all of Murdok’s rever¬ 
 ence, modesty and affection. 
 
 Not until after tea that evening, when Murdok had 
 taken himself olf somewhere, probably to Celia’s cottage, 
 and when the tutor was seated alone in the wainscoted 
 parlor with the mistress of the house, did Godfrev venture 
 very modestly to touch the subject by saying: 
 
 “I wonder where my young friend has gone to-night?” 
 
 “Oh, no doubt to Celia’s cottage,” she answered, with 
 such a deep sigh that she thereby opened the way for God¬ 
 frey to speak. 
 
 “Is this woman Celia a proper companion for the bov?” 
 
 Mrs. Horah hesitated for an instant, and then inquired: 
 
 “Why do you ask ? Excuse me, Mr. Godfrey.” 
 
 “Only because I notice that he passes a great deal of 
 Ins time in her company, and talks a great deal about her.’” 
 
 “She was his nurse and foster mother, too, through mv 
 long illness that followed his father’s death. During that 
 time she won a place in his affections which she has never 
 lost. No, I do not quite approve of his devotion to his 
 old nurse. It is the grief of my life, Mr. Godfrey.” 
 
 “Can you do nothing, dear madam?” 
 
 “Nothing. It is too late. Interference would only 
 make matters worse. But, oh, Mr. Godfrey,” she ex¬ 
 claimed with sudden earnestness, “pray bear with my son! 
 You have succeeded with him better than anyone else. 
 He is so high-spirited, he cannot endure opposition. Bear 
 with him.” 
 
 “I will do the very best I can, madam, the Lord help¬ 
 ing me,” said the young man. And he kept his word, 
 though his efforts were full of tribulation. 
 
 In the meanwhile, very different was the training of the 
 little Zenobia. Mrs. Horah, indeed, made only a plav- 
 biuv of her. just as a child would of a doll; dressed her 
 beautifully, if somewhat fantastically; gave her plenty of 
 
Vulture and Kaglet. 149 
 
 toys and picture books, and taught her little nursery songs 
 to sing. This was Mrs. Horah’s amusement, whenever 
 she had leisure to be amused during the daytime. 
 
 At other times the child was left to the sole charge of 
 Servia. Nor could she have had a better nursery gov¬ 
 erness than this poor colored girl. Servia fulfilled two 
 charges at Horah Hall—she was.Mrs. Horah's seamstress 
 and little Zenobia’s nurse. 
 
 A large ^are front room, on the opposite side of the 
 hall from Mrs. Horah’s chamber, had been fitted up as a 
 nursery, and here Servia had her little iron bedstead and 
 Zenobia her own. Here all day long Servia sat and 
 sewed for her mistress, and, whenever Mrs. Horah was 
 otherwise engaged, took charge of the child. Here Servia 
 taught her to read in little words of three letters, under 
 pictures which illustrated them, and to count, and even 
 to make little pothooks and hangers with a slate and 
 pencil, and also to hem. Tm, better than .all these, she 
 taught her truth, meekness, politeness and obedience; or, 
 rather, she confirmed her in these virtues, which the tiny 
 Spanish lady had already learned, perhaps inherited. Ail 
 except meekness; for, notwithstanding all Servia’s teach¬ 
 ings, pride and passion sometimes flashed forth from the 
 little Spanish spirit and eyes. And young Murdok Horah 
 was generally the target at which they were fired. 
 
 The youthful master of Horah had grown very fond 
 of the beautiful child, though in a lordly sort of way, 
 :as a bov might have grown fond of a puppy or a pony. 
 ;He liked to play with her and to tease her. * He liked to 
 Tiss and hug her, or to pinch and frighten her, just as his 
 • mood impelled him; or he liked to try to do these things. 
 Jttut he never succeeded in anything but pinches, and lie 
 ?had to creep behind her, and very stealthily and suddenly 
 •to succeed in that, for she was as quick and alert as a 
 bird. He could not 1 kiss her, because she did not love 
 him; nor frighten her, because she did not fear him. If 
 he caught her in his arms, as one would catch a squirrel 
 or a kitten, just foi the fun of holding it, he would find 
 tint he had caught a wild cat, composed entirely of teeth 
 ard claws, and would be glad to let her go. 
 
 When these scenes occurred in the nursery, and in the 
 
*. v • 
 
 150 Vulture and Eaglet. 
 
 % 
 
 presence of Servia, the girl would, expostulate with the 
 young ruffian by saying, mildly: 
 
 “Oh, Master Murdok, you should respect a little lady 
 more than that! And you should respect her all the more 
 because she is so little and so helpless.” 
 
 “You shut up! Helpless! Look at my face! The 
 little beggar is a wild she-tiger! But I will be even with 
 her yet!” 
 
 “Oh, Master Murdok! A little creature like that!” 
 
 “A little Tasmanian devil, like Tve been riding about! 
 But she will grow bigger and bigger all the time, and I 
 will be even with her, if it takes all my life!” And with 
 such words, after such scenes, he would usually bounce 
 out of the room. Then it was the rule for Servia to take 
 the little girl to task for her passion and violence. 
 
 Zenobia was now learning to speak English about as 
 fast as an infant learns to talk. When she attempted to 
 join in any conversation, she mingled Spanish and Eng¬ 
 lish in broken music very sweetly. Servia frequently said: 
 
 “My little darling, you should not scratch and bite— 
 not anyone; and especially not the son of the good lady 
 who has been so kind to you.” 
 
 “Zenobia loves the dear sehora; but the bad! bad! bad 
 sehor—no! no ! no ! He soils Zenobia’s face.” Then 
 with a look of disgust she would take out her tiny pocket 
 handkerchief and wipe the cheek he had touched. 
 
 The few that Zenobia loved might be counted on the 
 fingers of one hand. They were Mrs. Horah, Servia, Nat 
 Pryor and Gilbert Godfrey. 
 
 Soon there was added another one to the list—Oliver 
 Pryor. The event that led to it came about in this way: 
 
 One sunny autumn day, Noll, as. he was called for 
 short, had been sent by his father to take a-few bushels 
 of pound pippins—which are large, deep red apples, 
 weighing, on the average, a pound each—to Horah Hall. 
 He had brought them in sacks in the village cart, driven 
 by himself. He had just turned into the outer gate, 
 jumped from the cart, and had thrown the reins to old 
 Si, who came out of the lodge door, and was turning to 
 walk up the path, when he saw the flying figure of a child 
 in a crimson frock that seemed to dart across the bronzed 
 lawn like a streak of fire. 
 
Vulture and Eaglet. 151 
 
 She was hotly pursued by. a boy. Noll recognized the 
 boy as the young ruffian of Horah Hall, and guessed the 
 child to be the little Spanish orphan, whom he had never 
 seen before. 
 
 It was always a word and a blow with Noll Pryor; and 
 generally the blow came first. He darted like an arrow 
 to the rescue of the child. She, seeing him, ran toward 
 him with outstretched arms, crying: 
 
 “Take me, seiior! Oh, take me, quick! Take Zeno- 
 bia!” 
 
 Noll snatched the child up to his shoulder, whispering: 
 
 “Don’t^e afraid'. Nobody shall hurt you. See! I 
 shall carry you right home to Mrs. Horah/’ 
 
 The child clung to him and hid her face on his fustian 
 coat. 
 
 “Put her down, you beggar! Put her down! How 
 dare you?” shouted Murdok, running toward them. 
 
 “I am going to take her to the house, to Mrs. Horah,” 
 said N0II7good-humoredly. Then he walked up the path, 
 whispering to the child, “Don’t be afraid! ’ 
 
 ‘‘Zenobia is not ’fraid! Not one time.” 
 
 “Put her down!” roared Murdok. “You—you—you 
 beggarly trash, how dare you disobey me on my own 
 grounds ?” 
 
 “I’d lay you flat on your back on your own grounds if 
 my arms were not better employed!” exclaimed Noll, 
 with perfect good humor. 
 
 Here the young savage burst into such a torrent of 
 abuse that even Noll’s forbearance forsook him. They 
 were nearing the house now. Suddenly Noll whispered 
 to the child: 
 
 “Now you make tracks and run in! I’ll see that he 
 shan’t follow you. You are not afraid?” 
 
 “Oh, no, no, no, senor.” 
 
 “Are you going to put the child down, or shall I break 
 your cursed head?” roared Murdok. 
 
 “I am going to put her down, and attend to you this 
 minute!’ replied Noll, setting down the little one, who 
 fled to the house for refuge. 
 
 Then Noll turned suddenly around, stooped, lifted his 
 arms and ran at Murdok. With a vigorous blow in the 
 mouth he staggered the youngster, then seized and threw 
 
152 
 
 Vulture and Eaglet. 
 
 him over his head. The somersault might have broken 
 the young ruffian’s neck or back; but it did neither. It 
 only stunned him, while Noll walked unconcernedly on to 
 the house, asked for Mrs. Horah, and delivered his fa¬ 
 ther’s note that accompanied the present. 
 
 “Stay and take dinner with us,” said the lady, who was 
 seated in her usual place in the back parlor. Zenobia was 
 nowhere to be seen. 
 
 “No, thank you, ma'am, I had better get back as soon 
 as possible," replied Noll, with a peculiar smile. 
 
 “Then give my sincere thanks to your father,” said the 
 lady. “And when you go through the gate please tell old 
 Si to put the apples for the present in the cellar of the 
 lodge. ’ 
 
 “Yes, ma’am.” 
 
 Noll looked all around for the child, but she was no¬ 
 where to be seen. She had, in fact, fled at once to Servia 
 in the nursery. Noll made his bow to the lady and went 
 his way. As he went out on the lawn he saw Murdok 
 just beginning to gather himself together. 
 
 The young savage shook his first furiously at the visitor 
 and roared out: 
 
 “Oh, you"—a volley of unreportable epithets followed 
 —and then the speaker added: “I will have you forbid¬ 
 den the house for this outrage!” 
 
 “All right,” laughed Noll. “Only don't tease that little 
 girl any more, or I’ll give you another lift. Good-day,’’ 
 and Noll nodded and walked away, while Murdok was 
 trying to get on his legs to follow. But by the time Mur¬ 
 dok had dragged his bruised and stiffened frame to the 
 lodge, Noll had mounted his cart and was driving up the 
 road, and old Si was closing the gate. 
 
 “What’s de matter, Marse Murdok?” inquired the old 
 man, on seeing the discomposure of the boy. 
 
 “Have had a fall.” replied the latter, who would almost 
 have died rather than acknowledge his defeat by an- 
 other bov. 
 
 “I’s berry sorry. But yer’s so rash and reckless, Marse 
 Murdok, J won’er yer aine killed sometimes! Is ver hurt 
 much ?” sympathetically inquired Si. 
 
 “You hold your blasted jaw!” exclaimed the young 
 
Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 153 
 
 brute, infuriated at this illusion to his hurts, and he turned 
 away and retraced his steps to the house. 
 
 Murdok never put into execution his threat of having’ 
 Noil forbidden the house. Not that he repented or for¬ 
 gave young Pryor, or ceased from that day to be his flit¬ 
 ter enemy, but because he was too proud .to speak of t he 
 encounter in which he had met with such a very humiliat¬ 
 ing defeat. So it followed that Mrs. Horah never heard 
 of the collision between the lads. 
 
 As for Noll, he had as good as forgotten it, for he never 
 bore malice, and never suspected anyone else of doing so. 
 
 So the Pryors, father and son, continued to visit Horah 
 Hall as usual. Noll always hailed Murdok in a pleasant 
 tone, and if the latter turned gruffly away, he attributed 
 it to a little lingering resentment that would soon pass orf. 
 Put Zenobia remembered that encounter, and told Servia 
 about it, in the broken melody of her mingled languages. 
 And from that day the handsome, brave, tender youth 
 was the child's hero. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 ISABEL HORAll S FEARS AND SORROWS. 
 
 Disenchantment! Disillusion! 
 
 Must each noble aspiration 
 Come at last to this conclusion, 
 
 Jarring discord, wild confusion. 
 
 Lassitude, renunciation ! —Longfellow. 
 
 ^ ears rolled on. Gilbert Godfrey, through the exercise 
 of the greatest prudence, self-control and patience, man¬ 
 aged to endure his trials and remain at his post of duty 
 at Horah Hall. He took a short summer vacation every 
 year, and went to visit his brother, Gideon, at the old 
 Maryland farm. The anticipation of these visits, and the 
 realization of them, enabled the young tutor to endure 
 the life at Horah Hall all the rest of the year. 
 
 Ky perseverance he succeeded in carrying his pupil 
 Lire ugh an elementary course of English, classical Mid 
 mathematical studies. But this was the work of years 
 
154 Isabel HoraVs Pears and Sorrows. 
 
 so intermittent, careless and irregular was the attention of 
 his pupil. 
 
 At length, about the close of June, when the time ar¬ 
 rived for Godfrey’s annual vacation, his long and arduous 
 labors with his refractory pupil were completed. The 
 youth was, he hoped, .prepared for college, at least as well 
 as the tutor could prepare him. So Godfrey'had an inter¬ 
 view with Mrs. Horah, in which he proposed to leave 
 Horah Hail finally, on the first of the coming month of 
 
 July- 
 
 But in all these years Mrs. Horah had become so ac¬ 
 customed to the yoiiQg- man that his presence in the house 
 seemed indispensable to her comfort. His judicious treat¬ 
 ment of her—heretofore—unmanageable son had won 
 her gratitude and confidence. She took an affectionate 
 interest in the tutor’s welfare. Now that he proposed to 
 leave her, she felt as if some younger brother were going 
 away into the wide world. She did not speak for some 
 minutes, and then she said, slowly: 
 
 “I am very sorry. You have been of invaluable service 
 to Murdok. % But if, in leaving here, you are going to im-_ 
 prove your circumstances-” She paused. 
 
 “Better myself, as the maidservants say?” he added, 
 with a smile. “No, dear madam. My future is uncertain. 
 
 I may get a position as teacher, or I may go to farmwork, ^ 
 under my brother. As Heaven wills!” 
 
 Isabel Horah shuddered. She had no more idea of the 
 dignity of manual labor than a North American Indian 
 of the time of Columbus! 
 
 “Farm labor!” she said, in low, slow tones. “Farm 
 labor for you, Mr. Godfrey?” 
 
 “Why not, dear madam?” he asked, with a smile. 
 
 “Do you prefer it?” she inquired. 
 
 “No. Yet, if I have no other alternative but idleness 
 I shall plow and sow as cheerfully as I should teach and 
 train, Mrs. Horah.” 
 
 Again she was silent for some minutes. When she 
 spoke it was to more purpose than one would have ex¬ 
 pected of her. 
 
 “Leave the plowing and sowing to able-bodied negroes 
 and robust, uncultured white men. Do not take out of 
 their hands the only work they can do. Keep to your own 
 
Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 155 
 
 work, which they, poor creatures, cannot do. Now, Mr. 
 Godfrey, I should not make this proposition to you if you 
 had any present prospect of an engagement worthy of 
 your culture, character and abilities; but, as you say you 
 have not, I will venture to ask you to do me the kindness 
 to remain a year or two longer at this place, to assist me 
 in carrying on the education of my adopted daughter, 
 Zenobia de Leon.” 
 
 The young man was so entirely taken by surprise that 
 he could not at once answer. 
 
 She understood the expression of his face and hastened 
 to add: 
 
 “Pray do not decline my offer'iiastily, impulsively, Mr. 
 Godfrey. I am deeply in earnest. I am anxious to have 
 you continue here—unless, of course, you can make a 
 more advantageous engagement elsewhere,” she added. 
 “I am anxious for the girl’s sake. But take time, and give 
 me your answer to-morrow.” 
 
 My dear madam, I need no time to consider. I am 
 simply overwhelmed by your kindness. My only hesita¬ 
 tion arose from the doubt whether I could be of any real 
 use to the young fcidy. 1 he question whether—if it were 
 not for your benevolent desire to benefit vour son s poor 
 tutor you would not prefer to engage some accomplished 
 lady as governess for your lovely young protegee.” 
 
 “No! no! no!’ cried Isabel Horah, emphatically. “All 
 that the average governess could teach I have taught her. 
 She can read, not only with distinctness, but with fine, 
 elocution. She can write, not only legibly, but grammati¬ 
 cally. She can cast accounts; she can sketch from nature; 
 she can play on the piano and guitar, and she can read 
 and speak French. There! you should know that just 
 as well as I do. But, Mr. Godfrey, I earnestly desire that 
 she shall have a classical and mathematical course of stud¬ 
 ies under a competent master, such as yourself. I prefer 
 you to any other. If you become her teacher I shalf be 
 very glad. If you will not, I shall have to find someone 
 
 “Madam I should be only too happy,” said Godfrey, 
 
 but he still looked so puzzled that the lady went on to ex- 
 plain: 
 
 “You wonder why I want this unusual course of studies 
 
156 Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 
 
 for Zenobia ? I will tell you. It is possible that the poor 
 girl may have to earn her own living as a governess; if 
 anything were to happen to me, for instance. And in 
 these days, parents require a higher education for their 
 girls than they did when I was young.” 
 
 “I understand you now, madam, and I think your fore¬ 
 sight and provision wise and prudent, if I may be per¬ 
 mitted to give an opinion on the subject,” he modestly 
 added. 
 
 “Then you will continue on here as Zenobia’s tutor?” 
 she inquired, with a smile of satisfaction. 
 
 “I shall be most happy to do so, since I can be of use- 
 to you and the young lady. Or, rather,” he added, with 
 a smile, “to return here after my annual visit to my* 
 brother at the old farm in Maryland.” 
 
 “And I sincerely hope that you will not find this place* 
 very, very dreary without Murdok, for he will have gone 
 to college by the time you return here,” said Mrs. Horah,; 
 anxiously. 
 
 Gilbert Godfrey had all he could do to repress a 
 grimace at this allusion to the young brute as a lost at-; 
 traction in his future sojourn at Horah Hall. But he 
 succeeded, and answered gravely and politely, though 
 with a hidden meaning: 
 
 “I shall miss my interesting pupil, of course, but I like 
 this fine old house, with its grand surrounding scenery, 
 and which your kindness has made like a true home to 
 me; so I feel that I shall be quite contented here.” 
 
 So that matter was satisfactorily settled. 
 
 On the first of July Gilbert Godfrey left Horah Hall to 
 pay his annual visit to his brother, with the promise to re¬ 
 turn on the first of September. 
 
 Murdok selected the University of Virginia, at Char¬ 
 lottesville, as his alma mater. 
 
 When the fond mother heard of this decision she, in 
 her devotion to her only son, would have broken up her 
 household at Horah Hall, and have rented and furnished 
 a tenement in that town, and moved there to make a tem¬ 
 porary home for him, to guard him from temptation and 
 danger during his college course. 
 
 But the self-willed and headstrong youth would have 
 nothing of that sort. He had freedom enough, and too 
 
Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 157 
 
 much for his own good, at Horah Hall, but he luxuriated 
 in the anticipation of greater freedom in the town, where 
 neither mother's nor tutor’s eye could be upon him. So 
 he answered the proposal of a home in Charlottesville by 
 rudely saying that he did not contemplate being tied to 
 any woman’s apron strings, or submit to petticoat gov¬ 
 ernment any longer! That he was not only master of 
 Horah Hall Manor, but his own master as well! And 
 much more to the same purpose. Finally, if his steps 
 were to be dogged by women at Charlottesville, he vvould 
 not go to college at all! 
 
 This was not the first time the youth had opposed, de¬ 
 fied and almost insulted his mother; vet, now that he was 
 about to leave her, she took his conduct more grievously* 
 to heart than ever. Hut she acquiesced in his wishes. At 
 this stage of the young rebel's career what else could the 
 poor woman do? 
 
 So, at the beginning of the last week in August, young 
 Murdok Horah left home for college. His mother accom-; 
 panied him as far as the railway station, for he would not* 
 consent for her to go further with him, declaring that lie: 
 was no longer a schoolboy, to be watched and tended like; 
 a child, etc., etc., etc. She saw him off, and then returned* 
 home, very anxious and sorrowful. 
 
 She could no longer quite deceive herself as to Mur¬ 
 dok s faults, or call his selfishness, arrogance and obsti¬ 
 nacy by such fine names as independence, manliness and 
 high spirit: What would now become ofjiim, left to his 
 own devices at Charlottesville? Would he be amenable 
 to the authority of the faculty of the university—he who 
 had never been trained to submit to any authority in his 
 ife? It w r as too unlikely ! Would he rebel, fail into trou¬ 
 ble, disgrace and ruin? Ah, Heaven! this was too prob- 
 able. And she. his mother, who would have laid down 
 her life to save him, could now do nothing! Nothin^ but 
 piav for him and write him daily letters of wise and lov¬ 
 ing counsel, which she felt might only_bore without re¬ 
 straining hfrn. Poor soul! she was already beginning to 
 reap as she had sown ! 
 
 Uncle Si. who had driven the carriage on that occasion, 
 as soon as he had fed his horses and washed his vehicle 
 went home to his lodge by the gate, and “put Master 
 
158 Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 
 
 lViurdok on de banjo/ in no very complimentary terms. 
 But his mother never heard of it. She shut herself up 
 in her room, and would not have anyone come near her— 
 not even Zenobia. 
 
 * 
 
 '‘Never mind, my dear! We must leave the mistress 
 to herself for a little while. You see, she was never parted 
 from Master Murdok before, in all their lives. And, al¬ 
 though he is—well, no matter what he is—he is her son, 
 her only son; all she has in this world! That is why she 
 feels his absence so,” said Servia, when she saw Zenobia’s 
 eyes full of tears because Mrs. Horah passed her by, en¬ 
 tered her bedroom and locked the door. 
 
 “But, Servia, dear, I only wanted to love and comfort, 
 and kiss her! It is not my fault if I am not her very own 
 child ! And I do love her so much V pleaded Zenobia. 
 
 “And she loves you, my darling, and she will take'much 
 comfort in your love after a little while,” said the woman, 
 soothingly. 
 
 That afternoon Col. Pryor rode over, accompanied by 
 Oliver, to see the widow, and cheer her up for the absence 
 of her boy. But Mrs. Horah excused herself, and could 
 not see them. 
 
 The visitors consoled themselves with Zenobia, who did 
 her very best to entertain them. She took them into the 
 front drawing room, where Mrs. Horah’s grand piano 
 stood, and offered to play for them. 
 
 “And what shall I play ?” she asked, when she had taken 
 her seat and lifted the lid of the instrument. 
 
 “Play 'A Life on the Ocean Wave !’ It is an old-fash¬ 
 ioned thing, but I have heard you play it. And I am an 
 old-fashioned man!” said Nat Pryor. 
 
 Zenobia smiled and searched on the music stand for 
 
 ♦ 
 
 a shabby old book, belonging to Isabel Horah's school col¬ 
 lection, and found the song, laid the book open before her 
 and began to play the prelude. The instrument was a 
 fine one, and in perfect tune. Zenobia’s touch was sym¬ 
 pathetic, and the effect was inspiring. 
 
 “We can all sing that song,” said the colotfH, jovially. 
 
 Zenobia’s voice rose, rich, full and sweet. As her tones 
 soared, birdlike, on the air, Oliver chimed in, followed 
 by Col. Pryor. They formed a splendid trio. Zenobia’s 
 voice was a rich contralto; Oliver’s a fine tenor, and Col. 
 
Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 159 
 
 Pryor’s a deep bass. The music rose and rolled, resound¬ 
 ing through the room in a joyous storm of harmony. But 
 the singers had scarcely concluded the first stanza, wTien 
 Mrs. Horah’s bell was violently rung. 
 
 Zenobia rose in dismay. Her dark eyes dilated to twice 
 their natural size. 
 
 “Why, what’s the matter, my love?’ inquired the 
 colonel. 
 
 “Oh! I have disturbed her. Her room is just over 
 this!” said the girl, as she closed the piano. 
 
 At that instant Delphine, the housemaid, entered the 
 parlor and said: 
 
 “If you please, Miss Snowby, de madam says how yer 
 mus’ shet up de pianny. She can’t stan’ enny noise to¬ 
 day.” 
 
 “Oh ! I am so sorry I began to play. Please tell her so, 
 Delphine! And say I shut the instrument the very in¬ 
 stant I heard her bell,” said Zenobia. 
 
 The servant left the room with this message. Nat 
 Pryor rose, with a deep sigh, and said : 
 
 “Well. Noll, my man, I think we had better make tracks 
 for ‘The Notches.’ ” 
 
 “Not until you have had some refreshments on this hot 
 day,” ’interposed Zenobia. “Servia has gone to fetch- 
 them ; c^d—here she comes now !’’ 
 
 ^ The woman at this moment entered the parlor, carry¬ 
 ing a waiter on which was arranged a tempting light re¬ 
 past of iced lemonade, cake and strawberries and cream. 
 
 When the visitors had partaken of these delicacies, with 
 much enjoyment, they bade good-afternoon to their young 
 hostess and went away. 
 
 “She is like a daughter of the house,’’ said Oliver, as 
 they mounted their horses and rode away. 
 
 “She is a daughter of the house, to all intents and pur¬ 
 poses. There is no other daughter! Ah, Noll, I wish she 
 were a daughter of our house. I would have gladly 
 adopted her if the widow would have given her up. She 
 is growing from a beautiful child into a very beautiful 
 girl. I fear for her future, my boy!” 
 
 “But why, young marse? No one could be so devilish 
 as to hurt that sweet creature,” confidently replied Oliver. 
 
 “No one! Yes, that cursed cur could! Heaven for- 
 
'V. 
 
 i6o Isabel Horab’s Fears and Sorrows. 
 
 give me for speaking so of Isabel Horah’s son/’ sighed the 
 widow’s middle-aged lover. 
 
 “But how could he? It is true he used to tease hen 
 
 * 
 
 when he was a mere boy, and she a little more than a 
 baby.’’ 
 
 “Until you thrashed him into better manners, Noll,” 
 interrupted the colonel. 
 
 Oliver laughed. 
 
 “At any rate, they have both outgrown those days. He 
 cannot hurt her now,” he said. 
 
 “More than ever, Noll. More than ever!” 
 
 “How so, father?” 
 
 “Noll, in two or three years this girl will develop into 
 the most beautiful woman in Virginia, perhaps the most 
 beautiful in the whole world! I i that satyr’s whelp sets 
 the eyes of his evil wishes on her, he will have her in de¬ 
 fiance of herself, of Heaven and of earth. And if lie 
 should get her, he will kill her!” groaned the colonel, with 
 such a far-away gaze of disastrous,prophecy in his usually 
 merry blue eyes, that Oliver, who certainly displayed a 
 keen sense of the ridiculous, burst into a roar of laughter, 
 saying, as soon as he could recover himself: 
 
 “Why, dad, you are as bad as the maid in the story, 
 who fell into hysterics at the thought 'of the possibility 
 that she might get married and have a child who might 
 be burned to death!” 
 
 “Oh, Noll, you may laugh, but I wish the fair widow 
 had allowed me to adopt that girl.” 
 
 “You are borrowing trouble a long way ahead, young 
 marse!” 
 
 “Noll, I know the terrible Horahs!” 
 
 “Now, hold on, dad ! No Horah shall ever harm that 
 sweet girl. I swear it! I call Heaven to witness my oath ! 
 And to deal with me as I shall keep it!” said Oliver, in 
 a deep, earnest tone, as he lifted his cap and reverently 
 bowed his head. 
 
 Further confidential conversation was impossible just 
 then, because they were joined by the rector, the Rev. 
 Mr. Melville, who had been making sick calls in the neigh¬ 
 borhood, and who now overtook them. 
 
 Mr. Melville, by the way, was Oliver Pryor's preceptor. 
 The good,colonel could not afford to send his son to col- 
 
Isabel Horah’s Fears and Sorrows. 161 
 
 lege, and so the reverend gentleman had undertaken, for 
 a consideration, to direct the youth s studies. Oliver went 
 to the rectorv for an hour every day. 
 
 After pleasant greetings the three horsemen rode on 
 together. 
 
 Mrs. Horah kept her room, and spent her time, for the 
 first few days of Murdok's absence, in weeping and writ¬ 
 ing long letters to him. She might have moped longer 
 still, if, on the Saturday, Gilbert Godfrey had not ar¬ 
 rived. and the duties of hospitality had not claimed her. 
 
 She went downstairs to see him, and welcomed him 
 with a sort of sorrowful cordiality. 
 
 Godfrey knew the cause of her depression, and was 
 grieved for her. He could understand how the lonely 
 widow, living in that remote, dreary old country house, 
 should feel the separation from her only son and child, 
 almost as deeply as the mother of many sons and daugh¬ 
 ters might feel the loss of one of them by death. So, in¬ 
 stead of blaming her, even in his transient thought, for 
 her indulgence in sorrow, he set to work with all his skill 
 to divert her thought from dwelling on her loneliness. He 
 told her of his own college days. First at Charlotte Hall, 
 in Maryland, and afterward at that very University of 
 Virginia to which her son had gone. He spoke in the 
 very highest terms of the moral and intellectual character 
 of the learned professors, many of whom had remained 
 there from his time to the present. There was no such 
 thing as “hazing’ there. The students, in manners, at 
 least, were all gentlemen. 
 
 Mrs. Horah was much comforted by all this informa¬ 
 tion. She never wearied of asking questions, and hear¬ 
 ing talk about the institution that was to be Murdok’s 
 home for some years to come. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A SURPRISE AT “THE NOTCHES.” 
 
 Heap on more wood! The wind is chill; 
 
 But let it whistle .as it will, 
 
 We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
 
 —Walter Scott. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve. The snow lay two feet deep oh 
 the level, covered the mountain tops and slopes, and 
 weighed down the trees. A cold, blue-black sky, studded 
 with countless numbers of scintillating stars, canopied the 
 wintry landscape. . 
 
 Gleams of firelight flickered from the chinks in the 
 doors and windows of the log huts in the negro quarters, 
 and nestled among the trees at the foot of the mountain. 
 Such was the scene without. 
 
 Within every hut the negroes were keeping Christmas 
 Eve with plenty of Christmas cheer, supplied for the occa¬ 
 sion by their merrymaking master. The sounds of the 
 fiddle and the banjo were heard from several of the huts. 
 Presently, perhaps, they would all assemble in one of the 
 largest huts for a dance. 
 
 Meanwhile, in the “big house/’ as the negroes called 
 their master’s dwelling, another festive scene was go¬ 
 ing on. 
 
 In the long parlor, which was never used except on 
 high days and holidays, a great fire had been built of 
 hickory logs in the broad and deep chimneyplace, at the 
 extreme end of the room. The glowing and brilliant 
 light of this fire quite dimmed the two wax candles burn¬ 
 ing on the mantelpiece, as well as the whale-oil lamp that 
 hung from the ceiling; and while it revealed the size and 
 bareness of the room, it seemed to make up, by its cheer¬ 
 fulness, for the lack of much other furniture. For the 
 long parlor in the big house at “The Notches’’ was no 
 better fitted up than most of the other parlors of the best 
 houses of that time and place. It is worth description, 
 though, as a typical one. 
 
 It was long, as has been said; and broad and high. It 
 
A Surprise at “The Notches.” 163 
 
 had a wide door, leading out into the hall at the lower end 
 opposite the fireplace. It had three tall windows in front, 
 on the left hand as you entered. They were hung with 
 plain blue paper shades. The floor was of hard Norfolk 
 pine, but so yellow and smooth that it looked like satin- 
 wood. It was perfectly bare, except for a faded rug that 
 lay before the hearth. That hearth was of red brick, and 
 clean and bright as sealing wax. It was inclosed by a 
 high, polished, steel fender, with a bright brass top. Tall, 
 bri ght, brass andirons supported the heavy logs. Shovel 
 and tongs were of polished steel, with bright brass han¬ 
 dles. Nothing could have been cleaner, livelier or more 
 attractive than this fireside. The whitewashed walls of 
 the room were adorned with some old oil paintings, family 
 portraits of the Pryor forefathers. A few stiff, high- 
 backed, oaken chairs stood against the sides of the room. 
 In the recess on the right of the chimnev stood an old 
 mahogany bookcase, with glass doors, filled with old, 
 shabby, priceless editions of rare books. In the corre¬ 
 sponding left-hand recess stood a secretary of the same 
 size and height as the bookcase, and which was half writ¬ 
 ing desk and half cabinet, where the master of the house 
 did most of his writing and kept all his papers. In the 
 corners at the lower end of the room stood a pair of 
 tallies with folding leaves. In the middle of the floor 
 stood a round mahogany table, that served cither for 
 games or refreshments, as the occasion called for. 
 
 Around this table were seated four men. Col. Pryor and 
 three of his old neighbors, celebrating Christmas Eve over 
 a foaming bowl of eggnog, while they were also engaged 
 in their favorite game of “seven-up.” In each man’s hand 
 was a set of cards, which he was studying wistfully. By 
 th£~side of each stood a large tumbler of the white, fra¬ 
 grant and frothy beverage. They might have looked like 
 a^ rather disreputable party, but indeed they were not. 
 They were all temperate, though not total abstainers. Nor 
 were they gamblers, IhNugh they plaved as eagerly to win 
 the game as if it had becTi for thousands. 
 
 Where s Noll to-night? inquired Mr. Alexander 
 Kieth, a tall, red-haired, red-bearded old farmer, whose 
 land joined that of Col. Pryor. 
 
 Oh. Noll s off to Ilorah Hall. It is lonesome here for 
 
164 A Surprise at “The Notches.” 
 
 the lad when we are round the card table, you know. 
 He'll be back to-night, though/’ replied his father. 
 
 “Making hay while the sun shines, isn’t he?” inquired 
 Mr. Bill Estep, a short, fat, smooth-faced man, with a 
 bald head, who had left the care of his apothecary shop to 
 his clerk, and had come to spend a social evening with that 
 all-popular host, Nat Pryor. 
 
 “What do you mean, Estep?” inquired the colonel. 
 
 “Taking advantage of young Murdok being away at 
 college to cut him out with that pretty little Spanish 
 gypsy, isn't he? Not that I blame him. I would do it 
 myself if 1 could. But I reckon I am too old.” 
 
 “And too fat and too bald, Billy,” chimed in the third 
 guest, Mr. Clem Kent, a slight, dark, young man, who 
 had just opened a law office in Mistyrock. 
 
 “It is early in the day, gentlemen, for such speculations 
 in regard to the little lady at iiorah Hall,” gravely com¬ 
 mented Col. Pryor. 
 
 “Not a bit of it. Why, in our neighboring State, Mary¬ 
 land, the law allows a girl to marry at the age of twelve, 
 and Miss de Leon must be fourteen or fifteen, and well 
 developed at that," declared Bill Estep. 
 
 Before anyone could answer this statement the joyous 
 ringing of sleigh bells sounded coming up the road, and 
 was quickly followed by a thundering knock at the door. 
 There was not a servant left in the house. They had all 
 got a holiday, and were keeping Christmas Eve at the 
 negro quarters. 
 
 “Who, in Pleaven’s name, can that be? At this time of 
 night, too! I haven't a neighbor in the world who pos¬ 
 sesses a sleigh except Mrs. Horah, and she would never 
 come out at night,” said Nat Pryor, with good-humored 
 astonishment as he laid down his cards, and went to open 
 the door. 
 
 “Perhaps the pretty widow has sent Noll home in her 
 sleigh,” suggested the young lawyer. 
 
 “Ah! that’s it, of course,” chimed in the other two. But 
 it wasn’t. 
 
 For, as soon as Col. Pryor opened the door, there burst 
 iijto the hall a young girl clothed in sealskin furs from 
 head to foot, who rushed up to him, exclaiming: 
 
A Surprise at “Tlie Notches.” 165 
 
 “How do. Uncle Nat? Why didn’t you come to meet 
 me at the train ?” 
 
 “God bless my soul alive, Jim! Where did you come 
 from ? But come right in to the fire before you answer 
 me,” exclaimed the colonel, in the last extremity of aston¬ 
 ishment. Then, perceiving the figure of a little old negro 
 man behind her, he cried out, “Hallo, Si!” 
 
 “Sarvant, Marse Cornel,” replied the polite poet of 
 Horah, taking off his old foxskin cap and bowing very 
 low. 
 
 “Come in, man; come in ! Don't stand there with a bare 
 head.” kindly pressed the colonel. 
 
 “T’anky, Marse Colonel, but I’se got to git back ter dc 
 house soon’s ebber I helps in long o’ young missy s 
 trunk, an’ ban’box an’ fings,” replied the old man. 
 
 “There, go in there, my love, and take off your wraps 
 and make yourself comfortable. You can explain after¬ 
 ward,” said the colonel, as he opened a door of a cozy lit¬ 
 tle sitting room opposite the long parlor, where there was 
 a good fire burning. 
 
 “I think it is you who will have to explain, Uncle Nat,” 
 rejoined the girl, as she entered the room and threw her¬ 
 self into a chair before the fire. 
 
 “Wait a moment, Si, and I will help you in with all that 
 luggage, said the colonel, as he turned and went back 
 into the long parlor, where he had left his guests at the 
 card table, burning with curiosity. 
 
 You will excuse me, gentlemen; my niece, Jemima 
 Aboace, has just arrived most unexpectedly, and, in the 
 absence of every servant from the house I must see to her 
 comfort. I will not be away more than fifteen minutes/' 
 
 “Niece ?” 
 
 “Sister’s child!” 
 
 Come to spend Christmas! How jolly!’ were the ex¬ 
 clamations that followed the announcement of the news, 
 as the good colonel smiled and bowed himself out. 
 
 He looked into the little parlor, saw that Jemima was 
 
 comfortably established before the fire, and then turned to 
 bi, and said: 
 
 ‘‘Come, let us get the luggage in at once!” 
 
 hey went out together, and brought in between them 
 a large trunk, which they put down on the floor of the 
 
166 A Surprise at “The Notches.” 
 
 hall. They sallied forth a second time and returned with 
 a bandbox each, which they placed upon the trunk. 
 
 “Now, Si,” said the colonel, as he threw himself into 
 one of the hall chairs to recover his breath, “you will 
 oblige me very much by stopping at the negro quarters, 
 as you go by, and telling old Druse of Miss Jemima’s 
 arrival, and asking her to come up to the house for a little 
 while, to attend to the young lady’s comforts, and to 
 bring Otto with her to make the fire in the spare room. I 
 do hate to interrupt the poor things at their Christmas 
 frolics, but there is really no alternative. You’ll remem¬ 
 ber, Si ?” 
 
 “Sartinly, Marse Colonel, sartinly, sah! Anyfing else 
 I kin had de honah ob doing fo’ yer, Marse Colonel, sah?” 
 inquired the old negro. 
 
 “No, thank you, Si. But I would like to know, if you 
 are not in too great a hurry to be off, how it happened that 
 you were so opportunely at the railway station, where my 
 niece had no one to meet her?” 
 
 “Oh, Marse Colonel, wahn dat providenshal ? I mus’ 
 take de time ter tell yjpr bout dat. Bad news, dat wiP 
 keep fo’ de madam.” 
 
 “What bad news? Nothing the matter with young 
 Murdok, I hope?” exclaimed Nat Pryor, quick to take 
 alarm where his “adored” was interested. 
 
 “Nuffen, ’nless it’s ole Nick, beggin’ yer pardin’, Marse 
 Colonel. Yo’ see, it wer’ jes dis way: De madam hab 
 be’n expectin’ ob de youn’ marse all de week, ’ca’se she 
 kno’ how de big collidge be closed fer de holidays. S9 
 she hab be’n writin’ ebery day, an’ sen’in’ me to de station 
 ebery day, to see ef he doane com’. I done be’n waitin’ 
 dere at de station all dis bressed day—waitin’ fer ebery 
 train'w’at com’ in, but no Marse Murdok! Oh, I tell yer, 
 Marse Colonel, he’s a hummer, dat youn’ youf is. Las’ 
 train com’ in, Ch’is’mas Ebe, at nite, an’ no Marse Mur¬ 
 dok. But de youn’ miss got out, an’ she de onlies’ pas- 
 singer fer our place. I was jes’ gwine ter turn roun’ an’ 
 dribe ’way, wen dat youn’ miss, she com’ up an’ she say: 
 ‘Uncle, is yer sent by Col. P’yor fer me?’ she say. An’ I 
 ans’er an’ say: ‘No, miss, I aine sent by no Col. P’yor.’ 
 Den she look’ sca’ed, an’ she look all roun’ de place like 
 she wer’ lookin’ out fer somefm’, an’ she axed if dere wer’ 
 
A Surprise at “The Notches.” 167 
 
 any we’cle be’n sent fer her. An’ I tell her 'No/ ’ca’se I’s 
 de o’ny one be’n dere all day. An’, ah, marse, ef yer 
 cou’d seen dat youn’ gal’s face!" 
 
 “I shudder to think of it,” said the colonel. 
 
 “ ‘He didn’t git fader s letter,’ she said. ‘Oh. w’at shil 
 I do?’ Den I speaks up, an’ say as how it wahn’t much 
 outen my way, an’ I cou’d gib her a lif’ as fer as De 
 Notches. An’, oh, Marse Colonel! sah, ef yo’d seen dat 
 youn gal’s face den!” 
 
 “I can imagine it/’ said the colonel, with a sigh. 
 
 “De way she t'anked me! I felt as gran’ as a king 
 w’en I helped her inter de sleigh. An’ me an’ de agent 
 h'isted her trunk an' t ings. An’ den didn’t I make dem 
 bosses fly over de snow! But, oh, Marse Colonel, sah! 
 W’at ’ouTd ’come ob dat youn’ gal ef I hadn't be'n on de 
 spot, de Lor’ 011’y knows! ’ concluded Si. 
 
 “I cannot bear to think of it,’ groaned the colonel. 
 “How her father’s letter could have miscarried I do not 
 understand. But we are greatly indebted to you, Si! 
 Here, old man, is a Christmas present for you," he added, 
 as he pressed a quarter eagle into the old minstrel’s hand. 
 
 Si bowed very low and said, with profound emotion: 
 “I t’ank yer, sah. I t’ank yer! Dis is de berryest proudes’ 
 an’ happies’ (Jay ob my life! It is, Marse Co’nel, sahl” 
 And no doubt it was, for not only was his soul exceed¬ 
 ingly exalted in his own estimation, by his chivalrous ad- 
 venture-of the evening, which would furnish him with 
 matter for boasting by many a log cabin fireside for many 
 years to come, but—oh, fortune!—he held in his hand the 
 largest piece of money he ever possessed, or ever dreamed 
 of possessing. 
 
 “There, there! That will do. Good-night,” said the 
 colonel, laughing. 
 
 Si made another profound obeisance and went out, 
 jumped into the sleigh and drove ofT, with the joyous 
 sleigh bells ringing out upon the wintry night air. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE NEGRO QUARTERS. 
 
 And the baron’s retainers were blithe and gay. 
 Keeping their Christmas holiday 1—Old Song. 
 
 His way lay down the carriage road bordered by trees 
 whose bare branches were hung with icicles instead of 
 leaves, on through the great gateway and out into the 
 snow-covered road that skirted the foot of the precipice, 
 under the shelter of which was the group of log huts— 
 about twenty in number—known as the negro quarters. 
 From every one of these huts the red light streamed 
 through the crevices of the rude doors and the little, 
 glazed windows, out upon the snow-matted ground, while 
 the sound of music and dancing burst upon the air. It 
 was a merry, happy, tempting scene. 
 
 Si drew up his jingling sleigh before the largest cabin, 
 which stood in the middle of the group, and was owned 
 by Tim, the foreman of the field hands, who lived there 
 with his wife, Druse, who was housekeeper up at the 
 “big house, ’ as Col. Pryor's mansion was called, and his 
 son Otto, who was waiter. 
 
 As the sleigh stopped, the door of the cabin flew open, 
 the music within ceased, and a crowd of negroes came 
 out to see who was there, and, recognizing Si, welcomed 
 him by acclamation. 
 
 “Si, I didn't know it wer' yo’ w’at went by de quarters 
 like a Hash ob lightnin’ half a’ hour ago! I Sought it 
 wer’ some wisiter ob ole marsers to spen de ebeninV’ said 
 Druse. 
 
 “So it wer’ a wisiter, on’y she’s not gwine ’way no mo’, 
 I reckon.’ said Si, mysteriously. 
 
 “Who? Who? -Who?’’ demanded a chorus of men 
 and women. 
 
 arse Co’neks niece, w’ich be call her Jim! a rum 
 name fer a putty youir miss! An’, Aunt Druse, Marse 
 CoV.el tole me ter ax ycr will yer ’blige him bv cornin’ 
 up ter do hous' ter tend ter dat youn’ gal? W’ich he also 
 
Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 169 
 
 did say, Marse Co'nel did, as he wer’ vverrv sorry ter 
 ’slurb yer, an’ fer yer ter fo’ch Otto long o' yer." 
 
 Too full of curiosity to mind leaving the festive scene, 
 Druse ran into the cabin, flung her heavy plaid shawl over 
 her head and shoulders, and hastened away toward the 
 house, followed bv Otto in a run. 
 
 Meantime the other negroes were importunate in their 
 demands that Si should “ ’light" and enter the cabin to 
 join in the festivities. Above all others was heard the 
 voice of Tim, vociferating: 
 
 “Come in. Uncle Si'as! We's a g'eat contest on han ! 
 Marse Nat, he gib a beati’ftd brierwood pipe, jes’ like de 
 one he smoke’, I reckon it cos’ a dollah ! An' de man w at 
 dance de hes’ jig step, he ter hab de pipe!” 
 
 “An’ who’s gwine ter Tide?" inquired Si. 
 
 “It a-gwine ter be put ter a wote dis way: Non’ oh 11s 
 can’t read ner yite, so Uncle No’, who is de oldes’ culled 
 ge’man on de place, is ter set inter de chair, an’ w’en we’ve 
 all p’formed fer de prize, den we’s all ter go up one at a 
 time, an’ w'isper inter Uncle No's ear de name oh de one 
 we fabers." 
 
 “An’ how menny is yer?” asked Si. 
 
 “All ob us cullid ge’men is gwine ter try fer dat pipe, 
 yer may tak' yer oaf!” 
 
 “Is de ladies’ gwine ter wote?" slyly inquired Si. 
 
 “No, sail," very decidedly replied Tim. “We doa 
 'low wimmen ter wote on dis!” 
 
 Who wented dis way oh cidin ?’’ curiously in¬ 
 quired Si. 
 
 Marse Co nel his ef!” replied Tim, with pride. 
 
 Hm! grunted Si, with significance, as he threw a 
 thick blanket over the back of his horse, and followed Tim 
 into the cabin ; for the temptations of the scene had been 
 too much for Si’s fidelity. 
 
 I he inside of the cabin consisted of one large room, 
 with a hard-beaten earth floor, rough log walls, and a 
 deep and broad fireplace at the end opposite the door, and 
 little side windows. A brilliant fire of pine knots was 
 
 blazing in the fireplace and filling the festive scene with 
 dazzling light. 
 
 Uvery article of furniture except a few stools and one 
 
 ne 
 
170 Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 
 
 / . 
 
 chair had been carried to the loft above, and the floor 
 was cleared for dancing. 
 
 Old Noah, the patriarch of the plantation, sat in the 
 chair of state, between the chimney coiner and a little 
 window, smoking a corncob pipe. He was a very tall 
 and gaunt negro, with hair and beard as white as snow, 
 and a face as black as ink. He was really ninety-one 
 years old, but claimed to be over a hundred. 
 
 “More or less, chillun! I is more or less! ’ca’se I 
 wou’dn’ fa’sify de trufe, not in de ole age ob my pilg’im- 
 age, I wou dn’,” he was always careful to say. 
 
 Besides him there were present some thirty other ne¬ 
 groes—men, women and children. These were crowded 
 against' the walls, some standing, some sitting on the few 
 stools, and some on the ground floor; while perched on 
 the rungs of the ladder that led up to the loft sat the two 
 musicians of the evening, who were named Raphael and 
 Ignatius, but were commonly caled Rafe and Nace. Rafe 
 played the fiddle and Nace the tambourine; they always 
 hunted in couples and were always spoken of together. 
 ‘‘Like pork and beans, or bacon and cabbage,’' old Druse 
 declared. They were past fifty, small, slight, jet-black, 
 light-hearted and proud of their profession; for they had 
 been musicians from their boyhood, and had played at 
 Miss Pryor’s wedding with Lieut. Abbace, and afc Col. 
 Pryor’s home-coming with his bride. 
 
 Si got as near Uncle Noah as he could contrive to do, 
 passed the compliments of the season to the old man, and 
 set himself to watch the contest for the pipe, that was 
 • about to begin. 
 
 Uncle Noah, who was master of ceremonies for the 
 occasion, raised himself to his feet, and said with much 
 dignity: 
 
 “Mis’er Timofy P’yor will ’blige de comp’ny by takin’ 
 ob de floV’ 
 
 Tim, “first in honor as in place” of that gathering, 
 sprang into the middle of the floor, and, speaking to the 
 company at large, said : 
 
 “Now, ladies an ge’men, I has de honah ob gwine ter 
 sho’ yer a new step w’at I larn’d down at de depo’ t’oder 
 day, w’en I seed some circusses or mins’els fellers awaitin’ 
 fer de train, an’ one ob dem war a tryin’ ter keeo hisself 
 
Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 171 
 
 warm by dancin’ on de platfo’m de way dat I'se gwine ter 
 sho’ yer, ’case I’se be n practicin’ it ebber sence! Now yo’ 
 ge’men wif de fiddle an’ tambourine, yo' please fer ter 
 ’blige de company by striking up dat chime I done tell 
 yer ’bout, an’ I'll sho' yer de g’apewine twis'. Fire 'way! 
 I’se off!’ 
 
 The “band” struck up, and Tim sprang at once into the 
 air, and came down, first rattling his heels upon the 
 earthen floor in a shower of digs that made the clay lly, 
 and clapping his hands upon his thighs in a rain of blows 
 that proved the temper of his hands and the toughness of 
 his skin, in an energetic and frantic dance. 
 
 A burst of applause followed his first pause for breath. 
 
 When he commenced again, the measure of the music 
 and the movements of the dancer changed! It was now 
 wonderful—just wonderful! His legs seemed no longer 
 solid 4imbs of flesh and bone, but supple serpents, with 
 flexible vertebrae! 
 
 They wound round and round, in and out, turning, 
 twisting, untwisting and returning, with such amazing 
 velocity that the eye could not follow their lightning evo¬ 
 lutions. The performance was beyond the power of pen 
 to portray. It must have been seen to be appreciated. 
 
 Wild cries of delight and enthusiasm almost drowned 
 the sound of the music. And when, at last, Tim dropped 
 exhausted on the nearest vacant stool, the hullabaloo was 
 deafening. It was as if the whole crowd had gone mad! 
 Old Uncle Noah had to wait until the maniacs had spent 
 themselves before he could attempt to restore order. Cider 
 and ginger nuts were then handed round, and the com¬ 
 pany consumed a quantity before old Uncle Noah called: 
 
 1 ime! 
 
 The band struck up “Juba,” and the second candidate 
 took the floor. 
 
 It is not our intention to describe the performance of 
 each aspirant for the honors of the prize. 
 
 “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” 
 
 0 
 
 Therefore every negro man and boy present, except 
 the patriarch, the minstrel and the two musicians, who 
 were all ineligible, was resolved to try his fortune; and 
 
172 Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 
 
 all jigged fairly well, for dancing, like singing, is a nat¬ 
 ural accomplishment of the negro. But none equaled the 
 hero of the “grapevine twist.“ 
 
 When the last dancer had retired amid a good-natured 
 round of applause, Uncle Noah rose, enjoined silence, and 
 announced that he was ready to receive the votes of the 
 company for the awarding of the prize, as he should call 
 out their names, ending with: “Massa Timofy P'yor will 
 please walk for’ard an" diver his ’pinion ter me.” 
 
 When the old man had resumed his seat, Tim stepped 
 briskly up and whispered a name into the ear of the 
 patriarch, who nodded gravely, and called up the next 
 voter. 
 
 One after another they came up and whispered a name 
 into Uncle Noah's ear, who always bowed gravely. When 
 all the votes had been cast in this remarkable manner 
 there was a hush of eager expectation in the assembly. 
 
 Uncle Noah once more rose, cleared his throat, and 
 said : 
 
 “Ladies and ge’men! I nebber wer’ placed in sicli a 
 'barrasin' siterashun in all de days ob my pilg’image! 
 'Pears like ebery ge’men hab woted for hisse’f! Ebery 
 ge’man hab w’ispered his own name inter my ear. So 
 ebery candidate hab got one wote cast by hisse f, an' no 
 mo.’ 'Pears ter me ge’men as dis is like w'at de white 
 folks calls a ’tested 'lection. An’ I doane know w’at ter 
 do!” concluded the old man. And down he sat and con¬ 
 soled himself with his corncob pipe. 
 
 “Kik ! kik ! kik !” laughed Si. “I knowed it! I knowed 
 it f’om de firs’! Marse Co’nel P'yor's fun! Kik! kik! 
 kile! He knowed ebery nigger’d wote fer his own se’t 
 habin’ dat pipe ! An’ I knowed it, too ! Kik ! kik ! kik !’ 
 
 Meantime a hubbub was rising in the room that threat¬ 
 ened to be a riot, when Uncle Noah rose and lifted his 
 long arms aloft and in a loud voice cried: '‘Ge’men!” 
 
 Silence was instantly restored, for they all respected 
 the veteran, who continued: “Ge’men! Ef yer calls yer- 
 se’ves ge’men, have as sicli! ’Fo’ ladies, too!” 
 
 This had its effect, and order was restored, and Uncle 
 Noah dropped breathless into his seat, for there is not 
 much standing power at ninety. 
 
Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 173 
 
 “W at ’ould yer Vise us ter do unner de succumstances, 
 Unde Noah?" inquired a voice from the crowd. 
 
 “Yes, Uncle Noah! Yo’ tell us!’' chimed in a chorus 
 of other voices. — 
 
 As soon as the old man had recovered himself, he took 
 his pipe from his mouth, and spoke from his chair: 
 
 “Ge’men, yer can’t all hab de pipe, dough yer all has 
 ekal rites ter habbiiT it, ’case yer hab ckal wotes, w’ich 
 is one a piece! Each one is firs’ bes’ cli’ice fo’ his own 
 se’f. But no one kin hab de pipe, case yer all firs’ bes’! 
 So I now perposes dat yer all compermise on secon’ bes’! 
 Dem in fabor ob my perposil, p’ease ter say, Ay ! ’ 
 
 “Ay! Ay! Ay*!’’ went unanimously all around the room. 
 
 “Dem ob a contraywise pinion, p’ease ter say. No!" 
 
 Not a dissenting voice was raised. 
 
 “De ayes hab it," said Uncle Noah. Then lie took a 
 few puffs from his corncob pipe, and spoke again. 
 
 “Now, ge’men, 1’se gwine ter perpose de candidates 
 one at er time. Fus\ Mr. Timofy P’yor, who ’stinwish 
 hisse’f so much in de new ‘g’apewine twisd Dem in fabor 
 of Mr. Timofy P yor gettin’ de prize pipe will p’ease ter 
 say, Ay U 
 
 “Ay! Ay! Ay!” went around the room, but not unani¬ 
 mously. 
 
 “Dem ob contraywise ’pinion, p’ease ter say, No!" 
 
 A few vigorous noes came from the crowd. 
 
 “De ayes hab it ag’in. Mr. Timofy P’yor will pease 
 com' for’rd an’ be ’wested vviv de honah ob de prize,” 
 said Uncle Noah, rising with much dignity and some diffi¬ 
 culty^ and drawing from his coat pocket a paper parcel 
 containing the pipe. 
 
 d he successful candidate marched up to the “chair,” 
 supported on either side by a companion, and bowed. 
 
 of 
 
 Tim received the address with a mingling of humility 
 and exultation. 
 
 Massa cha man, sah! he began with embarrassment 
 and hesitation. “I is dumfoundered ’long ob my heart 
 
174 Christmas in the Negro Quarters. 
 
 bein' too full—fer—fer- Will some ge'men p'ease ter 
 
 lian’ me a drink?” he suddenly broke off and begged. 
 
 A mug of cider was brought to him. He took it, and 
 muttered: 
 
 “De healf ob de comp'ny!” and emptied it at a draught. 
 
 More cider and ginger nuts were served around, and 
 when these were consumed there was a general cry for 
 Mr. Sias Horah to favor the company with a performance 
 on the banjo. 
 
 “How yer kno' I brung my banjo?” demanded Si, not 
 ill pleased at this new proof of hi£ popularity. 
 
 "I seen it in de sleigh, an’ I tole on yer!” retorted Tim. 
 
 • “Oh, gib us a chime, Uncle Sias,” cried several of the 
 women in a chorus. 
 
 “Yes, an' let it be a real imp’ovidence!” said one of 
 them. She meant improvisation, a word she had caught 
 up from her master. 
 
 Si was bubbling over with delight! There was nothing 
 he desired more than to have such an opportunity as this, 
 of singing his own praises, by putting his adventure of 
 the evening “on be banjo.” 
 
 “Well, ladies and ge’men!” he began, “sence yer so 
 pressing an' seein’ as yer's all frens', an' woane 'port tier 
 miss’es, I 11 jes’ complimen' young Marse Murdok. 'Scuse 
 me a minnit, tell I gits my banjo.” 
 
 He soon returned with his instrument, tuned it up, and 
 commenced: 
 
 Ho\V de Young Miss Wer’ Sabed. 
 
 My mistress libs at Horah Hall, . 
 
 As is well known unto yer all. 
 
 She hab a son bof strong an' tall 
 An’ him was ’way in college wall. 
 
 She ’spec’ him home fo’ Christmas ebe, 
 
 But she wer’ berry much deceibe! 
 
 She sent me ter the railway train 
 Ebery day in wind or rain! 
 
 But ebery time he wasn’t dere, — 
 
 An’ she got mo’ an’ mo’ a scare. 
 
 Dis berry nite, t’rough win’ an’ sno* 
 
 I went ter meet dat boy; but, no! 
 
 He wasn’t dere, but in his stead 
 A sweet youn’ miss, with cheeks as red-” 
 
 Perhaps this is enough. To give the whole would be 
 
“Jim.” 
 
 175 
 
 to print pages of doggerel. We already know something 
 of Si’s style of minstrelsy, though, in justice to him, it 
 ( should be said that his improvisations sounded much bet¬ 
 ter when sung by his really sweet voice, accompanied by 
 his skillful touch, than they look in cold print. His per¬ 
 formance was received with great applause. But when 
 the company were assured that this “ballad ’ recorded a 
 real adventure of the singer, and that Si had, indeed, saved 
 the young niece of Col. Pryor from the great danger of 
 freezing to death outside the railway station, he became 
 the hero of the evening. 
 
 Apple toddy and hoecake were handed around now. 
 And when these had bSbn disposed of, general dancing 
 commenced. 
 
 There was not room enough in this large cabin for the 
 time-honored Christmas dance, the Virginia reel, but there 
 • were jigs, waltzes and four-handed reels. Every woman 
 "Wanted Si for a partner. So in turn he danced with every 
 woman in the room. 
 
 1 hey kept up the revels until early morning. Thev had 
 no clock to warn them of the flight of time. So in their 
 enjoyment of their favorite pastimes, music and dancing, 
 eating and drinking, they forgot it! It was not until cock^* 
 crow, throughout all the henhouses and barnyards of the 
 neighborhood, announced to them that a new dav ha^d 
 dawned, that they agreed to separate, wishing each other 
 “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A beautiful and happy girl, 
 
 Wjih heart as light as summer air, 
 
 And fresh young lip and brow of pearl, 
 
 Shadowed by many a careless curl. 
 
 Of unconfincd and flowing hair.—W hittier. 
 
 When Col. Pryor had dismissed Si, and had locked the 
 trout door after him, he returned to the room where lie 
 had left femima. He found that the girl had removed 
 
“Jim” 
 
 176 
 
 her wraps and had settled herself luxuriously in tht arm- 
 chair before the fire, with her feet on the fender. 
 
 The light of the candles on the mantel, as well as the 
 flame from the fire on the hearth, shone on as beautiful a 
 form and as fascinating a face as ever Nat Pryor had 
 gazed upon. She was about fifteen years old, and well 
 developed for her age. Her form was large and perfectly 
 proportioned. Her head was finely shaped, and was cov¬ 
 ered with glossy, light red, curling hair, that encircled 
 a broad, full, white forehead. Pier complexion was very 
 fair. Her eyebrows were delicately drawn, and her eyes 
 were so peculiar in their beauty that they were the most 
 attractive feature in her charming face. They were large 
 and so heavily shaded by long, thick eyelashes, that no 
 one, at a glance, could see their color, except when she 
 opened them very wide, which she had a rather startling 
 habit of doing. Then one could see that those wonderful 
 eyes were of shining amber color, with big, black pupils. 
 They were certainly very beautiful, magnetic and fascinat¬ 
 ing orbs! Her nose was a decided pug, giving her coun¬ 
 tenance a somewhat mocking, defiant, mischievous expres¬ 
 sion. Pier lips were full and well shaped. She had—if I 
 ^nay so describe it—a large, beautiful, red mouth. Her 
 chin was strong. She wore a suit of dark blue merino, 
 with white collar and cuffs. 
 
 “Well, my dear," said the colonel, drawing a chair and 
 seating himself near her. 
 
 “Well? I do not think it is well at all! What have 
 you to say why the sentence of death should not be pro¬ 
 nounced upon you ?” she demanded. 
 
 “Oh ! Ah ! May it please the court, I have not yet heard 
 what crime has been laid to my charge, nor been allowed 
 an opportunity to defend myself/ 1 solemnly replied the 
 colonel. “Therefore I would pray the court that sentence 
 be suspended.” 
 
 “You ought to be suspended yourself!” exclaimed Jim, 
 opening her eyes wide upon him. “Do you know,, sir, that 
 if that good, old negro had not chanced to be at the sta¬ 
 tion, and taken pity on me, I should have had to sit on my 
 trunks outdoors all this bitter winter night, and might 
 have been found frozen to death to-morrow morning?" 
 
 “Good Heaven, child! You make my blood curdle! 
 
Stop chaffing, Jim, and tell me all about it! You cannot 
 think I would have neglected to meet you myself if I had 
 known of your coming. Why, I should have been de¬ 
 lighted to do so, and delighted to have you. I thought 
 you were a fixture at the Georgetown Convent, which has 
 been your home ever since the death of your mother,” said 
 the colonel, with emotion he could scarcely control. 
 
 “Then you did not get the major’s letter?” inquired the 
 
 girL 
 
 “What letter?” demanded the colonel, raising his eye¬ 
 brows. 
 
 “The letter the major wrote to you last week, asking 
 you to receive me, and announcing his marriage.” 
 
 “Great Caesar! Silas married again!” exclaimed the 
 colonel, in amazement. 
 
 ' “Well, yes! rather! He has wedded a wealthy widow, 
 without children, and who does not like children ; there¬ 
 fore, while they have gone off to Arizona, where the 
 major has been ordered to take command of Fort Pro¬ 
 tection, I am packed off to you for an indefinite term; and 
 this without anyone consulting your pleasure or conven¬ 
 ience in the matter, as it now seems to me,'’ concluded 
 Jemima, with a sigh. 
 
 “Not so, my dear girl! Not so! You are my only 
 sister’s only child! Motherless! Ay, fatherless, too, for 
 all practical purposes.” added the colonel, under his 
 breath. “And I love you as my own daughter, Jemima! 
 Surely you must know how often I have written to your 
 father, and begged him to let you come and spend your 
 holidays with me? And few events could have made me 
 so happy as to have had you with me. Rut he would 
 never let you come. Have vou left school finallv now 
 my love?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, Uncle Nat. Having had no vacations, and 
 no outside distt actions, T made rather rapid progress in 
 my studies, and graduated sooner than most girls of my 
 age; at the June commencement, last summer. Then f 
 still remained at the convent as a parlor boarder, until 
 the major’s marriage and departure for the West. Then 
 I was sent here, as you see. ’ 
 
 “Well, my darling, you shall never regret coming to 
 me. Henceforth you are the mistress of your widowed 
 
“Jim.” 
 
 178 
 
 uncle’s house. Ah! here comes my—your housekeeper, 
 my dear,” he added, as a middle-aged, colored woman 
 entered the room. 
 
 She was short, stout and black, and was dressed in a 
 gay tartan plaid gown, and white cambric turban and 
 neckerchief. Jemima had taken the hancj of her uncle, 
 pressed it to her lips, and was holding it fondly to her 
 heart, when he spoke to the newcomer: 
 
 '‘Druse, this young lady is my niece, Miss Abbace. She 
 has come to stay, and will take her position here as mis¬ 
 tress.” 
 
 Druse had courtesied when she came into the room, 
 courtesied when the colonel began to speak, and again 
 when he finished. Then the colonel turned to Jemima 
 and said: 
 
 “Now, my dear, give your orders, and Druse will make 
 you comfortable. I have a party of gentlemen in the big 
 parlor, who came to spend the evening with me. I must 
 go to them; but as soon as they go away I will return to 
 you.” 
 
 “Oh, do not let me detain you, dear, good uncle. Go 
 to your guests at once! I shall do very well. And I 
 thank you for the warm welcome you have given me,” 
 said Jemima, with tears dimming the splendor of her eyes. 
 
 Col. Pryor folded her in Jus arms, and kissed her 
 fondly, and then with some emotion turned and lp ft the 
 room. 
 
 As soon as she was alone with the old housekeeper, 
 whom she feared might consider herself supplanted, je¬ 
 mima turned, and with a smile said: 
 
 “My dear uncle is very kind to wish to make me of so 
 much importance in the establishment, but I shall interfere 
 very little with your management, Aunt Druse. For you 
 must know that I am-quite ignorant of housekeeping, while 
 you, I presume—indeed, I know—must have faithfully 
 filled your responsible position of housekeeper here for 
 more years than I have lived.” * 
 
 “Well, yes, youn’ mist’ess, I reckon so. An’ to de bes 7 
 cb my ’bility, ’ replied the woman. 
 
 “Well, Aunt Druse, I will only trouble you now to get 
 me a cup of tea and show me to my room.” 
 
 “Yes, young mist’ess. Yo’ set yere an’ make yo’se’f 
 
179 
 
 comfo’ble, w’ile I goes an’ ’tens ter things,” said Druse. 
 Then, glancing around the room, she saw an old book 
 lying on the side table, which she took up and brought to 
 the girl, saying: 
 
 “Here, honey! here’s a book wiv rnitey good readin’ in 
 it, I reckon. Yo’ kin ’muse yo’se’f long ob it w’ile I’m 
 gone.” 
 
 Druse left the room, and Jemima took up the book. It 
 must have been a highly interesting book to farmers, for 
 it treated of “Stock Raising in All Its Branches.’’ Je¬ 
 mima looked at the pictures of famous cattle: horses, pigs 
 and sheep, et cetera, with little interest, until the' door 
 opened, and Druse came in with a tablecloth over her arm, 
 followed by a young black boy, carrying in his hands a 
 large waiter laden with tea, bread, butter, cakes and 
 sweetmeats. 
 
 “Dis yere boy is mv son, young mist’ess. An’ a moughty 
 good-fer-nuffin’ lad he is, too,’' said Druse, who held that 
 to depreciate young people was the surest way to their 
 moral improvement. 
 
 “Now, Otto, doane yer try ter bow wiv dat waiter in 
 yo’ ban’, or yo’ll drop it on de flo,” cautioned Druse, as 
 the boy was endeavoring to hold his burden within his 
 left arm, while he pulled his front hair, in obeisance, with 
 his right hand. 
 
 Druse drew out the table, laid the cloth, took the tray 
 from the boy, and arranged the edibles on the board. 
 
 “By de time vo’s done, de fire will make yo’ bedroom 
 warm as a toas’. So now, young mist’css, yo’ set down 
 an ’joy yo’se’f. Otto done make you a fire. But, Lor’, 
 he aine no count to nobody, nohow,” added Druse, as* she 
 set the empty tray up against the side of the chimney. 
 
 Jemima looked with interest upon the boy. He was a 
 child of about eleven or twelve years of age, slim and 
 black. He was by no means depressed or mortified bv his 
 depreciation, for his eyes were shining with mirth, and he 
 was grinning from ear to ear. But Jim herself had been 
 “no account to nobody” for so many years that she quite 
 sympathized with this little black brother in humiliation. 
 
 Come here, Otto,” she said, smiling on him. 
 
 He came up to her, pulling his front hair and bobbing 
 his head vigorously by way of salutation. 
 
i8o 
 
 '‘Are you really such a good-for-nothing bov?’’ 
 
 “1 kin tote wood, air fotch water, an' wait on de table, 
 an' play on de banjo, young mist’ess,” replied the lad. 
 
 “Then I think you are a very useful and entertaining 
 boy," said the young lady. 
 
 “Now, p’ease set down, air drink yo’ tea, ’fo’ it git col 1 , 
 young mist’ess,’’ said Druse, who did not approve of this 
 conversation. ^ 
 
 Jemima complied, and seated herself at the table; but 
 as she partook of the delicacies before her, she frequently 
 turned to speak to Otto, who stood grinning and watch¬ 
 ing her with adoring eyes. 
 
 After she had finished a hearty supper, for which her 
 long, cold journey had given her an appetite, she filled 
 Otto's hands with cakes, which he eagerly thrust into his 
 pockets, for fear his mother should take them away from 
 him, and bobbed his head with thanks all the time. 
 
 “Now, Aunt Druse, if you will show me the way, I will 
 go to bed. Do you know that, although I am my Uncle 
 Nat's only niece, I have never been in this house before ?” 
 
 “See dat, now! Sich a shame! But, of course, I do 
 kno’ it, chile! Ef yo’d ebber been here afore I’d have 
 seed yo’. Come ’long o’ me, honey! Otto, you mis’able 
 cre’ter, yo’ put all dem dere fings ofifen de table on ter de 
 waiter, an’ foF up de tableclof; and shake it fus’, an’ doane 
 yo’ break nuffin’,’’ ordered Druse, as she took one of the 
 candles and led the way from the room. 
 
 She conducted Jemima up the broad, front staircase to 
 a broad, upper hall, with doors on each side leading into 
 bedrooms. She opened the last one on the right-hand 
 side, and showed Jemima into a spacious front chamber, 
 directly over the long parlor, and corresponding to it in 
 size and shape. At the furthest side of the room, and 
 opposite the door by which they had entered, was a broad 
 fireplace*, in which was burning a fine hickory wood fire, 
 supported bv brass andirons, and protected by a high brass 
 fender. A rag rug lay before the clean, red hearth. A 
 similar rug lay beside the bed. The room was fitted up 
 entirelv in white, according to the custom of the time and 
 place. The walls were whitewashed, the floor was bare 
 but for the rugs; the three front windows, the high-post 
 bedstead, the dressing table, and even the easv-chairs were 
 
“Jim.” 
 
 181 
 
 
 
 all draped with white dimity. But for the glorious fire it 
 would have been a . chilly-looking chamber. Jemima’s 
 trunk stood against the wall, with her two bandboxes upon 
 it. 
 
 jemima, very tired, threw herself into the white easy- 
 cliair before the fire, and handing the key of her trunk to 
 Druse, asked her to get out a nightdress. 
 
 While the weary girl reclined in her seat she noticed 
 “what she had not seen before, because they were painted 
 white as the walls were, namely, two closets in the two 
 recesses on the sides of the chimney. 
 
 “In place of the wardrobes of more modern houses,” 
 she said to herself, “I can hang up my clothes in them 
 to-morrow.” 
 
 Druse brought the required garments, and then said: 
 
 “Tf yo’ p ease, young mist’ess, I’ll unpack yer things 
 fo’ yo' an’ hang ’em up.” 
 
 “No, not to-night, thank you. I know, from what I 
 heard my uncle say, that you are all keeping Christmas 
 Eve down at the quarters. ^ will detain you no longer. 
 You can go at once, and I will just sit here before this fire, 
 and wait until my uncle comes to bid me good-night/’ 
 said the girl, pushing her bright curls away from the 
 broad forehead, exposing full temples, which a phrenolo¬ 
 gist would have called abnormally developed bumps of 
 mirthfulness—her inheritance from the Pryors—but which 
 were not in an active state to-night. 
 
 “Now, look here, young mist’ess, doanc yo’ set up fo’ 
 Mnrse Nat! Ef yo’ do yo'll jis’ set up all night! Dem 
 ge men aine gwine ter let ole marse off ’fo' mornin’, an’ 
 dis Ch’ismas Ebe, too! Yo’ jis’ go ter bed, an’ le’ me 
 go down an’ tell ole marse as yo’ was tired—an’ so yo’ 
 is an has gone ter bed. He’ll be glad, ’cause it will 
 he\e him ob barrassmen’, an likewise oneasiness on yo’ 
 count.” 
 
 “You are right, Druse! will go to rest. You go bid 
 my uncle good-night for me. And good-night to you, 
 and a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, Druse.” 
 
 “De same ter yo’, young mist’ess! An’ many ob dem,” 
 replied the housekeeper, as she left the room. 
 
 Hut Jemima did not retire immediately. She took her 
 
18a Jemima Abbace. 
 
 prayer book from her satchel, knelt beside the easy-chair, 
 and said the Litany of the In&nt Jesus, the office of the 
 hour. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 JEMIMA ABBACE. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock when young Oliver Prvor re¬ 
 turned home from Horah Hall. Passing by the negro 
 quarters, and seeing the lighted cabins, and hearing the 
 sound of music and dancing, he rightly judged that all 
 the colored folks were assembled there, keeping high fes¬ 
 tival, and that there was no one at the house to Jake his 
 horse; so he rode his rough-shod pony round to the 
 stables, and rubbed him down well, and fed and put him 
 up. Then he walked on to the house, and knocked. His 
 father opened the door. 
 
 ‘‘Had a pleasant evening, Noll?” he inquired, cheer¬ 
 fully. 
 
 “Splendid! I left the ladies still up, waiting for the 
 arrival of Murdok. I did not care to stay and receive the 
 young gentlemen, myself, though/ 7 Oliver replied, jas he 
 drew off his overcoat and hung it on the rack. j 
 
 The colonel did not tell him that there would be no ar¬ 
 rival of Murdok at Horah Hall that night, nor did he 
 mention the unexpected arrival of Jemima Abbace. That 
 news would keep until the next day, he thought, and af¬ 
 ford a pleasant surprise for Christmas morning. 
 
 “I say, young marse! they are having a high old time 
 down there at the quarters, aren’t they?” exclaimed Noll. 
 
 Nat Pryor doubled up and laughed as he thought of 
 the prize pipe joke, and then said: 
 
 “There, go to bed, Noll! I have some gentlemen here, 
 and they mean to stay all night, I verily believe! Good¬ 
 night, my boy ! Merry^Christmas to you !” 
 
 “Same to you, and* many of ’em, dad! Good-night!” 
 responded the youth, as he took the candle from his father 
 and ran upstairs to his den. 
 
 As he passed the door of the best spare room, he saw 
 a light shining through the keyhole, but he only thought 
 
Jemima Abbace. 183 
 
 that a fire had, been kindled in it in case any of the gentle¬ 
 men should decide to sleep at the house. He had not the 
 faintest suspicion that his cousin, Jemima, who was. in 
 fact, but a myth to his apprehension, was domiciled 
 therein. 
 
 It is necessary to 'fcay a few more words concerning Je¬ 
 mima to make her position clear. 
 
 Jemima was the only surviving child of Col. Pryor’s sis¬ 
 ter, between whom and himself there had existed a bond 
 of affection knit all the closer because they were the only 
 children of their parents. The latter died when the son 
 was just twenty-one years old, and had left him sole 
 guardian of the daughter, who was but fifteen years of 
 age. He had devoted himself to this young sister until 
 her marriage to Lieut. Silas Abbace, who had just gradu¬ 
 ated from the Milita-ry Academy at West Point. The 
 young officer, having no influence in high official circles 
 whereby to receive an appointment to Washington, New 
 York, or some other choice post, where his most arduous 
 duties would consist of leading the german in fashionable 
 halls, or dancing attendance in high official anterooms, 
 was naturally ordered off to a frontier fort in the far 
 West, to be scalped by the Indians, or enervated by ma¬ 
 laria. 
 
 He took his bride with him to this forbidding post of 
 duty, where the next year their first child, Jemima, was 
 born, and where, five years later, his young wife, and 
 their second child, a boy, died of “the fever.” 
 
 Then the captain, for such was his rank at the time of 
 his bereavement, got a six months’ leave, and returned 
 to the East, bringing his motherless girl with him. He 
 had but one female relative in the world, an aunt, who 
 was a nun in the Convent of the Visitation at Georgetown. 
 
 J o this religieusc he committed the care of his child, 
 with the understanding that she should be brought up in 
 the Catholic faith, and, if in after years she should de¬ 
 velop any inclination for a conventual life, she should be 
 given up to the service of that life. 
 
 At the expiration of his leave, Capt. Abbace returned 
 to the frontier, and there he remained for the next ten 
 years; not at the same post, however, for he was fre- 
 
184 Jemima Abbace. 
 
 fluently changed from one to another, and had served at 
 all the posts, from Oregon to Arizona. 
 
 Meantime his little daughter grew toward womanhood. 
 No undue influence, however, was brought to bear upon 
 her to direct her inclinations to a conventual life. 
 
 Jemima developed no desire for a devout life. Quite 
 the contrary! But she was a faithful student, and pro¬ 
 gressed rapidly in her studies. As soon as she was able 
 to write, her first letter was written to her father, who was 
 then in Oregon. And, from that time, for about a year, 
 the father and daughter corresponded regularly. The 
 novelty of corresponding with his little daughter pleased 
 him for a short time; but after that its interest seemed to 
 wane. His answers to her letters became shorter, and 
 then they became intermittent, irregular, occasional, and 
 finally dropped to only two or three a year, as on Christ¬ 
 mas and birthdays. The girl, too, was beginning to lose 
 her interest in her father, whose image was fading from 
 her memory, and who was so forgetful or neglectful of 
 her letters. And less and less frequently she troubled her¬ 
 self to write. 
 
 But, if her father almost entirely ignored her existence, 
 her uncle did not. Every time business called Nat Pryor 
 to Washington, he took occasion to go to the convent to 
 see his niece—“his dear, dead sister’s motherless daugh¬ 
 ter,’’ as he pathetically called her. And every June he 
 would write to his brother-in-law, to beg that she might 
 be permitted to spend her midsummer holidays with him 
 at The Notches. And every December he would petition 
 for her presence at his home for Christmas. 
 
 But the petitions were never granted, not even after 
 the death of the child’s great-aunt, for whose sake she 
 had been left at the convent. So the dreariest portions of 
 the year to the poor girl were the holidays, when all her 
 schoolmates were gone to their homes. Even after she 
 had graduated, the summer before her appearance at The 
 Notches, she had been left through all the season as a 
 parlor boarder at the institution. Only early in the De¬ 
 cember following had her father appeared suddenly in 
 Washington, and announced to his daughter his impend¬ 
 ing marriage to the wealthy Widow Wilkins, and took 
 her from the convent to act as bridesmaid to her step- 
 
Jemima Abbace. 185 
 
 mother, and then dispatched her to her I ncle Nat Pryor, 
 while he and his bride went off to the West. 
 
 • v 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 On that same Christmas Eve, long after Oliver Pryor 
 had left the house, Isabel Horali sat up waiting for the 
 arrival of her son, Murdok. 
 
 The wainscoted back parlor was the picture of ideal 
 domestic comfort. The open fire of hickory logs blamed 
 upon the broad hearth, and lighted up the warm walls 
 and crimson curtains of the room. A chandelier hung 
 from the center of the ceiling and illuminated an elegant 
 tea table that stood under it, covered with a snow-white 
 damask cloth, adorned with a silver service and Sevres 
 china, and laden with all the delicacies for that meal, ex¬ 
 cept the dishes that were waiting in the kitchen to he 
 served hot. 
 
 Isabel Horah reclined in her crimson easy-chair on the 
 right side of the chimney, with Zenobia seated on a has¬ 
 sock at her feet—a favorite position for the young girl 
 in her idle moments; for, as all the household said, “she 
 doted on her adopted mother/’ 
 
 Gilbert Godfrey sat nearer the table, where the light 
 of the chandelier could fall upon his book, for he was 
 reading aloud to his companions. 
 
 Suddenly the tall, old-fashioned clock that stood in the 
 corner of the parlor, reaching from floor to ceiling, 
 “whirred with startling preparation and slowly struck 
 eleven. As suddenly Mrs. Horah threw 7 down her knit¬ 
 ting, and sprang to her feet, exclaiming: 
 
 “Excuse me, Mr. Godfrey, but 1 cannot listen any 
 longer.” J 
 
 1 he vonng man instantly closed his book, and looked 
 very much concerned. 
 
 “Murdok should have been here t\\ 7 o hours ago! T am 
 sure some accident must have happened either to the 
 train or to the sleigh,” she added, going to the front 
 window, and drawing aside the curtains' and trving to 
 peer out into the darkness. 
 
 "I hope and trust not, madam! But if you will allow 
 
Trouble at Horali Hall. 
 
 186 
 
 me, I will saddle a horse and ride down to the station to 
 inquire,” suggested the young man. 
 
 “Oh, would you? Would you? You are so kind! I 
 should not have dreamed of asking such a favor. On 
 such a night, too! And for such a distance! It is too, 
 too selfish in me to accept your kind offer! But, oh, Mr. 
 Godfrey, I am consumed with anxiety! ’ she said, wring¬ 
 ing her hands. 
 
 “Don’t speak of it, my dear lady. I hope you know 
 that I would do much more than this to oblige you. I 
 can take the bay horse, which was rough shod hy the 
 blacksmith to-day. The ride will be safe,” said the young 
 man, as he rose and prepared for his midnight journey 
 through the snow. 
 
 Ke had to go to the stables and saddle the horse for 
 himself, v as all the negroes here, as elsewhere, with the ex¬ 
 ception of Servia, who had no taste for such revels, were 
 gathered in their quarters, keeping Christmas Eve; though 
 with nothing like the enthusiasm that characterized the 
 merrymaking at The Notches, for they missed Uncle Si 
 and his banjo. 
 
 He took the astonished bay horse, who could not imag¬ 
 ine why he should be disturbed at this unprecedented hour 
 of the night, and showed his disapprobation by snorting 
 and laying back his ears like spikes. He saddled the ani¬ 
 mal, led him from the stable, and mounted him and rode 
 off as rapidly as the slippery road would allow, in the 
 direction of the “Halfdown” station, to which Si had 
 been sent that morning to meet or wait for Mr. Murdok 
 Horah. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 / . , . v ^ - ;.w X 
 
 TROUBLE AT HORAH HALL. 
 
 Meanwhile Isabel Horah remained in the parlor, but 
 could not keep quiet. She walked up and down the floor, 
 wringing her hands and occasionally giving expression to 
 her feelings in ejaculations of wild conjecture. 
 
 “Oh, I know, I know some terrible accident has hap- 
 
Trouble at Horah Hall. 187 
 
 pened! A collision on the railroad, or a fall of the sleigh 
 over some precipice!” 
 
 “No, no, dearest mamma! Nothing evil has happened! 
 Do not thirlk^so! I have been praying to the Holy Vir¬ 
 gin, who has a heart full of divine compassion for dis¬ 
 tressed mothers, to comfort and protect you. And she 
 . is true! so no grief can come to your 
 
 “Chut! chut! You make me sick with your supersti¬ 
 tions !” impatiently exclaimed the lady. She did not often 
 speak angrily to her adopted daughter, of whom she was 
 really very fond, but her nerves were now extremely irri¬ 
 table from the long, intense strain of anxiety. 
 
 Zenobia made no reply, but looked at the lady with eyes 
 full of tender pity. Mrs. Horah met that look and was 
 melted by it. 
 
 “Child! ’ she said, in a kindlier tone, “have all my care¬ 
 ful teaching and Mr. Godfrey’s painstaking been of no 
 avail to rid you of your superstitions?” 
 
 “Oh, mamma, it is my holy faith and comfort! If I 
 did not believe in the dear Virgin Mother as I believe in 
 you, and that I could go to her with even my little troubles, 
 I should feel very helpless,” said the earnest child. 
 
 “You are an idolater, and all our teaching lias been in 
 vain,” sighed the lady. 
 
 Zenobia made no reply. It was very strange that, as 
 young as the child was when she fell into the hands of 
 Mrs. Horah, she had learned the aves and paters of 
 her rosary, and never omitted to repeat them morning 
 and evening in her native Spanish. The ideal of the Di¬ 
 vine Mother had inspired her infantile spirit and had re¬ 
 mained with her through all opposing teaching. 
 
 Presently they were interrupted by the opening of the 
 hall door, which had not been locked after Mr. Godfrey’s 
 departure, and a moment later by the entrance of Celia, 
 who came in smiling and saying: 
 
 h lease excuse me, ma am, but as I was going home 
 from Uncle Seth’s, where they had a taffv-pulling, I saw 
 the light and knew vou had not retired, and so I made 
 bold to come in to pay my duty to Master Murdok.” 
 
 “Master Murdok has not returned,” said the lady. 
 
 The quadroon turned pale as she echoed: 
 
 “Not—returned! 1 Mease, ma’am, have you any news?” 
 
Trouble at Horah Hall. 
 
 1S8 
 
 k 
 
 “No, Celia, none. I am very anxious,” said Mrs. Ho- 
 rah, welcoming the sympathy of this woman. 
 
 “Oh!" breathed Celia, in a deep, troubled tone. “And 
 what did Uncle Si say when lie came back ? ’ 
 
 “He has not come back,” replied Mrs. Horali. 
 
 “Oh, ma’am! what can have happened?” cried Celia, 
 clasping her hands. 
 
 “Heaven only knows!” 
 
 “Oh, ma’am, would you please allow me to stay and 
 wak at the house here till we hear something ?” 
 
 “Yes, you can join Servia in the kitchen. She is there, 
 keeping up the fire for a hot supper when he does come.” 
 
 Celia courtesied and left the room. Mrs. Horah con¬ 
 tinued to walk distractedly up and down the floor. 
 
 The old clock “whirred” again and solemnly struck 
 twelve. 
 
 “If is Christmas Day! A Merry Christmas to you, 
 dearest mamma!” exclaimed Zenobia, starting up and run¬ 
 ning to her benefactress, and kissing and embracing her 
 heartily. 
 
 “Child ! child! do not mock me!” passionately cried the 
 troubled woman. 
 
 “Oh, mamma, be comforted! Nothing has happened! 
 Nothing dreadful, I mean. 1 know it,” confidently af¬ 
 firmed Zenobia. 
 
 “You know nothing about it,” nervously retorted the 
 lady, dropping into her easy-chair, exhausted from her 
 long, distracted pacing to and fro. 
 
 Hour after hour passed. The weary night waned. The 
 first rays of the rising sun reddened the eastern horizon 
 and shot lances of crimson light through the pines that 
 crowned the mountain tops, *and into the windows, whose 
 shutters had been left open to welcome the returning son, 
 
 Zenobia rose from her seat and extinguished the lights 
 of the chandelier. 
 
 “It is certainly time that Mr. Godfrey was back. Oil, 
 what will this day bring forth ?” exclaimed Isabel Horah, 
 wringing her hands as she rose from her seat. 
 
 fust then the sound of sleigh bells was heard approach¬ 
 ing the house. 
 
 o 
 
 Mrs. Horah flew to the front door, tore it open, and 
 
Trouble at Horah Hall. 189 
 
 was confronted by old Si, who had just jumped from his 
 sleigh and come up the front steps. 
 
 “Si! My son! Where is he? What's happened?” 
 breathlessly inquired the distracted woman. 
 
 “Nuffen aine happen, mist’ess, on’y Marse Murdok, he 
 nebber corned!” 
 
 “Never came! Then what kept you so long?” 
 
 Si had his lie ready. He had been making it up all the 
 way from The Notches to Horah Hall. 
 
 “Yes, mistress, he nebber corned by enny ob de trains 
 w'at stopped dere. No, mist’ess. So wen de las’ coined 
 an’ gone, an' he wahne dere, de youn' youf in de ticked 
 offis he see me so dis'p’inted he say how p’rhaps de ge’m- 
 man miss de las' way train an' might come by de free- 
 o'clock 'spress w'at didn’ stop regular dere. but w’at ’ould 
 pull up sometimes to 'com’date a ge'man an’ let him jump 
 off safe. But dere wer’ a youn' miss come by dat las’ 
 chain, w'ich she wer’ Marse Co'nel P’yor’s niece, an’ no¬ 
 body dere ter meet her! So w en I knowed dere wer’ 
 six hours to wait ’fo’ de ’spress 'ould pass, I jis’ gib dat 
 young miss a lif' in de sleigh as fer as Marse Co’nel s, 
 an' den dribed back ter de stashun ter be all ready fo’ de 
 ’spress. But dat ’spress went bv like a flash ob lightnin’ 
 an' nebber stop”—“Awful lies, but jus'ifiable in de cause 
 ob peace,” Si said to himself. 
 
 “Well, thank Heaven, there was no accident!” said 
 Mrs. Horah, who came to the probable conclusion that 
 the irresponsible young man had gone off to spend Christ¬ 
 mas with a classmate in some gayer scene than Horah 
 Hall, and had not thought it necessary to inform his 
 mother. 
 
 While Si was telling his story, Celia had come silently 
 to the dooT, where she stood, as pale as death, until lie 
 had finished, and then, seemingly relieved, she slipped 
 away. 
 
 “Did you say that a niece of Col. Pryor’s had come 
 down ? inquired Mrs. Horah, when her maternal anxiety 
 had been somewhat allayed, and had left her mind to 
 think of other matters. 
 
 Yes, mist ess. An’ nobody ter meet her! An’ she 
 would a perished in de snow ef it hadn’ be ’11 fer me,” said 
 Si, with natural self-complacency. 
 
190 Trouble at Horab Hall. 
 
 . Mrs. Horah expressed some surprise and curiosity, and 
 then Si told the whole story of his adventure, which lost 
 nothing in the telling. 
 
 While they were speaking, the sound" of the feet of a 
 galloping horse were heard approaching the house, and 
 soon after the door was opened, and Gilbert Godfrey en¬ 
 tered. 
 
 “No accident, madam,” he hastened to say, before he 
 had noticed Si. “But as the mail came in while I was at 
 the station, I rode on with the postboy to Misty rock, and 
 waited at the post office until the mail was opened, and 
 have brought you this letter,” he added, handing it to the 
 lady. 
 
 Mrs. Horah tore open the envelope. It contained but a 
 short note, just telling her what she had already divined 
 ■—that her son had decided to spend the Christmas holi¬ 
 days with a classmate at his gay citvvhome in Richmond. 
 It was a cruel, depressing disappointment to the widowed 
 mother, yet she made every excuse for her son. 
 
 “Horah Hall is very dull,” she said to herself, “and the 
 city is gay. It is, therefore, natural that a young man 
 should prefer the pleasures of balls, concerts, plays and 
 the society of young men of his own age and rank to the 
 old manor house and the company of its plain inmates. 
 
 So she accepted the situation, though with a heavy, 
 aching heart. She did not go to church that day. Indeed, 
 Isabel Horah never did, in all her troubles, seek the 
 strength and comfort that religious faith might have given 
 her. 
 
 In the afternoon Col. Pryor rode over to see her. He 
 was shocked to perceive how ill she looked. She read his 
 feelings in his expression and hastened to explain that she 
 had only lost a little rest and should feel better after a 
 
 good .sleep., 
 
 The colonel told her then of the arrival of his niece, 
 and asked her to come and bring Miss de Leon, and see 
 the young girl, expressing the hope that Zenohia and Je¬ 
 mima might become friends. - - 
 
 Mrs. Horah responded languidly, yet sincerely, that 
 she hoped they might. 
 
 The colonel soon took leave, saying to himself as he 
 rode off: 
 
 
Trouble at Horali Hall. 
 
 191 
 
 ‘That woman is pining away, and breaking her heart. 
 Ah! it is not good nor wise to set all our affections on one 
 object! To say nothing of its being idolatrous, it is un¬ 
 lucky !” ^ 
 
 A day or two after this, Mrs. Horah and Zenobia maue 
 ^a perfunctory visit to The Notches, to call on Miss Ab- 
 bace; it was perfunctory, at least, on the part of Isabel 
 Horah, whose heart was not in anything she undertook. 
 
 Zenobia and Jemima seemed to be attracted to each 
 other from the first moment of their meeting, so that it 
 was soon apparent to all that they would become warm 
 friends. Before the call was over, Mrs. Horah settled on 
 a day when Col. Pryor, Oliver and Jemima should dine 
 and spend an evening at Horah Hall. 
 
 This was the commencement of many pleasant inter¬ 
 changes of visits between the families of Horah Hall and 
 Tiie Notches. So the winter passed pleasantly to all ex¬ 
 cept the melancholy mistress of the manor. It seemed as 
 if nothing could rouse her from the deep gloom into which 
 she had sunk. Her health, too, was failing. Everyone 
 interested in her could see that. * 
 
 The only circumstance that seemed to afford her the 
 least pleasure was the growing attachment between Oliver 
 Pryor and Zenobia. 1 hey were both very young—Ze¬ 
 nobia, about fourteen ; Oliver, about nineteen. Yet there 
 could be no doubt of the depth, sincerity and warmth of 
 their mutual affection. The poor, sad widow watching 
 them thought of Paul and 1'irginia, rather than of Romeo 
 and Juliet , so childlike, open and innocent was their love 
 in all its manifestations. 
 
 There was another couple, also, whom she watched with 
 scarcely less interest—Gilbert Godfrey, who had seemed 
 a confirmed old bachelor at twenty-nine, was evidently 
 fascinated by the amber eyes of Jemima Abbace. But he, 
 poor fellow, was a silent and a hopeless lover; for what 
 prospect had he, a poor teacher, of ever being in a posi¬ 
 tion to aspire to the hand of Col. Pryor’s niece? 
 
 Up to this time he had been fancy free. His onlv dream 
 of the future had been to lift the'heavy mortgage from 
 his paternal acres, and then to return, free of debt, to the 
 home of his youth, to the home that had been in his family 
 ever since the first manor of a thousand acres had been 
 
jg 2 Trouble at Horab Hall. 
 
 granted by the first “Lord Proprietary of the Province of 
 Maryland,” to the first Gilbert Godfrey who settled in St. 
 Mary’s. For this cause he and his brother, Gideon, had 
 leased the Godfrey farm to a good tenant for a term of 
 yffers; for this cause he labored at teaching at Horah 
 Hall, and his brother at overseeing on their native soil. 
 Every dollar that each could save was devoted to paying 
 the interest, and reducing the principal of this incum¬ 
 brance. 
 
 So the winter blossomed into spring, bringing the blue 
 skies, the green fields and fragrant flowers, and joyous 
 Easter. Isabel Horah had looked forward to this short 
 holiday as the season that would certainly bring her son 
 once more to his home. She even wrote to him to insure 
 his coming, entreating him to come, telling him how long 
 she had pined for his presence, and how distressed she 
 would be if he disappointed her again. 
 
 But he wrote back in reply that he was very sorry, but 
 he had promised the same schoolmate, Julius Nesbit, of 
 Richmond, with whom he had spent the Christmas holi¬ 
 days, and who was his dearest friend at college, to accom¬ 
 pany him on a fishing expedition down the Chesapeake 
 Bay, which would occupy the whole of Easter week. 
 
 Again her maternal love was grievously wounded, but 
 again she sought to find excuses for her selfish son. 
 
 “I never had any brothers or male cousins. I know 
 nothing about young men except Murdok. So I ought 
 not to judge him harshly! It cannot be that he does not 
 care for me! Men, I suppose, are not like women. We 
 must not judge them by ourselves. Oh, no! for no daugh¬ 
 ter would have failed to rush home eagerly for her holi¬ 
 days! And no mother would have neglected poor Je¬ 
 mima Abbace so long as her father did! Oh, men are 
 different!” she mused, reasoning from her own narrow 
 experience. 
 
 But repeated disappointments were wearing her out. 
 For will it be believed, term after term ended, vacation 
 after vacation came and went, and Murdok Horah did 
 not come home. He seemed to loathe his quiet hoiue and 
 his country neighbors. He was also very artful in avoid¬ 
 ing his home-coming. He would always promise posi¬ 
 tively that he would come, and always disappoint his 
 
193 
 
 At the Old University. 
 
 mother at the last moment, when it would be too late for 
 her—had she desired to do so—to go to Charlottesville 
 to fetch him. And the first news she would hear of his 
 change of plan would be a letter from some distance, to 
 inform her that he was spending the vacation with Nesbit, 
 or some other schoolmate. 
 
 Thus three years passed away. 
 
 Meanwhile, though no word of courtship had passed 
 between Oliver and Zenobia, no thought of marriage had 
 occurred to the youth or the maiden,, their mutual devo¬ 
 tion was patent to all who were interested in them, and 
 met with great favor from Mrs. Horah and Col. Pryor. 
 'Neither the father nor the adopted mother could have 
 desired better fortune for the girl or boy than that they 
 should be united at the proper time. 
 
 cha^tp:r xxvii. 
 
 AT THE OLD UNIVERSITY. 
 
 All, happy hills! Ah, pleasing shade! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain. 
 
 Where once tny careless footsteps strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain, 
 
 I feel the gales that from you blow, 
 
 A momentary bliss bestow. 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 
 My weary soul to soothe, 
 
 And redolent of joy and youth. 
 
 To breathe a second spring!—G ray. 
 
 T o the widowed mother, hungering for the presence of 
 Tier only son, the midsummer vacation of the third year 
 was now the great bourne of desire and anticipation. 
 Then.her dear “boy,” as she still called the young man. 
 would come home for a long, blessed, delightful visit to 
 spend the three months’ holiday. He had promised most 
 positively to do so. 
 
 Put on the expected occasion she did not intend to await 
 his arrival at Horah Hall, but to go to Charlottesville to 
 attend the annual commencement of the university, as all 
 parents and guardians were expected to do. So, when 
 
194 
 
 At the Old University. 
 
 the time drew near she wrote to Murdok, announcing 
 her intention, fondly believing that the information would 
 give him pleasure. 
 
 He wrote back “All right!” 
 
 Then Mrs. Horah invited Jemima Abbace to stay with 
 Zenobia at the Hall during her absence. Then, attended 
 by Celia, she set out for Charlottesville, where she ar¬ 
 rived early in the evening and put up at the best family 
 hotel and dispatched a messenger for Murdok. 
 
 He came late, and was at once shown up to his mother’s 
 room, where he found her in her wrapper, reclining on a 
 resting-chair, looking very pale, wan and w r eary—and 
 attended by Celia, who stood behind her, combing out her 
 long, red-gold hair, which was now beginning to be freely 
 tinged with silver. 
 
 “Oh, Murdok, I am so glad to see you!” she exclaimed, 
 bursting into tears of joy, as she rose and clasped him to 
 her heart. 
 
 “You should not have taken the trouble and fatigue of 
 this long journey, mother. There was no necessity for 
 it,’ he said, as he kissed her in a perfunctory manner, 
 and let her slip from his arms into her chair, where she 
 lay back exhausted. 
 
 Then Celia came around to him with more than an old 
 nurse’s gushing emotion, and, seeming to see nothing but 
 her foster child in the stalwart, young man before her, 
 she suddenly clasped him in her arms, and would have 
 kissed him on his mustached mouth, if he had not rudely 
 and angrily shaken her off, exclaiming: 
 
 “Don’t be a cursed fool, woman! You forget your¬ 
 self!” 
 
 Celia “collapsed” and shrank back again behind her 
 mistress’ chair, where she stood scowling darkly, while a 
 sinister and even a threatening expression settled on her 
 sullen face. 
 
 Murdok drew a chair backward toward them, struck it 
 sharply upon the floor, sat down saddlewise astride it, 
 crossed his arms upon the chair back, leaned his chin upon 
 them, and thus faced his mother and her attendant. 
 
 Mrs. Horah had not seen her son for nearly three 
 years. N^y she looked at him with interest not unmixed 
 with uneasiness. He was changed more than the interval 
 
*95 
 
 At the Old University. 
 
 of time seemed to explain, and not changed foi the better. 
 He had been a lovely infant, a beautiful boy, a handsome 
 youth, but now he was scarcely good-looking. He had 
 grown a little taller, and a great deal bioadei. He was 
 bullet-headed and bull-necked, with a dense growth of 
 closely curling black hair and beard—the latter too thickly 
 grown for a young man of his age—and which, taken to¬ 
 gether with a rather low forehead, short, unhandsome 
 iiose and prominent lips, seemed to suggest no remoter 
 descent from the^ape than the laws of evolution are said 
 to allow. His eyes were large, black and shadowed by 
 such long, thick lashes, and hung over by such heavy, 
 lowering brows, as to give them a sly, surly, forbidding 
 expression. 
 
 He was dressed flashily, in an evening suit of black 
 summer cloth, which, in itself, was well enough; but lie 
 wore a large diamond pin in his necktie, diamond studs 
 in his shirt front, diamond sleeve buttons, and a diamond 
 solitaire ring on his finger, and a heavy watch chain across 
 his vest. 
 
 A few years ago a man so dressed and bedizened ap¬ 
 pearing in a public place would have been “shadowed” as 
 a suspicious character. Now, however, the police know 
 that many of the members of the “fast set” dress mod¬ 
 estly, like theological students or country clergymen, dur¬ 
 ing business hours. 
 
 Mrs. Horah thought him overdressed, and looked at 
 him with unwilling and involuntary disapprobation ; she 
 hated so much to criticise her idol, even in silence. But 
 Celia thought him the most magnificent creature she had 
 ever seen. She gazed at him with admiration strangely 
 mingled with mortification. 
 
 After some desultory talk, in which Mrs. Horah had 
 asked many questions in regard to Murdok’s health, 
 studies and amusements, and Jaad received answers more 
 satisfactory than reliable* and, after she, in her turn, had 
 been questioned as to what was going on at Horah Hall, 
 The Notches and Mistyrock, and had replied by giving 
 a true and complete account of all of interest that had 
 happened in her neighborhood for the past year, Murdok 
 rose and said : 
 
 “Well, mother, I can’t stay any longer to-night! You 
 
196 At the Old University. 
 
 ought to go to bed, and I must return to my room, and 
 read hard for the examination, or I may be plucked.” 
 
 “Yes, go, my dear boy; but don't sit up all night. Life 
 and health, after all, are more precious and valuable than 
 collegiate honors. But before you go, do tell me who is 
 this Mr. Julius Nesbit, with whom you have formed such 
 an intimate friendship? I forgot to ask you before.’’ 
 
 “Oh, he’s just a splendid fellow—the son of Judge 
 Nesbit, of Richmond,” exclaimed Murdok, with more en¬ 
 thusiasm than he often chose to waste on any subject. 
 
 “In that case, my dear, since he has had you at his 
 father’s house for the Christmas holidays, and on his 
 yacht at Easter week, you must invite him to stay with 
 you at Horah Hall this summer. Bring him here and in¬ 
 troduce him to me, and I will second and press your 
 invitation.” 
 
 % 
 
 Murdok’s face clouded. She noticed it, and could not 
 imagine why it should darken so. But her son, and men 
 in general because of him, were getting to be more and 
 more a puzzle to Isabel Horah. Before she could ask 
 him if he did not li^e the proposal—and if not, why?— 
 he suddenly exclaimed: 
 
 “We will think about it, mother. Good-night,” and 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 When he was gone, Celia, with more sympathy, ten¬ 
 derness and discretion than she usually displayed, re¬ 
 frained from remarks, and helped her mistress to prepare 
 for bed, gave her a sleeping draught, and silently with¬ 
 drew to the corner of the room, where her little cot bed 
 had been temporarily stretched. 
 
 The next few days saw crowds of people from all parts 
 of the State, and from other parts of the country, pouring 
 into the town to witness the ceremonies of the commence¬ 
 ment at the old university. Mrs. Horah had been so long 
 a recluse that she kept out of the way of the multitude 
 with morbid sensitiveness. 
 
 Murdok, however, brought his friend Julius Nesbit 
 to the hotel parlor the next evening to see his mother. 
 
 “Birds of a feather flock together,” may be true of 
 birds, and also in regard to those men to whom it is 
 often applied. Yet it is sometimes seen that men of the 
 most opposite temperaments are superficially attracted to 
 
19 7 
 
 At the Old University. 
 
 each other, until a more intimate, mutual knowledge 
 proves them to be utterly unsuited. So it seemed to be 
 now with Murdok and young Nesbit. Externally they 
 were opposites. Murdok was dark, short, stout and 
 flashily dressed. Nesbit, tall, thin, fair and plainly 
 
 clothed. * 
 
 Isabel Horah was very much pleased with her sons 
 friend. She expressed her thanks to him for his hospi¬ 
 tality to Alurdok, and begged him to give her son and 
 herself the happiness of his company at ^lorah Hall for 
 the summer, 
 
 The young man thanked her very courteously, and ex¬ 
 pressed his regrets that previous engagements precluded 
 the possibility of such a visit. After a short conversa¬ 
 tion he took his leave, seeing that his hostess was fatigued. 
 
 The next day Nesbit’s father, the judge, arrived in 
 town. He took a room in the same hotel where Mrs. 
 Horah was stopping. In the evening, while the lady was 
 in the general parlor, young Nesbit brought his father up 
 and introduced him to Mrs. Horah. He was a tall, fair, 
 thin man, with silver hair and beard, as if prematurely 
 whitened, for, except this, there was no sign of age about 
 him. Mrs. Horah was more pleased with him than she 
 had been with his son, and thanked Heaven in her heart 
 for having raised up such friends to her “bov.” To the 
 father she also expressed her gratitude for his kindness 
 to her son. 
 
 He replied that nothing gave him or his family more 
 pleasure than to be useful to Mr. Murdok Horah. He 
 did not add, nor did she suspect, that their efforts had 
 been to win the young man from the evil companions 
 whose society he sought in the town. 
 
 I he evening was warm and close. The parlor was 
 crowded with visitors; therefore Mrs. Horah was glad 
 ■when the judge bowed and left her free to retire without 
 discourtesy. 
 
 I lie commencement at the university passed off very 
 much as such ceremonies do at other educational institu¬ 
 tions of the same rank. A few embryo statesmen, di¬ 
 vines, authors, et cetera, who had finished their collegiate 
 course, took high honors. Among these was young Ju¬ 
 lius Nesbit, who was destined for the bar. Murdok 
 
I9<S At the Old University. 
 
 Horah did not distinguish himself, nor did he ignomin- 
 iously fail. The “dons ’ 1 let him down easy. 
 
 On the last evening there was an entertainment given 
 by the students, at which all the visitors were present. 
 Even Mrs. Horah looked in upon the assembly for a little 
 while. 
 
 The next day there was a great exodus from Char¬ 
 lottesville, of professors, teachers, students and visitors. 
 But Mrs. Horah, Murdok and young Nesbit remained. 
 
 Airs. Horah was anxious to get home, for she was ill, 
 weak and weary. But she fancied that Murdok was stay¬ 
 ing from the love of his friend's societv, and would not 
 
 o j 1 
 
 wish to leave until Julius Nesbit should, start. So she 
 said nothing about going. 
 
 < 
 
 After two days had passed in waiting and doubt, Mur¬ 
 dok suddenly inquired, on the morning of the third day: 
 
 “Well, mother, when do you think of starting for 
 
 home ?” 
 
 “Just as soon as you please, my dear. But are you 
 quite ready?' she eagerly inquired. 
 
 “Well, the fact is, I am not going down to the old Hall 
 this summer/’ he replied, with some hesitation. 
 
 “Not?” It was but one word—one syllable—but 
 Taught with so much disappointment that Murdok has- 1 ' 
 tened to exclaim: 
 
 “Oh, come now, mother. The old Hall is an awfully 
 slow, old place. I should be bored to death in a week. And 
 when a fellow has a holiday, why in the mischief can’t 
 he enjoy it, instead of goipg into a musty old hermitage 
 like Horah Hall ? ’ ‘ ' W 
 
 “What are you going to do with yourself, Murdok?” 
 she inquired. 
 
 “Nesbit and myself have arranged to go on a tour of 
 the lakes and the St. Lawrence River. The arrange¬ 
 ment was concluded before vou came. So it is settled, 
 you see.” 
 
 “And will you be back in time to visit the Hall before 
 your return to the university?” she sadly inquired. 
 
 “How can I tell ? I never was there—I mean, I never 
 took that Northern tour before, nor did Nesbit. So we 
 do not exactly know. Now I have to ex> to mv room, 
 
At the Old University. 199 
 
 and pack up. Cut I will stay to see you off before I start 
 for the North.” 
 
 “You need not take the trouble,” she said, speaking 
 coldly to him for the first time in her life. “Celia can do 
 all that is necessary.” 
 
 “All right, * replied the young man, and he went out 
 about his own business. 
 
 Mrs. Horah called Celia, and gave her orders to pack 
 up. At noon of that day Mrs. Horah set out on her re¬ 
 turn home. Murdok, however, accompanied by his friend, 
 did see her off, and on the train; and, in a momentary re¬ 
 lenting at the sight of her pale face, he said that if he and 
 Nesbit should finish their tour in time he would try to 
 make a flying visit to the old place, just to take a look at 
 it before he returned to the university. 
 
 “I am afraid your mother wanted you to go home with 
 her.” suggested Nesbit, as they walked away from the 
 station, after seeing the train start. 
 
 “Oh, no, not she. And if you only knew what a poky 
 old place the old Hall is, and what a poky old lot the 
 people are, you wouldn’t wonder that 1 prefer a pleasure 
 tour to going home,” replied Murdok. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mrs. Horah, seated in the rushing railway 
 train, drew her thick veil over her face to hide the tears 
 she could not keep back. She broke the journey at a small 
 station on the route, and put up at the little inn for the 
 night. As there were no means of letting the inmates of 
 Horah Hall know of her approach in time to send a car¬ 
 riage to Halfdown Junction, she telegraphed to the inn at 
 Mistyrock for the proprietor to send a hack to meet her 
 at the noon train. The next morning she resumed her 
 journey, and finally reached Horah Hall at sunset that 
 day. 
 
 She took the little household completely by surprise. 
 
 “Oh, mamma! Why did you not write to let us know? 
 We would have gone to meet you in the carriage.* And 
 instead, you have had to come in that rickety old hack!” 
 said Zcnobia, who had rushed out to receive her. 
 
 My dear, I should have done so, but I overstayed my 
 time, and finally .started at a moments notice, as I may 
 say,’ replied the lady. 
 
 / 
 
200 
 
 At the Old University* 
 
 Then she followed the girl into the batk room, where 
 she found Jemima and Oliver. 
 
 The warm, joyous welcome of the young people was as 
 a balm to her bruised heart. Their evening meal was 
 over, but fresh tea was made for her, and they all waited 
 on her with affectionate zeal, not allowing the servants 
 to do anything. With rare tact they refrained from ask¬ 
 ing any questions until she was rested and refreshed. 
 Then Zenobia, fearing that continued forbearance might 
 be mistaken for indifference, and wound the mother’s 
 jealous heart, inquired: 
 
 “Where is Murdok ? And when is he coming home?” 
 
 kV He has gone with his friend Mr. Nesbit to make an 
 extended tour. He hopes to be with us later in the sum¬ 
 mer," was the somewhat evasive reply. 
 
 No more questions were asked. * Oliver Pryor spent the 
 night at Horah Hall. The next morning Oliver asked 
 that old Si might drive his cousin over to The Notches 
 in the buggy, as he himself had only his saddle horse, on 
 which he had ridden to the Hall on the previous day. 
 Mrs. Horah begged that he would remain a few days 
 longer. But Oliver urged that his father was very lonely, 
 and had missed them “awfully." So the lady had no more 
 to say, but told him to give what orders he liked at the 
 stables, while she drew a painful comparison between 
 Oliver's consideration for his father and Murdok’s indif¬ 
 ference to herself. 
 
 The leave-taking of the young people was affectionate, 
 and was only saved from being sorrowful by their mutual 
 assurances of eternal friendship and repeated meetings. 
 
 When Oliver and Jemima had gone, affairs at the Hall 
 settled down into their usual routine. The summer waned. 
 Isabel Horah became paler, thinner and weaker. Now she 
 had a slight, hacking cough, with a little afternoon fever, 
 accompanied by two red spots in the center of her hollow 
 cheeks, but her eyes were clearer than ever. 
 
 Nat Pryor, who, from having been her devoted, though 
 disappointed lover, had become her faithful friend, vainly 
 urged her to consult a physician. She assured him that 
 there was no necessity for such, that there was nothing 
 the matter with her, and that she should be quite well 
 when the enervating summer heats were over, and so on. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 “hoi^e deferred. 
 
 Tliou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, nor 
 The half unconscious power to draw 
 All hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law. 
 
 With these good gifts of God is cast 
 Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
 To hold the blessed angels fast.— Whittier. 
 
 September came, and with it Murdok suddenly ap¬ 
 peared at the Hall. It happened that Zenobia was spend¬ 
 ing the day with Jemima at The Notches. Mrs. Honah 
 received him alone. Hearing his voice in the hall, near 
 her parlor door, she ran out in delight at his unlooked-for 
 arrival, and caught him in her arms, welcoming him with 
 tears, smiles and inarticulate words of endearment. 
 
 “So you have come home in time to spend a fortnight 
 with us before you return to the university,” she said at 
 last, gazing fondly in his face. 
 
 “Well—no,” he slowly replied, as he drew off his dus¬ 
 ter, threw it on a chair and dropped himself into another. 
 “The fact is. I do not propose to go back to the university 
 at all.” 
 
 “Murdok!” she exclaimed, in sorrowful surprise and 
 foreboding. 
 
 “Oh, mother, I am tired of colleges and professors and 
 humbugs! I want to see the world! Ncsbit is going to 
 start for Europe on the tenth of this month, and I have 
 agreed to go with him. Our passages are engaged, and— 
 well, I only ran down here to say good-by.” 
 
 “When do you leave here—this neighborhood, I mean?” 
 faintly inquired Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “Let’s see. •This is Friday. 1 must leave on Monday. 
 T he steamer Europa sails on Wednesday.” 
 
 “And how long do you expect to be gone, Murdok!” 
 
 ^ onl\ about a year. We calculate to spend the au¬ 
 tumn in England and Scotland, the first part of tbe winter 
 in Paris and the last in Rome, and stay ;#id see tbe carni¬ 
 val ; then travel all over the Continent and see all that’s 
 to be seen.” 
 
202 
 
 “Hope Deferred.” 
 
 ‘‘A year!” she murmured to herself, and then for the 
 first time, perhaps, she realized the precarious condition 
 of her own health, and the uncertainty as to whether she 
 should live to see her son’s return. 
 
 “I am not well, Murdok,” she softly said. 
 
 “Why, mother, I never saw you look so well in all my 
 lffe! You are just blooming! Your eyes are like stars, 
 and your cheeks are like roses!” he declared, very sin¬ 
 cerely, for he mistook the signs of fever for those of 
 health. 
 
 She only smiled in reply. 
 
 “And say! Have you anything to eat? I am hungry 
 as a hawk!” 
 
 Mrs. Horah touched the bell; and Brush, who had 
 opened the front door for his young master a few min¬ 
 utes before, and was still lingering in the hall, answered it. 
 Mrs. Horah gave her orders for a repast to be laid in 
 that room. 
 
 Murdok left his chair, and stretched himself at full 
 length upon the lounge, and waited impatiently while 
 Brush set the table, and brought in cold meats, bread, 
 pastry, cakes and fruit; and, lastly, a pot of coffee. 
 
 “Take that slop away and bring me a bottle of brandy, 
 and a plate of broken ice,” commanded Murdok, as he 
 rose and yawned, and seated himself at the table. 
 
 Brush took up the coffeepot, and left the room in 
 silence; but when he got outside he relieved his feelings 
 by vigorously shaking his head. But he soon reappeared 
 with the brandy and ice, and Murdok fell to and made 
 aiKenormous meal. He had just finished, and Brush had 
 just cleared away the table, when there was a loud knock 
 at the front door. 
 
 “That is Zenobia,” exclaimed Mrs. Horah. 
 
 Brush hurried to open the door, and then the clear, 
 sweet voice of the girl was heard withi% speaking to 
 somevme: 
 
 “Well, good-night again, Oliver, since you cannot come 
 in. Do not forget your promise.” 
 
 The reply from without could not be heard. Then the 
 door was closed^and locked, and the dancing step and 
 singing voice came down the hall, and Zenobia entered the 
 back parlor, where the mother and son sat. Tust within 
 
*‘Hope Deferred.” 
 
 203 
 
 the door she suddenly stopped, and stood still in astonish¬ 
 ment. She had not seen Murdok for so long a time, and 
 he was so changed by his black beard and broadened form 
 that at first she failed to recognize him. 
 
 He looked up and saw before him a vision of beautiful 
 young girlhood, such as he had never seen or dreamed of. 
 
 “This is Murdok, my love! come home at last, to give 
 us a pleasant surprise !” said Mrs. Horah, by way of 
 breaking the spell of silence. 
 
 “Why, Zena!” cried the young man, starting to his 
 feet, “this is never my little Zena, grown into such a 
 beauty!” 
 
 And before she was aware he had seized her in his 
 arms, and was kissing her lovely face again and again. . 
 
 Startled, ashamed and indignant, the girl struggled 
 away from him as soon as she could, and then, flushing, 
 shaking, panting, she said : 
 
 “May I say good-night, mamma? You will want him 
 all to yourself this eveningv And, without waiting for 
 permission, she hurried away from the room, and plunged 
 her head into a basin of water, and washed her face over 
 and over again with streaming tears as well as with the 
 fresh water. 
 
 “Oh, what would Oliver say!" she exclaimed, as she 
 sank into a chair and dried her face on a towel. “What 
 would Oliver think? Oh, how I do hate that Murdok! 
 How 1 hate him! 1 will ask mamma to let me go over 
 
 to1 he Notches and stay with Jemima until he goes away 
 again! But I do not know how I will ever look Jemima 
 iti the face again ! And, as to Oliver! Oh !” she cried and 
 sobbed until she had exhausted her emotion, and then she 
 took up her rosary, a present .from Jemima, and wdiis- 
 pered to herself: “I will tell Mother Mary!” 
 
 All this distress at having- been heartily kissed by a 
 young man with wdiom she had been brought up might 
 appear to be absurd and exaggerated, but it must be "re¬ 
 membered what a shy, dainty, proud little lady Zenobia 
 had been from her infancy; how even in her babyhood, if 
 anyone wished to kiss her, she had offered her dainty lit¬ 
 tle hand or, as a most precious favor, her red check. 
 She had been so taught from her early infancy, and under 
 the care of Mrs. Horah she had never been accustomed to 
 
204 
 
 “Hope Deferred.” 
 
 those rude games of forfeits so popular in some neigh¬ 
 borhoods. Therefore she felt insulted and humiliated. 
 And she felt as if her dear, devoted, true Oliver, who 
 loved, adored and worshiped her with all his heart and 
 soul and life, but who caressed her only with his eyes— 
 his tender, eloquent eyes—was as deeply outraged as her¬ 
 self. 
 
 She could not bear to think of the insult, as she felt it 
 to be. She tried to turn her thoughts from the subject, 
 but it held them like a vise. She offered up her evening 
 prayers and thanksgivings in a mechanical and perfunc¬ 
 tory manner. She went to bed, but could not sleep. The 
 thought of Murdok Horah filled her soul with fear, dis¬ 
 gust and abhorrence. She shrank with her whole nature 
 from meeting him again in the morning. What if he 
 should take the same rude libertv with her again! She 
 would rather fire should scorch her face than his lips 
 should touch it! She would not risk that. She resolved 
 to go to The Notches early in the morning, leaving a note 
 of explanation for her dear mamma. Oh, that such a 
 mother should have such a son! 
 
 Would Mrs. Horah be angry with her for going away 
 so abruptly? she asked herself. Probably she would be 
 very angry, the girl thought; but she could bear the anger 
 of the lady better than the advances of the young man. 
 And now, although she had made up her mind what to 
 do in the morning, she could not compose herself to sleep. 
 Very exaggerated emotion, some might say, but it was the 
 girl’s nature. 
 
 While Zenobia was grieving in her room, Mrs. Horah 
 was mildly admonishing the young brute in the parlor. 
 
 “Whe-ew! The young lady puts on the airs of a prin¬ 
 cess !” Murdok said, with a laugh, as Zenobia left the 
 room. 
 
 “You have shocked her, my dear. Remember, Murdok. 
 you and she are no longer children/’ gravely remarked 
 the mother. 
 
 “Well, we were brought up like brother and sister/’ 
 laughed the son. 
 
 “But she is not really your sister, Murdok!” 
 
 “Gad! I am awfully glad she is not. She is too hand- 
 
“Hope Deferred.” *05 
 
 some to be my sister and some other fellow’s sweet¬ 
 heart!” said the young man, with a sardonic chuckle. 
 
 “Oh, Murdok, mind how you talk!” pleaded the lady, 
 uneasily. 
 
 “I do mind how I talk. I mind very much how I talk. 
 She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen in my 
 life, and I am jolly glad she isn't my sister, and some 
 other fellow s sweetheart. I say, mother, save her up for 
 me until I come back. And, maybe, I will come home 
 sooner than I promised, with such a bait to land me! he 
 added, with a loud laugh. 
 
 Then he arose, yawned and declared that he was played 
 out, and that he would go to bed. 
 
 Once more Mrs. Horah touched the bell, and the sum¬ 
 mons brought Brush. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Horah was down early in the 
 parlor, which was her favorite sitting room, and where, 
 since she had been ailing, the meals had been served. The 
 windows were all open, and a pleasant morning air, laden 
 with the refreshing fragrance of the surrounding bal¬ 
 samic pines and firs, came through. The breakfast table 
 was set, and there was nothing to do but to wait for the 
 appearance of the other members of the family. Mrs. 
 Horah sank into her easy-chair beside the window, and 
 took her knitting from her little workbasket—her “ever¬ 
 lasting knitting” as her friends called it—and worked 
 aw^ay until the door opened, and Murdok appeared. 
 
 He gave his mother a curt good-morning, and then 
 looked around the room as if in search of somebody or 
 something. 
 
 “Where is Zena ?” he inquired. 
 
 “She has not come down yet.” answered Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “Lazy little baggage! But a luscious little beauty like 
 she is may be forgiven for lying abed late.” he said, with 
 a laugh. 
 
 “It is very late for her. She is usually down and off 
 for a walk or a ride on the mountain long before I 
 am down. And, by the way, she may have gone out this 
 morning, and is staying longer than usual.” 
 
 . “What’s became of Godfrey?” was Murdok’s next ques¬ 
 tion. 
 
V 
 
 2o6 “Hope Deferred.” 
 
 “He has gone for his usual summer vacation, to visit 
 his brother in Maryland. But I am expecting him back 
 by every train. Si has already gone to the station to meet 
 him.” 
 
 “Now, you don’t mean to say that that fellow is hang¬ 
 ing on here yet!” exclaimed Murdok. 
 
 “Yes. As you know, after you went to Charlottesville, 
 I retained him to give Zenobia a higher education than I 
 was capable of imparting to her.” 
 
 “Now, what the devil should a delicious little beauty 
 like Zena want of that ?” he demanded, impatiently. 
 
 “She may have to earn her living as a teacher,” said 
 the lady. 
 
 “Never! while I am master of Horah Hall!” fiercely ex¬ 
 claimed the son. 
 
 Mrs. Horah made no reply. 
 
 “Is that fellow, curse him, still giving that girl les¬ 
 sons ?” 
 
 “Not regularly. But he directs her reading and assists 
 her when she requires it.” 9 
 
 “And hangs around her all the time, d-n him! He’ll 
 
 bolt with her some of these days!” 
 
 “Murdok!” \It was but a word, but it expressed an 
 intensity of painful disapprobation that a Revere lecture 
 could not have conveyed. 
 
 “Well, why don t you send him away? I don’t want 
 him hanging about this girl!” 
 
 “I will not discharge him, because he is even more use¬ 
 ful. and I may say necessary, to me than he is to Zenobia. 
 He now oversees the plantation and manages all my 
 money matters.” ^ 
 
 “And is to be my stepfather some of these days! Well, 
 I’d rather he would be that than to run off with Zena! 
 But if he expects to hang up his hat in Horah Hall after 
 I come home he'll find himself kicked out, stepfather or 
 no stepfather!” growled the surly young beast. 
 
 Isabel Horah had risen to her feet, her hand resting on 
 the elbow of her chair, her pale face crimson. At first 
 she could not speak, but presently she said in low, stern 
 tones : 
 
 “Murdok, if you permit yourself to address such im- 
 
“Hope Deferred.” 
 
 207 
 
 pertinent remarks to me again, you will force me to leave 
 the room.” And she sank back in her chair and covered 
 her face with her hands. 
 
 He was somewhat startled by the effect his words had 
 produced, though he had no appreciation of their gross 
 impropriety, as addressed to the widowed ladv of Horah 
 Hall. 
 
 “Oh, come now, mother! Can’t you take a joke?’ he 
 exclaimed, trying to turn the affair off with a laugh. 
 
 She could not answer him. And, happily, just then 
 Brush came in and handed a sealed envelope to his mis¬ 
 tress, saying in reply to her surprised and questioning 
 look: 
 
 “Yes’m, Miss Snowby gone ridin’ out on de gray pony, 
 an’ she gib me dis at de stable do’ ter gib ter you, jist as 
 she rode away.” 
 
 By this time Mrs. Horah had broken the seal, opened 
 the note, and was reading as follows: 
 
 * “My Beloved Mamma: Oh, I hope you will not be 
 displeased with me for going over to The Notches this 
 morning to see Jemima. 1 really think that it will be best 
 for us ail. You should have Murdok all to yourself while 
 he stays at home. If I have made a mistake, pray forgive 
 me. And, oh, dearest mamma, please do permit me to 
 stay with Jemima for the present. You can do without me 
 better, now that you have Murdok, than you could at any 
 othei; time. And when I return to Horah Hall I will try 
 to be a better daughter to you than 1 have ever been be¬ 
 fore; for, oh, my darling mamma, surely I know how 
 much I owe to you! Will you please, dearest mamma, to 
 let Uncle Si call at I he Notches on his way to the post 
 office, to let me know whether you are displeased with me 
 01 not? Oh, I pray you are not. But I shall never have 
 an instant s peace until I hear. Please svjid me word that 
 you forgive me ? Your loving child, 
 
 “Saturday, 7 A. M. * Zenobia." 
 
 “Poor, frightened dove,’’ murmured the lady, as she 
 folded the note and put it into her pocket. 
 
 ^'What's all that about?” demanded Murdok. 
 
 “Only a few lines from Zenobia, to explain that she has 
 
2 oS “Hope Deferred.” 
 
 gone over to The Notches to visit Jemima,” replied the 
 
 lady. 
 
 “And who the devil is Jemima?” sharply demanded 
 Ivlurdok, who was exasperated at the departure of the 
 girl, with whom he had expected to enjoy a couple of days 
 of love-making. 
 
 “Brush, bring in the breakfast!” said Mrs. Horah, 
 ignoring the rude question of the young man. 
 
 He did not repeat it, but turned away and stood looking 
 out of the window, with a lowering brow. 
 
 Brush brought in the breakfast. Such a feast it was! 
 The cook had reason to know something about the appe¬ 
 tite of her young master and what a feeder he was. 
 
 He sat down with his mother to a tete-a-tete breakfast, 
 and while coffee, rolls, rice cakes, bacon, eggs and chicken 
 disappeared before him, he dropped the subject of Zeno- 
 bia’s departure. Not a word was uttered during the meal. 
 Mrs. Horah was too much depressed for conversation, and 
 Murdok too much occupied with his breakfast. 
 
 When, at last, it was finished, he turned to Brush, who 
 was waiting on the table, and abruptly ^demanded ; 
 
 “What horses have you in the stable?” 
 
 “Well, yer see, Marse Murdok, sah/’ began the man, 
 with the indirectness of his class, “dere’s de gray pony, 
 but Miss Snowby hab tuk him; an’ dere’s de white mare, 
 
 but Uncle Si hab got him; an’ dere’s-” 
 
 “Idiot! I didn’t ask you what was out, but what was 
 m ! | 
 
 “Ye-yes, sah !—sart’nly, sah ! De brack fillv, sah! an’ 
 de ca’age bosses an’ de mules, sah. Yes, sah!” Brush has¬ 
 tened to explain. 
 
 Then harness the black filly to the dogcart, and bring 
 them around to the door in half an hour, and get yourself 
 ready to drive me over to The Notches,” he commanded, 
 and immediately left the parlor. 
 
 Brush began quickly to clear away the breakfast serv¬ 
 ice. Mrs. Horah sat down to her little writing desk, and 
 
 wrote to her adopted daughter as follows: 
 
 / 
 
 “My Beloved Chtld: Stay as long as you please with 
 
 your friends at The Notches. When you come home to 
 
“Hope Deferred.” 2og 
 
 me, dear, I will receive you with open arms and un¬ 
 changed affection. 
 
 “Your loving mamma, 
 
 “Saturday, 9 A. M. ^ I. H.” 
 
 She sealed this note, and called to Brush just as he was 
 preparing to leave the room, with a heavily laden tray. 
 
 “Here,’’ she said, giving him the missive, “put this in 
 your pocket, and when you reach The Notches give it to. 
 Miss Zenobia with your own hand. Do you understand?” 
 
 “Yes, mist’ess, ma’am, I does; an’ I’ll mine w’at ycr 
 tell me, ma’am!” replied the man, carefully stowing the 
 note away. 
 
 lie quickly finished his work in the parlor, and hurried 
 off to do his master's bidding at the stables. 
 
 In a few minutes later he drove the dogcart up to the 
 door. Murdok came lumbering lazily down the front 
 stairs, went out, climbed into the vehicle and ordered the 
 negro to drive on. 
 
 Airs. Horah, standing at the front window of the long 
 drawing room, watched the cart out of sight. Then she 
 returned to the back parlor, sank into an easy-chair, and 
 took up her “contemplative knitting work. ’ 
 
 A strange, inexplicable feeling of actual repugnance to 
 Murdok was coining over her; a feeling which she could 
 not understand nor overcome; a feeling which wounded 
 her mother heart, and for which she bitterlv blamed her¬ 
 self. 
 
 ”Is it possible,” she moaned, “that I am taking a dis¬ 
 like to my own son? Oh, who will be charitable to a 
 man’s faults, if his own mother cannot be? Ah, God help 
 u- both !” she prayed, covering her face with her hands. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 *X 
 
 A HEART OF F IRE. 
 
 The cold in clirriTTTire cold in blood; 
 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name; 
 
 But mine was like the lava flood, 
 
 That boils in Etna’s breast of flame.— Byron. 
 
 As Murdok Horah approached the house at The 
 Notches he saw that all the family were assembled and 
 seated on the front piazza, enjoying the fine air and clear 
 sunshine of the early September morning. 
 
 The two girls were making lace, and Jemima was 
 teaching Zenobia a rare new stitch that she had learned at 
 the convent. 
 
 Oliver was cleaning a gun for his father, preparatory to 
 a partridge shooting, at which the latter w r as an expert. 
 
 The colonel himself was reading aloud to the party 
 from a Washington paper that had come in that morning’s 
 mail. As he heard the approach of heels on the drive, he 
 looked up, saw' the dogcart, laid down his paper and rose 
 to meet his visitor, muttering: 
 
 “Hello! Who is this?” for in the broad, bloated, black- 
 bearded man, lounging back in the cart, he did not recog¬ 
 nize the slim, active, smooth-faced boy who had gone 
 away to the university so long before. 
 
 “Good-morning, Col. Pryor,” said Murdok, getting 
 awkwardly out of the cart, and offering his hand. 
 
 “Ah, good-morning, Mr. Horah. I am glad to see you 
 back again, sir. Miss de Leon told me that you had ar¬ 
 rived unexpectedly last evening. And yet, knowing that, 
 1 failed to recognize you at first sight. You have changed 
 very much, sir,” said the colonel, genially shaking hands 
 with the young man, for he had heard no ill reports of 
 him during his long absence; and then he was Isabel 
 Horah’s idolized son, and that fact would have covered 
 a multitude of sins in Nat Pryor’s judgment. 
 
 “A young* man does between seventeen and twenty, re¬ 
 turned Murdok, with a laugh. 
 
 Meantime, Brush had left the cart, secured the horses, 
 gone up on the piazza, and handed the note from Mrs. 
 
211 
 
 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 Horah to Zenobia. The girl, wo had been startled and 
 terrified bv the sudden appearance of Murdok, fearing 
 that he had been sent to carry her back to Ilorah Hall, 
 now turned as pale as death, as she opened the envelope, 
 dreading to find in it an order for her return. But when 
 she read the kind words that gave her permission to stay 
 at The Notches as long as she should desire to do so, yet 
 assured her of an affectionate welcome v hen she should 
 return, and of undying affection for all time, Zenobia’s 
 face flashed into that heavenly beauty which joy can lend 
 to the loveliest. And yet, as Col. Pryor and Murdok 
 Horah stepped upon the piazza, and approached them, she 
 shrank closer to the side of Jemima, and passed her arm 
 within that of her friend. 
 
 “Jemima, my dear,” said the colonel, presenting his 
 visitor, “this is Mr. Murdok Horah, the son of our hon¬ 
 ored neighbor at the Hall. Sir, my niece, Miss Abbace.” 
 
 Jemima half rose and slightly bowed in response to 
 the visitor’s elaborate obeisance. 
 
 Tim, who had come upon the scene as in duty bound, 
 placed a chair near the young ladies, and Murdok dropped 
 indolently into it. Oliver now stood his gun in a corner, 
 left his work, and came up and greeted the foe of his boy¬ 
 hood with frank good nature, and seated himself near the 
 group. 
 
 But Murdok Horah had thoughts, feelings and eyes 
 only for the beautiful girl before him; his gaze glowed 
 upori her like sunglasses. He longed to catch her in his 
 arms, press her to his bosom and cover her face with 
 kisses! He dared not take such a liberty with her here, 
 even on the pretext of her being his foster sister. He 
 must take her back to Horah Hall, where he might have 
 her to himself for the next two days. So absorbed was 
 he in the contemplation of the lovely girl that he started 
 when spoken to, and founcPdifficultv in taking an intelli¬ 
 gent part in the conversation. He longed to get her away 
 from them all, to have her by his own side alone. He 
 determined to take her back to Horah Hall that very fore¬ 
 noon; and, although he hated exertion of any kind, to 
 send Brush home on foot, and drive the dogcart himself, 
 so that he might have a long tctc-d-tcte with this delight¬ 
 ful beauty. At last he could restrain his impatience no 
 
3X3 
 
 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 longer. Turning toward her with an affectation of light, 
 good humor, he inquired : 
 
 “Well, little runaway, do you know what has brought 
 me here this morning ?” 
 
 “No," replied Zenoba, as her eyes fell and her color. 
 
 rose. 
 
 “And can you not hazard a guess?” 
 
 “No, unless you came to pay your respects to Col. 
 Pryor.” 
 
 “I have, certainly, very great respect for Col. Pryor, 
 but strict etiquette would require me to wait for a caH 
 from the colonel, if there had been no urgent .reason for 
 my appearance. Come, now. why am I here ?” 
 
 “I do not know," replied the girl, without raising her 
 eyes. 
 
 “Ah ! I will make her look at me before all is done!” 
 he muttered under his breath. Then aloud: “I have 
 come to carry you back to Horah Hall.” 
 
 “But I do not wish to go,” said Zenobia, beginning to 
 tremble, although she knew she was safe in her position, 
 with Mrs. Horah’s note in her pocket. 
 
 “You do not wish to go? Surely that is very unkind 
 and cruel," said Murdok, devouring her beauty with his 
 fierce, glowing eyes. 
 
 The other members of the party saw and heard, but 
 at this stage of. the conversation could not interrupt it. 
 
 .“But I feel sure you will go, when I tell you that my 
 mother is not feeling well and desires your presence,” 
 Murdok Horah resumed. 
 
 At this she suddenly raised her eyes to his with such a 
 flash of scorn at his falsehood that his full, black orbs fell 
 before them. 
 
 “She sent me here to fetch you. Come! get your things 
 on at once, my dear,” he added, with an effort to seem 
 unembarrassed.” 
 
 “But I cannot go,” said Zenobia, turning her head and 
 clinging closer to the arm of jemima. 
 
 Her friends all looked at her in surprise. Never be¬ 
 fore had the girl been known to display a selfish or dis¬ 
 obedient-spirit. Murdok noticed the unfavorable impres¬ 
 sion ^bc had made and took instant advantage of it. 
 
 “What!” he exclaimed, in a tone of mild reproach, “will 
 
A Heart of Fire. 
 
 213 
 
 you really disregard the wishes, not to say so harsh a 
 word as command, of your sick mother?” 
 
 Zenobia once more raised her eyes, full of scorn, and 
 fixed them on his face,.as she replied: 
 
 “I will send an answer to mamma.” 
 
 His face darkened. 
 
 “Miss de Leon,” he said, putting a severe restraint 
 upon his temper, and speaking with grave calmness, “I 
 am very sorry to be emphatic in this matter with a young 
 lady, but I fear it is my duty to insist—no, I will not say 
 so—but to entreat you to return with me. Get ready at 
 once, I beg you.” 
 
 / -Zenobia neither moved nor spoke in response to this 
 urgent speech. She saw and felt the evil impression she 
 was making on those dear friends whose good opinion she 
 valued so highly, and yet she generously forbode to pro¬ 
 duce the note, which, though it would have exculpated 
 her, must have convicted Murdok of falsehood. 
 
 At this juncture the young man made, as it were, a 
 false move which obliged her to checkmate him at all 
 hazards. 
 
 Seeing the look of surprise and disapproval of the girl’s 
 conduct on Cel. Pryor’s honest face, he turned to him 
 and said : 
 
 Sir, may I appeal to your kindness, and beg your in¬ 
 fluence to induce this young lady to return home with 
 me ? 
 
 “My dear child/' said the good man, in embarrass- 
 - ment, and with some hesitation, “surely you know how 
 much we all love you, and delight to have you here when¬ 
 ever we can, but we dare not detain you when vour 
 mother sends for you, and it is your clear duty to return 
 to her. You do not know what pain it gives me to say 
 
 this, my dear,” sighed the colonel, raising her hand to his 
 - lips. 
 
 Murdok looked triumphant. Put only for an instant. 
 
 Zenobia drew Mrs. Horah’s note from her pocket, and 
 put it into Col. Pryor’s hand, saying: 
 
 “Please read that, sir.” 
 
 The puzzled man opened and read it, muttering to him¬ 
 self : 
 
 ‘H’m! h’m! h’m!” 
 
214 
 
 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 As soon as he had finished it, Zenobia held out her hand 
 to take it again, perhaps to prevent it being passed 
 around; but Murdok, whose curiosity was excited, though 
 he had no suspicion of the contents of the note, coolly in¬ 
 tercepted it, covering his effrontery with a light laugh, and 
 asking as a mere matter of form : 
 
 “May I not also read this?” 
 x “Yes,” replied Zenobia. 
 
 “The devil!” exclaimed Murdok, when he had fin¬ 
 ished it. 
 
 “Exactly! I quite agree with you! ’ assented Nat 
 Pryor, breaking into one of his irrepressible laughs. 
 
 Jemima and Oliver looked up in surprise and per¬ 
 plexity. 
 
 “I—really, I-This is very embarrassing. My 
 
 mother must have changed her mind very suddenly. It is 
 true I did not see her at the moment of starting. She 
 must have written and sent this by the coachman,” said 
 Murdok, recovering some of his assurance. 
 
 “Yes,” said Zenobia, feeling some pity as well as con¬ 
 tempt for the mortified brute. 
 
 “So you see how uncertain are the moods of mothers,” 
 he added. 
 
 Nat Pryor laughed, laid his broad hand caressingly on 
 the dark curls of Zenobia, and explained to his wondering 
 son and niece: 
 
 “This is nothing more than a slight misunderstanding 
 of the lady’s wishes, my dears. And our dear Zenobia will 
 remain with us until further orders,” he added, patting 
 the girl’s head. 
 
 “So glad!” exclaimed Jemima, drawing Zenobia to her 
 heart, and kissing her. 
 
 Murdok Horah shuddered with envious, covetous rage. 
 The time would come, he swore to himself, when no one 
 but himself should kiss those perfect lips. 
 
 “And now, Mr. Horah, ’ said the hospitable colonel, 
 “as your errand is satisfactorily disposed of, let me send 
 your horse and cart to the stable, and do you stay and 
 spend the day with us.” 
 
 Armry and mortified as Murdok Plorah was, he could 
 not refuse to avail himself of this invitation that )vould 
 give him the presence of Zenobia all day long- But, after 
 
A Heart of Fire. 
 
 215 
 
 all, he had condemned himself to the fate of Tantalus. He 
 could only look and long. Zenobia sat beside her girl 
 friend, working at her lace, and never even raised her 
 eyes in his direction; while Col. Pryor plied him with 
 local politics until he was w r ild w 7 ith impatience. He 
 thought of asking Zenobia out for a walk, but, rude as he 
 was, he knew he could not do so without also inviting 
 Jemima to join them; and that arrangement would not 
 please him at all. It was a tctc-a-tetc with the beauty 
 that he longed for. 
 
 At last, to make matters worse. Col. Pryor invited him 
 to go with him out to the stables to see a famous draught 
 horse that he had recently purchased! a_ very Samson 
 among horses, and whose name, therefore, was no other 
 than Samson. 
 
 To decline to go and inspect his host's prize horse 
 would be an affront that even Murdok could not venture 
 to offer Col. Pryor. So the two men walked off to tlie 
 stables, leaving the young people alone on the piazza. 
 
 “Oh, Jemima, dear, let us go upstairs to your room, 
 now r that we can get away without rudeness/' pleaded 
 Zenobia. Then, seeing the disappointed look in Noll 
 Pryor’s face, she added : 
 
 “And you may come, too, Oliver. May he not, je¬ 
 mima ?” she instantly inquired, in sudden recognition* of 
 her friend’s rights. 
 
 “Of course he can/’ heartily responded Miss Abbace. 
 
 And the three young birds flew aloft. Safe from an¬ 
 noyance in Jemima’s room, where all the doors and win¬ 
 dows stood open to let the breezes of the warm September 
 noon pass freely through, the tw r o girls sat down to tluir 
 lace-making, while Oliver, seated on a low stool, with bis 
 father s gun across his knees, and a piece of chamois skin 
 in his hand, was polishing the silver mountings. They 
 were good-natured, so they indulged in no harsh criti¬ 
 cisms of the obnoxious visitor from whom they had stolen 
 away. 
 
 Meanwhile the inspection of the stables and appraise¬ 
 ment of the prize horse being over, the colonel and his 
 guest returned to the house. When the t\v r o men stepped 
 upon the piazza and found that the young people had left, 
 the surprise, disappointment and disgust of Murdok 
 
2 l6 
 
 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 Horah could not be expressed in words, nor quite con¬ 
 cealed in his countenance. 
 
 “Where are they gone?” he inquired, as he dropped 
 heavily in an armchair. 
 
 “Who? The young folks? Lord knows ! Down in the 
 apple orchard, maybe! I reckon they’ll be in soon. The 
 sun is too hot to let them stay out long,” said Col. Pryor, 
 as he handed a turkey-wing fan to his guest, and sank 
 back into another armchair, calling out to Tim, who was 
 watering the lawn, to fetch a pitcher of ice-cold cider 
 from the cellar. Then he opened a cigar case and offered 
 his visitor a good Havana, and took another for himself. 
 
 But neither cider nor cigars consoled Murdok for the 
 absence of Zenobia, while the colonel talked draught 
 horses and politics alternately, until Murdok heartily 
 wished him and his horse and the county politicians all at 
 Hades together. And, worse than all, the girls did not 
 return to the piazza, nor did Mr. Horah see them again 
 until dinner. 
 
 “It was the devil’s own luck,’' Murdok said to himself, 
 when he realized the arrangement of the seats. 
 
 Jemima presided at: the head of the table, the colonel 
 at the foot, and Murdok Horah had the seat of honor on 
 the right, and Zenobia and Oliver sat together on the left 
 side. They were just opposite him, and he could gaze on 
 h< r at will, but she never raised her eyes to his face; and 
 if lie spoke to her, she answered him very briefly, but not 
 rudely. 
 
 After dinner, when they had all passed into the parlor, 
 the two girls went to the piano, Zenobia to play the ac- 
 c( mpaniment, while they sang an old-fashioned ballad to 
 please Col. Pryor. Soon Oliver joined them with his rich 
 baritone voice. Murdok, who knew neither the tune nor 
 the words, had to content himself with making one of the 
 audience of two. And he silently cursed music, musicians 
 and musical instruments. Nevertheless, he had to endure 
 them all, for one song followed another until the tea bell 
 rang, and they went into the dining room and were placed 
 at the table in the same objectionable order in which they 
 had sat at dinner. 
 
 After tea it was expected that the visitor would depart, 
 but he did not. He followed the family into the parlor,; 
 
217 
 
 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 where they engaged in a desultory conversation until the 
 evening wore on toward bedtime. Now a sickening fear 
 crept upon Zenobia that when Murdok Horah should bid 
 them all good-night, he would take advantage of it and 
 kiss her again before she could prevent him. It was mor¬ 
 bid, perhaps. It was ridiculous, some might think; but 
 there it was. The fear grew upon her to such an extent 
 that it brought on a headache. Soon she found oppor¬ 
 tunity to whisper aside to Jemima : 
 
 “I am going to slip away as soon as I can do so un¬ 
 observed. I have a headache. Do, please, make my ex¬ 
 cuses when our visitor goes." 
 
 Jemima looked up in some surprise and anxiety, but 
 Zenobia gave her a reassuring glance, and turned aside. 
 A few minutes later, when, for an instant Murdok Horah 
 happened to be looking toward Col. Pryor, to answer some 
 question the latter had put to him, she silently slipped out 
 of the room and fled to her chamber. 
 
 “Why, what has become of my little sister? Where 
 has she gone?" inquired Murdok, as scon as he looked 
 around again and missed her. 
 
 “She has a headache, and has gone to her room. She 
 desired me to ask you to excuse her, ’ said Jemima. 
 
 “What! gone without bidding me good-night!" ex¬ 
 claimed Murdok, his face darkening. 
 
 “She was suffering. You were talking with uncle. She 
 did not like to interrupt you," quietly replied Jemima. 
 
 The parlor of The Notches had no further attraction 
 for Murdok Horah, and he wished to get away where he 
 could give vent to the rage that filled his bosom. 
 
 “Shall I trouble you. Col. Pryor, to order my trap to 
 be brought to the door?" he asked. 
 
 “Certainly," responded the colonel, promptly ringing 
 the bell. 
 
 Tim came in and received the order. 
 
 I T nder almost any other circumstances the colonel would 
 have followed the custom of the country, and invited the 
 visitor to stay all night, but now Nat Pryor was alrcadv 
 reproaching himself for having asked the young man to 
 spend the day, thus keeping him from his mother, who 
 probably, wanted his company, and inflicting him on Zeno¬ 
 bia, who apparently did not. 
 
218 A Heart of Fire. 
 
 Tim soon reappeared and announced the dogcart. 
 
 Murdok took leave and departed. 
 
 As soon as he got into his trap, and as the driver took 
 the reins and started the horse, Murdok poured out the 
 vials of his wrath upon that unfortunate negro. 
 
 “What did you mean, you infernal scoundrel, by taking 
 Miss de Leon a note without my knowledge?” 
 
 Brush, utterly unconscious of having done anything im¬ 
 proper, underhand or objectionable, was so amazed at this 
 assault that he could not, for a time, find anything to say, 
 but simply turned around and stared, open-mouthed, at 
 his master. * ^ 
 
 “What the devil did you mean? I ask you. Answer me 
 before I shove my fist down your gaping throat!” 
 
 “Marse Murdok, sah, I—I —I tuk dat dere note an’ 
 guv it right inter Miss Snowby’s bans’; an’ ’cordin’ ter 
 orders nebbers ter trus’ it ter no nigger at de No’ches.” 
 
 “Why, you cursed idiot, why did you not give it to me 
 to take into the young lady?” 
 
 “ ’Cause I were |>ole ter liber it right inter Miss Snow¬ 
 by’s own bans’. An’ I nebber t’ought as it wer’ a 
 ge’man’s callin’ ter tote notes w’en he had a mansarvent 
 ter do it,” replied Brush, with, simple truthfulness, for he 
 had no suspicion of his master. 
 
 “Now listen to me, you stupid donkey!” 
 
 “Ye-ye-yes, sah!” 
 
 “If you ever take a note to Miss de Leon without my 
 knowledge, I will break every bone in your black body, 
 do you hear?” 
 
 “Ye-ye-yes, sah,” assented Brush. 
 
 The remainder of the drive was in perfect silence. 
 
 When they reached Horah Hall thy found the front of 
 the house shut up, and all the household retired to rest, 
 with the exception of Celia, who was in the parlor, wait¬ 
 ing up for her young master. She had a tempting cold 
 supper laid out for him, with which the old brandy and 
 chopped ice did not fail to appear. 
 
 “Where is my mother?’ demanded Murdok, as he 
 threw down his hat and' gloves, and cast himself into a 
 chair before the bountifully spread table. 
 
 “The mistress did not feel well, and she retired to bed 
 about an hour ago,” Celia answered. 
 
Between Love and Rage. 219 
 
 “H’m!” ejaculated Murdok. And he addressed him¬ 
 self to his supper and made a hearty meal. 
 
 “Tell me,” he said, as he mixed for himself a stiff 
 brandy smash, “has Miss de Leon any beaux?” 
 
 “Miss de Leon ! Beaux ! Dear me, no, sir. Miss Zeno- 
 bia is only a child ! She never thinks of beaux.” Celia 
 exclaimed, in all her sincerity, for those among whom a 
 young girl grows up are usually the last to recognize her 
 womanhood. 
 
 “H’m! Not that clown, Pryor?*’ 
 
 “Why, no, sir. Of course not.” persisted Celia. 
 
 “Well, I am glad to hear it, because 1 mean to marry 
 her myself.’’ 
 
 “You would do her too much honor, sir!” ♦ 
 
 “Very likely, but that’s my business, not vours,” said 
 Mr. Horah, as he poured the last of the brandy from 
 the bottle into his tumbler, and drained it at a draught. 
 Then he took his paper, and without vouchsafing so much 
 as a civil good-night to his faithful servant, "reeled off 
 to bed. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 BETWEEN LOVE AND RAGE. 
 
 I would outstare the sternest eyes that look, 
 
 Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, 
 
 Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, 
 
 Yes, mock the lion when he roars for prey, 
 
 To win thee.—S hakespeare. 
 
 Although Mrs. Horah had passed an anxious, fever¬ 
 ish, sleepless night, she rose early, dressed and went down 
 into the back parlor, to meet or hear of her son. 
 
 His defection on the previous day had wounded and 
 
 , 1 _ t.lic was more disposed to criticise 
 
 herself than to blame him. 
 
 I am morbid, she said to herself. “Young men will 
 be young men, they say; and I suppose they are all alike. 
 My experience with them has been very limited. And 
 yet, there is Gilbert Godfrey and Oliver Pryor. But they 
 must be exceptions! And Murdok is just the average 
 
220 
 
 Between Love and Rage. 
 
 young man; no better nor worse than the generality of 
 his compeers, ’ she concluded. 
 
 Vet this conclusion humbled her maternal pride. She 
 had long tried to convince herself that he was in every 
 respect, physically, morally, intellectually, so far above 
 the average. 
 
 W hen she entered the parlor she found no one there 
 except Brush, who had opened all the windows, put the 
 room in order and was now setting the table for breakfast. 
 He immediately left his work and wheeled the easy arm¬ 
 chair to the rose-shaded south window for his mistress. 
 
 “Where is Master Murdok?” she inquired, as she sank 
 wearily into her seat. 
 
 “He aine down yet, ma’am—no, ma’am/’ replied the 
 n an. returning to his task at the table. 
 
 “What time did you bring him home last night?” she 
 inquired next. 
 
 “We got to de hous' 'bout twelve o'clock, ma’am.’’ 
 
 “He was well?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, ma’am.”—“Well in his healf, but moughtv ill 
 in his temper,” he added, mentally. 
 
 Before another word could be spoken the door swung 
 open, and Murdok Horah lounged heavily into the room, 
 and, without saluting his mother, dropped into the leath¬ 
 ern armchair, red-eyed, stupid and irritable. 
 
 “Close the shutters, you infernal idiot! What the devil 
 dp you mean by letting in such a blaze of sunshine?” he 
 angrily exclaimed, blinking with his bloodshot orbs. 
 
 Brush hastened to obey by shutting the east windows. 
 
 “Now bring in the breakfast,” said the lady, when the 
 man had finished his task. 
 
 Murdok, on entering the room, had not spoken one 
 word to his mother, for he was angry with her for having 
 given permission to Zenobia to stay at The Notches, in 
 the company of that “clown,” as he chose to call Oliver 
 Pryor, when he himself wanted her presence at home. 
 But as soon as the servant left the room he said, sulkily: 
 
 “I went to The Notches yesterday morning to bring 
 Zenobia back, but T found, to my surprise, that you had, 
 at the same time, dispatched a note by the coachman to 
 the girl, authorizing her to remain there as long as she 
 should please.” 
 
221 
 
 Between Love and Rage. 
 
 “It was in response to her own earnest request/' coldly 
 replied the lady, wondering at and blaming herself for the 
 sense of disgust and repulsion that she was beginning to 
 feel toward her son. 
 
 “It is a great pity that there cannot t be some mutual 
 understanding and consistency in 'our actions,” lie 
 growled. 
 
 “A very great pity,” the lady assented. 
 
 “Well, I have not troubled my home or my people much 
 of late years, and propose to trouble them still less in 
 years to come,” said the young man, with a glance at his 
 mother to see how she took his wdrds. 
 
 But the fair, pale face of the lady was cold and expres¬ 
 sionless. 
 
 “I am here now only for a few days, and have to start 
 on a voyage around the world—» voyage from which I 
 may never return; and^ I think it is a slight, almost 
 amounting to an insult, for that girl to absent herself dur¬ 
 ing my short visit.” 
 
 “She said that she thought you might prefer to be alone 
 with me during that brief period preceding the long voy¬ 
 age and the doubtful return,” replied the lady. 
 
 “Then she lied !” 
 
 Mrs. Horah started as this rude word struck her ear, 
 but she made no comment. 
 
 “She knew d- well that I wanted her here. And 
 
 now the whole truth of the matter is that it is all caprice 
 in which she should not be indulged. The only thing left 
 for you to do is to send her a note telling her to come 
 home, and I will drive over to The Notches and take it 
 with me, and fetch her. And then I —— 99 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of Brush, carrying 
 in his hands a large and heavily laden tray, which he 
 Placed on the table. Then he arranged a substantial and 
 tempting breakfast, and placed two chairs. 
 
 “Now get out!” exclaimed MurdPk to Brush, who 
 opened his eyes and mouth, and stared in perplexity. 
 
 “Leave the room, confound you ! We can wait on our¬ 
 selves !” roared his master. 
 
 Brush now understood and obeyed. 
 
 “Only two places! Only me and you! Then that 
 beat has not come back,” said Murdok, referring to Gil- 
 
222 
 
 Between Love and Rage. 
 
 bert Godfrey, though Mrs. Horah did not choose to under¬ 
 stand or reply. r 
 
 Murdok then devoted his exclusive attention to his 
 food, and devoured it with a wolfish hunger that was 
 enough to take away the appetite of the most robust com¬ 
 panion. He did not notice that his mother’s breakfast con¬ 
 sisted of a cup of cofifee and a small slice of bread. When 
 he had finished his meal he rose from the table and rang 
 the bell. 
 
 Brush answered it. 
 
 “Put the black horse to the buggy and bring them round 
 here to the door, and look sharp about it. Do you hear?” 
 said the master. 
 
 “Yes, sah. Mus’ I git ready ter dribe yer, sah?” defer¬ 
 entially inquired Brush. 
 
 “Did I say anything-about you driving me? No, you 
 idiot! I have had enough of your driving and letter carry¬ 
 ing, too. I shall drive rnystdf, and carry my own letters 
 this time. Jump, now! and do as you are told, or it will 
 be worse for you! ’ 
 
 Brush jumped and vanished. 
 
 “Now, mother, time Hies! If you have got through 
 breakfast, please write that note at once. The man will 
 be round with the buggy by the time you have finished it.” 
 
 “What note, Murdok?” inquired the poor lady, very 
 foolishly, for she knew what he wanted, but weakly hesi¬ 
 tated to refuse him, and dreaded the inevitable collision 
 between them. 
 
 “What note?” he repeated, with contemptuous incredu¬ 
 lity. “As if you did not know well enough what note! 
 Why, of course, I mean the note I asked you to write to 
 the girl, to call her home.” 
 
 “Murdok, I am sorry to refuse you anything, but I can¬ 
 not do it,” said the lady, mildly but distinctly. 
 
 "You cannot do it?” 
 
 “No!” 
 
 “Why can you not ?” * 
 
 “Because I should be doing wrong in canceling the per¬ 
 mission I gave her to stay.” 
 
 His dark face grew darker. He smothered a profane 
 imprecation that was about to break from his lips. He 
 had never been accustomed to control his evil passions; 
 
223 
 
 Between Love and Rage. 
 
 such a role was new to him; yet now he repressed his 
 rage, and condescended to plead, argue and urge his case, 
 fully believing, from all his experience, that he must con¬ 
 quer in the end. But when, at length, he found that all 
 arguments, persuasions and entreaties were equally and 
 altogether powerless to move his mother from the rock 
 of right on which she stood—I shrink from describing 
 the scene that ensued—he threw self-control, prudence 
 and reverence t$ the winds. He conducted himself in a 
 manner such as no human being should to another, much 
 less a man to a woman, and least of all, a son to his 
 mother. He used language such as a saint would scarcely 
 have patience to hear. And Isabel Horah was no saint. 
 She, also, became indignant, excited and vehement in her 
 reproaches, until, at length, her torrent of words was sud^ 
 denly arrested by a violent and prolonged fit of coughing, 
 which ended at last by a gush of blood from her lips. She 
 sank back into her chair and held her handkerchief to her 
 mouth. 
 
 “And now the girl will have to come home, willy-nilly,” 
 said Murdok, as he rang the bell. 
 
 Brush answered it promptly, saying as he entered : 
 f “ ’Deed an’ ’deed, Marse Murdok, sail, 1 did make all 
 
 de has e I could ! An’ de buggy is at de do’, an’ - Oh, 
 
 my good Lor’ A’mighty! Look at mist ess!” he sud¬ 
 denly exclaimed in horror, a£ his eyes fell upon the form 
 of the lady fallen back in her chair,'and holding the crim¬ 
 soned handkerchief to her bk^ched face. 
 
 ^ “Yes; she has had an attack of some sort.* Go and call 
 Servia and the rest to lpok after her. I must be off to 
 The Notches to fetch Miss de Leon home.” 
 
 Brush flew out; and in another minute, Servia, Delphie 
 and even Celia, who, though she was the poultry woman, 
 and her duties were outside, had been very much about 
 the house since her young master’s return, came running 
 into the room in great alarm. 
 
 “Look after your mistress!’’ Murdok exclaimed, in an¬ 
 swer to "heir terrified inquiries. “I am going to bring 
 Miss de Leon nome to her.” And he left the room, in 
 ig norance* it is hoped, of his mother’s serious illness. ’ • 
 
 When he opened the door he found that the sky was 
 !ed, and threatening rain, if not one of the sudden and 
 
 ClOllCii 
 

 224 Between Love and Rage. 
 
 violent storms peculiar to the month of September. He 
 stepped back, took a large umbrella from the hall rack, 
 jumped into the buggy'and drove^)ff. He put the horse 
 to his utmost speed, and reached The Notches just as the 
 rain was beginning to fall. 
 
 The piazza wasj of course, deserted. He sprang from 
 the buggy, ran up the steps, and knocked loudly at the 
 closed door. 
 
 Tim opened it, and showed him at once into the iront 
 parlor, where he found Col. Pryor, Jemima and Zenobia. 
 
 Col. Pryor rose to receive his visitor, his honest face 
 expressing the astonishment he felt. 
 
 “You are surprised to see me here so soon again, sir,” 
 said Murdok, as they shook hands, “but the fact is, my 
 mother had a seizure this morning.” 
 
 “A seizure!” exclaimed Zenobia, rising in alarm. 
 
 “My God! It is what I have feared!” cried Col. Pryor, 
 turning pale. 
 
 The two had spoken simultaneously. 
 
 “Yes; a hemorrhage of the lungs, I think it is. And I 
 have come to escort |Miss de Leon home to her,” continued 
 Murdok, who had just bowed to the girls. 
 
 “Oh, I will get ready and go at once! at once! Come, 
 dear j emima!” exclaimed Zenobia, forgetting all her dread 
 of Murdok, all her care for herself in her fears for her 
 beloved “mamma.” 
 
 “Have you summoned a physician?” anxiously inquired 
 Col. Pryor, when both the gjrls had left the room. 
 
 “Not yet, but I-” 
 
 “Then in the name of Heaven, sir, jump into your 
 buggy and drive as fast as possible to Mistyrock and fetch 
 the doctor with you !” exclaimed the colonel, in a vehe¬ 
 ment tone of command. 
 
 “But I came to carry Miss de Leon, and-” 
 
 “D-it, man. are you mad? She w T ants the doctor. 
 
 more than the girl! Go instantly! A most precious life 
 hangs in the balance! Delay may be fatal! Go! Go! ’ 
 
 “But I can take Miss de Leon along with me!” 
 
 “You cannot, sir. Her additional weight would lessen 
 your speed ! In any case, I would not allow her to start 
 from this house, through such a rain, in an open buggy. 
 
 I will take her myself to the Hall, in my closed carriage. 
 
Between Love and Rage. 225 
 
 Why do you hesitate when your mother's life hangs on a 
 thread? Good God, man! are you a parricide?” 
 
 Murdok, overwhelmed by the impetuosity of the 
 alarmed and indignant colonel, departed at once, inwardly 
 cursing everybody, and taking his spite out on the poor 
 horse, which he lashed into a fury of speed as they tore 
 along through the-storm, yet consoling himself with the 
 anticipation of soon meeting Zcnobia at the Hall and hav¬ 
 ing her more to himself because of his mother’s illness, 
 which would confine her to her betktor a time, even if she 
 shoulcj recover at last. 
 
 Meanwhile, Col. Pryor ordered Tim to harness the new 
 horse to the close carriage, and to incase himself in a 
 • waterproof cloak and overalls, to drive to Horah Hall. 
 
 As the man went out to execute the order Zcnobia came 
 in equipped for her drive, and looked around uneasily for 
 her dreaded companion. 
 
 “He has gone to Misty rock for the doctor, my dear. I 
 shall take you home,’ said the colonel. “Oh, Jemima, my 
 dear, he added, as his niece entered the parlor, “run and 
 put on your bonnet. I want you to return with Zcnobia. 
 and be as useful as you know how to be in this trouble.’’ 
 
 Jemima gladly flew’ to do his bidding, and Zenobia 
 turned to him with tearful eves, saying : 
 
 “Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you!” 
 
 “I know! I know, my dear! Old Nat Prvor is not 
 blind ! Keep Jemima with you until that voting scape¬ 
 grace has gone,” said the good colonel. 
 
 And Zenobia wondered, since she had never breathed 
 a word to anyone of Murdok’s rudeness to her, how the 
 colonel came to divine her dread of that young man. 
 
 Jemima returned just as the carriage drove up to the 
 donr. 1 hen the three, all w r cll defended against the 
 weather bv their waterproof cloaks and overshoes, entered 
 the carriage and drove through the terrible equinoctial 
 storm of thunder, lightning and rain to Plorah Hall, where 
 they arrived in safety. 
 
 "Drive the carriage round to the stable and put up the 
 horse, Tun I shall spend the day here. Perhaps (be 
 nifrlit, too if 1 should be wanted, said the colonel, as be 
 landed the two girls out, and drove them quickly on be¬ 
 fore hir>- mo tinder the shelter of the oiazza. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AN ANXIOUS GATHERING. 
 
 Then a voice within his breast 
 Whispered audible and clear, 
 
 As it to the outward ear, 
 
 “Do thy duty; that is best; 
 
 To the Lord leave all the rest/’ 
 
 —Longfellow. 
 
 t 
 
 The door was opened by Brush beiore Col. Pryor had 
 time to ring. 
 
 “How is your mistress?'' inquired the colonel, in a 
 whisper. 
 
 u Le Lor’ A'mighty knows, Marse Colonel! But bad 
 Tuff, Ps feared. He wimmin tuk her upstairs an’ put her 
 ter bed, an' dey's all up dere long ob her now,” replied 
 the man, ready to melt into unmanly tears, as he led the 
 way to the back parlor and opened the door. 
 
 To the surprise of the visitors, Gilbert Godfrey came 
 forward to meet them. 
 
 “Mr. Godfrey! you here! I am very glad,” exclaimed 
 the colonel, cordially shaking hands with him. 
 
 “Arrived about an hour ago,” said the young man, as 
 he bowed to the girls with deferential politeness. 
 
 “You met distressing news here,” groaned the colonel. 
 
 “Yes! I was very much shocked and pained. Yet I 
 hope for the best. The hemorrhage has ceased, and the 
 lady is sleeping now, as I hear from the attendants,” ex¬ 
 plained Godfrey. 
 
 The two girls left the gentlemen together in the parlor, 
 and slipped into the hall, where they dropped their wraps, 
 and then stole on tiptoe up the stairs and stopped before 
 Mrs. Horah’s door, on which Zenobia softly knocked. 
 
 Servia silently opened the door, came out and as silently 
 shut it behind her. 
 
 “Oh, how is she?” breathed Zenobia, with her whole 
 soul in the aspiration. 
 
 “Better than we could have hoped when we first found 
 her, my dear,” answered the woman. “The hemorrhage 
 had ceased itself even before we brought her up here,' and 
 
227 
 
 An Anxious Gathering. 
 
 the loss of blood was but slight. But you Tknow a little of 
 it causes anxiety, and the very sight of it is alarming/ 
 answered Servia, as she led the way to the other end of 
 the passage so that their voices might not reach the sick 
 room. 
 
 “When can we see her? ’ breathlessly demanded Zeno- 
 
 bia. - 
 
 “What has been done for her?” eagerly inquired Je¬ 
 mima. 
 
 They spoke simultaneously, but somehow Servia under¬ 
 stood, and answered both questions. 
 
 “You must *ot disturb her yet, Miss Zen obi a* Fortu¬ 
 nately, Mr. Godfrey arrived here just before we took her 
 upstairs. And it seems, though I never knew it before, 
 that he had been a medical student, and only missed be¬ 
 ing a doctor by having to leave college before he took 
 his degree. So he knew what was to be done for the mis¬ 
 tress at once, and he had it done, and now she is lying in 
 a sweet sleep. When she wakes I will let you know, but 
 you must not speak to her, or let her move or talk. And 
 now I must slip back into the room, young ladies/’ con¬ 
 cluded Servia, who silently returned to her duties in the 
 sick chamber. 
 
 The girls went down and reported to Col. Pryor. Then 
 Zenobia thanked Gilbert Godfrey for his timely and skill¬ 
 ful attention to her “mamma.” 
 
 Col. Pryor looked around in surprise and said: 
 
 “Why, who gave you a diploma, Godfrey?” 
 
 “No one, sir. But I was a medical student at college 
 fob nearly three years, and should have graduated in an¬ 
 other year if my funds had held out. I have kept up my 
 reading, however, and know what to do in some emer¬ 
 gencies.” 
 
 ‘Ah, Gilbert, I wish I had a father’s or an uncle’s privi¬ 
 lege to order you back to your college to finish your course 
 and take your degree!” warmly exclaimed the colonel. 
 
 “I thank you, sir. But there are other reasons why I 
 may not return to college. My brother and myself are 
 pledged to each other to pay ofif all the debts of our fam¬ 
 ily, and clear off the mortgage from our old homestead,” 
 said the young man, with a glance toward Jemima, which 
 she met with a blush and a smile, 
 f, — 
 
228 
 
 An Anxious Gathering. 
 
 An hour wore slowly away. The storm had abated. 
 The sound of wheels was heard approaching the Jiouse. 
 Zenobia glanced through the front windows and saw the 
 buggy, with two men seated in it, drawing near* 
 
 “Come, Jemima/’ she said, in a low tone, “let us go up 
 into my room. You will excuse me, colonel, and Mr. 
 Godfrey,” she added to the gentlemen. 
 
 “Of course. We will console ourselves with a couple 
 of cigars,” heartily responded the colonel, wdiile the 
 younger man simply bowed in silence. 
 
 The girls had just left the parlor when the buggy drew 
 up before the house, and Brush flew to the door and 
 opened it to announce the good news. 
 
 “De mist'ess is better, salt!” he exclaimed, without wait¬ 
 ing to be questioned. “De young ladies corned down 
 'bout an hour ago, an' ’ported her sleepin’ sv r eet.” 
 
 “Ah!” said Dr. Bland, “that is an excellent sign.” 
 
 Brush ushered them into the parlor, where Col. Pryor 
 and Mr. Godfrey stood up to receive them. After hand¬ 
 shaking, the doctor expressed his gratification at hearing 
 that the patient was better and sleeping. And then Col. 
 Prvor said : 
 
 - j 
 
 “That is due to the.providential presence of Mr. God¬ 
 frey. He had nearly three years at a medical college, and 
 has done what he could in the emergency. He will give 
 you his report." 
 
 “I shall be glad to hear it,” replied Dr. Bland. 
 
 “Come, Murdok, the rain is over. You and I will take 
 a cigar and a walk on the piazza." 
 
 “Where is Zenobia?” inquired the young man. ♦ 
 
 “Oh, somewhere upstairs, with her inseparable com¬ 
 panion, Jemima,” replied Col. Pryor. 
 
 Murdok scowled. 
 
 “Is Miss Abbace here? I should think a house of sick¬ 
 ness not a very attractive place for a young lady/ he mut¬ 
 tered. 
 
 “She does not agree with you. Besides, she came here, 
 not to enjoy herself, but to be useful to her friend. 
 
 “To be officious,” growled Murdok, mentally. 
 
 But he accompanied Col. Pryor to the piazza, and 
 walked up and down with him, while the youing medical 
 undergraduate gave his report to the physician. Dr. Bland 
 
An Anxious Gathering. 229 
 
 approved all the young man had done, and decided not to 
 disturb the patient while she slept, but to stay at the Hall 
 until she should w T ake. 
 
 Murdok did not get a glimpse of Zenobia until dinner, 
 when the four men and two girls sat down together. And 
 not for an instant during the remainder of the day did 
 he get a chance to speak to her alone. 
 
 It was night before Mrs. Horah woke. Then the doc¬ 
 tor saw her, and, after a careful examination, reported 
 her condition very Tavorable, but ordered the attendants 
 to keep her in bed and to administer light, nutritious food. 
 Then, with a promise to return early the next morning, he 
 left the sick room. 
 
 Encouraged by the better prospects of his friend, Nat 
 Pryor also decided to return home. 
 
 The buggy, which had so hastily hurried thg old doctor 
 from the village, was at his service, with Brush to drive 
 him. ' ' * * 
 
 Although the storm was over, the weather was still show- 
 erv, and so, as the colonel had all his own close carriage 
 to himself, he very politely pressed the aged physician to 
 honor him with his company, and they drove off together. 
 
 To Murdok's disgust and displeasure, neither Jemima 
 nor Zenobia remained downstairs after the doctor and the 
 colonel had departed. 
 
 Mrs. Horah *s spacious chamber was over the front 
 drawing room, and Zenobia s bedroom was in the rear of 
 tint, and over the back parlor, but communicated with 
 the lady's apartment bv a door. To Zenobia's room the 
 young friends betook themselves for two reasons: First, 
 to get out of Murdok’s company, to which they both had 
 a strong antipathy; second, to be at hand in case Mrs. 
 Horah should require their services. 
 
 They did not go to bed; but, each robed in a loose 
 wrapper of Zenobia’s, they sat in low chairs near the com¬ 
 municating door; and, refraining from all but whispered 
 conversation, listened for every sound from the sick room. 
 So passed the whole night with them. 
 
 Hut not so with Murdok. He walked up and down the 
 floor of the back parlor in a fury of passion, and would 
 ha\c liked to wreak his wrath on some one; he cared not 
 whom. Once he rang for Brush, and when the man came 
 
a30 An Anxious Gathering. 
 
 in he ordered him to go to Miss de Leon and tell her that 
 he must see her immediately on the most important busi¬ 
 ness. The man went on his errand, but after a few min¬ 
 utes, returned with the answer that Miss “Snowby” had 
 ’tired and couldn’t come. He cursed and swore, and sent 
 the man back with a more emphatic message, but with no 
 more satisfactory result. 
 
 “Then bring me a bottle of brandy, and that box of 
 cigars from the dining room, confound you! And look 
 sharp about it!” he exclaimed, still striding up and down 
 the parlor with the restless motion of a tiger in his cage. 
 
 When Brush returned with the brandy and cigars the 
 young beast turned upon him, and growled: 
 
 “Get out! But don’t yoh dare to go to bed, as you value 
 your bones! Stay in the hall, there, and walk about to 
 keep yourself awake! Do you hear?’ 
 
 “Yes, sab! But no danger ob me gwine ter sleep w’en 
 mist’ess might wan’ me,” answered the loyal servant. 
 
 “Hold your tongue and leavo the room! Go!” 
 
 Brush went. 
 
 Murdok dropped into an armchair beside the table, 
 poured out half a tumbler of raw brandy, and drank it off 
 at a draught. Then he lighted one of the strong cigars 
 he favored and began to smoke, growling out his dis¬ 
 satisfaction with all the world between his puffs. 
 
 “This is Sunday night, and the steamer sails on 
 Wednesday. I did mean to start to-morrow morning, so 
 as to have two days in New York, to see a little more 
 life on land before going on i ten days’ trip across the 
 ocean. Yes! And when I saw what a beauty this girl 
 has grown to be I did intend to have some fun with her 
 
 for the two days here. But d-it, I have been balked 
 
 of her company yesterday and to-day, and I shall be balked 
 of my pleasure for New York to-morrow and next day! 
 And perhaps lose my passage money and voyage besides. 
 
 Oh, d-!” He broke out in such a volley of o^iths that 
 
 the watching girls in the room over his head heard and 
 shuddered in horror of his profanity, and fn terror lest the 
 sound should reach the next room and disturb the sleeping 
 invalid. But, fortunately, it did not. Meanwhile, he sat 
 in the parlor, and smoked, and drank, cursed and swore 
 the night away. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 i • 
 
 A WELCOMED DEPARTURE. 
 
 When Brush entered the parlor the next morning- to 
 open the windows and set the table for breakfast he found 
 his master lying on the floor in a drunken stupor. And 
 it took the united strength of Brush, and two field 
 hands, called in for the purpose, to lift tne heavy sot and 
 carry him up to his room. Although he muttered low 
 curses in his sleep, they effected his removal without wak¬ 
 ing him. They undressed him, and got him to bed before 
 any of the family were out of their rooms. Then they 
 closed the window blinds, and were about to leave the 
 chamber, when old Si lifted up his hand and said : 
 
 “Stofione m innit, chillun. an* listen ter me, all ob yer!” 
 
 “All right, Uncle Si! On y talk low fo' fear he heah,” 
 cautioned Brush. 
 
 “Who yer chastisin’, boy? I’m talkin' easy! ’Sides 
 w’ich. he wouldn’t heah de angil Gabel blow his horn! 
 Wat I were gwine ter say is dis: Dere aine ben no srch . 
 thing as dis yere happin inter dis lions’, not sense ole 
 Marse Ho’ah used ter gib his ge’men’s parties. Den, 
 Lor ! dere used ter be ebery night some ge’men had ter 
 be toted ter bed. Yer ’member, B’ush ?” 
 
 “Yer jis bet I does!” replied the latter. 
 
 “Well, now, chillun, I jus’ tell yer w’at! Yer mustn’ 
 let on to nobody w’at’s done happen, leas’ ob all ter eny ob 
 de family. Ef Miss Snowby, or Marse Godfey ax yer 
 were is Marse Murdok, yer jus’ tell a pious lie, fer de 
 honah ob de fain'iy, an’ say as how Marse Murdok, he so 
 uneasy ’bout his ma, dat he walked de floo’ all night, an’ is 
 so ti’ed dis mo'nin' dat he had laid down ter rest hisse'f 
 a little w’ile. Taine no sin ter tell a pious lie fer de honah 
 ob de famly! Taine, indeed, chillun!” concluded the 
 oracle of the quarters, as he led the way from the room 
 and carefully closed the door. 
 
 The negroes stole quietly downstairs with bowed heads, 
 as if they had been about some secret and nefarious busi¬ 
 ness, and dispersed to their several duties. 
 
23 2 A Welcomed Departure. 
 
 Jemima and .Zenobia had watched through the night, 
 crouched on cushions near the door that led into Airs. 
 Horah’s room, resting against each other, or leaning 
 against the partition wall; sometimes dozing, but ever on 
 the alert to catch any sound from the sick room. 
 
 When the faint light of dawning day stole in between 
 the slats of the closed window shutters, they softly opened 
 them, put out the night taper, and began to dress them¬ 
 selves. Then they sat down beside the window, watching 
 the slow illumination of the eastern horizon above the 
 mountain, and listening for sounds from the next room, 
 which they did not dare to enter for fear of disturbing 
 the sleeper. They heard nothing from there, but they did 
 hear several heavy steps coming up the stairs and enter¬ 
 ing the opposite room, seemingly carrying some heavy 
 burden; but they had no suspicion or curiosity as to what 
 might be going on, and never opened their door„to look 
 out. A little later they heard the steps go down, but with¬ 
 out the slightest interest in them. 
 
 Presently the door of the sick room, leading into the 
 passage, opened softly, and in an instant later the girls, 
 who were on the alert, started*swiftly and silentlv to their 
 feet and stole out to meet Servia. 
 
 “Mrs. Horah seems so much better this morning that I 
 can scarcely prevail on her to lie in bed until the doctor 
 comes.” said the woman, forestalling the eager questions 
 of the girls. 
 
 “She had a good night?” inquired Zenobia. 
 
 “An excellent night. I am going to bring her some 
 breakfast. You may go in and sit with her until 1 get it 
 ready. You may talk to her, but don't ask her questions, 
 and don't let her talk, if you can help it,” said the woman, 
 as she went downstairs. 
 
 Zenobia opened the door, and the two girls entered the 
 room. It was now in semiobscurity, but a voice from the 
 white bed said, softly : 
 
 “I see you, my dears! Come to me.” 
 
 Both girls advanced, one on each side of the bed. She 
 put out a hand to each. 
 
 “We are so thankful to the Lord that you are so much 
 better, mamma. But do not answer us, please. Jemima 
 
A Welcomed Departure. 233 
 
 has come to stay with me and help me to nurse you, said 
 Zenobia, tenderly kissing and fondling the hand she heal. 
 
 " it was very sweet of you, niy deni , to come, smd Mi s. 
 Horab, pressing Jemima’s hand as it fondled hers. 
 
 “You always overrate me, my dear friend. But, pray, 
 let us do the talking,” said Nat Pryor s niece, with one 
 
 of her uncle’s smiles. 
 
 “Mr. Gilbert Godfrey has come.” said Zenobia. 
 
 “Yes, dear, I knew it before you did. lie was the lust 
 to render me intelligent assistance. 1 shall ever be grate¬ 
 ful to him.” 
 
 “Oh, mamma, if you will talk, we shall have to lease 
 the room,” said Zenobia, sadly. 
 
 “Nonsense! my dear, little one. I alking as I do will 
 not hurt me in the least. When drd you return, /-e- 
 
 nobia ?” 
 
 “Yesterday morning, almost immediately after you had 
 been put to bed and asleep under the influence of an 
 opiate.” 
 
 “How did you know I was ill? Who 'brought you 
 home?” 
 
 “Murdok hurried off to fetch a doctor from Mistyrock, 
 and called at The Notches on his way, and told us and 
 then went on, and Col. Pryor brought me and Jemima 
 here. The colonel stayed until after the doctor arrived 
 and gave a favorable report, and then he consented to 
 return home.” 
 
 “He is the best of friends,” murmured Mrs. Horah to 
 herself. 
 
 Servia here entered, hearing the light, nutritious food 
 ordered by the doctor, and, at the same time, said : 
 
 “Breakfast is ready, young ladies, ami Mr. Godfrey has 
 come down.” 
 
 “Go, my dears. Do not keep the young man waiting, ’ 
 said Mrs. Horah. 
 
 The girls kissed the lady gently before they left the 
 room. In the parlor they found the table neatly laid for 
 breakfast. Brush in attendance, and Mr. Godfrey stand¬ 
 ing, holding in eacli hand a bouquet of brilliant autumn 
 flowers, which he presented to the girls with his morning 
 greeting. When they had thanked him, and had satis- 
 
234 A Welcomed Departure. 
 
 factorilv answered his questions as to Mrs. Horah’s con¬ 
 dition, they all sat down to breakfast. 
 
 Only Gilbert Godfrey inquired about Murdok Horah. 
 And when the three young people who then represented 
 the family circle at Horah Hall had heard Brush’s “pious 
 lie” in explanation of the young master’s absence* fr«om 
 the morning meal, it is needless to say that they were not 
 inconsolable for the loss of his company, though neither 
 of them suspected the cause of his nonappearance. 
 
 They had scarcely risen from the table, when Dr. Bland 
 and Col. Pryor drove up, the one in his gig, the other in 
 his buggy. Both were delighted at the good report of 
 the patient’s condition. 
 
 After the doctor had seen Mrs. Horah, he gave her 
 leave to sit up, but advised her not to leave the room, 
 or exert herself that day. The doctor and the colonel 
 then drove away together. 
 
 It was late in the day when Murdok Horah lumbered 
 downstairs, red-eyed, nervous, cross-grained. 
 
 When he entered the back parlor he looked around for 
 Zenobia, but saw no one there but Mr. Godfrey, who was 
 seated at a table, engaged in footing up the plantation 
 accounts, which w r ork had fallen into arrears during his 
 absence. 
 
 “Where are the girls?” curtly demanded Murdok, drop¬ 
 ping heavily into a chair, without the civility of a “Good- 
 morning.” 
 
 “The young ladies are in Mrs. Horah’s room, sir,” 
 coldly replied Mr. Godfrey. 
 
 “And how is she this morning?” 
 
 “Mrs. Horah is much better, I am happy to say.” 
 
 “Glad to hear it. I thought there was a good deal of 
 fuss for nothing.” 
 
 Godfrey made no reply. 
 
 “Say!” Murdok suddenly exclaimed, “I shall be of age 
 in a few months, and when I come back from Europe I 
 shall inspect those books of yours. Do you hear ?” 
 
 “They will be open for your inspection, sir,” replied 
 Mr. Godfrey, with dignity. 
 
 “All right. Now I am going upstairs to see mother/' 
 Murdok said. 
 
A Welcomed Departure. 235 
 
 When he knocked at Mrs. Horah's chamber door he 
 was admitted by Servia. 
 
 Mrs. Horah and her two young companions were seated 
 around a small table covered wdtli lace and embroidery 
 patterns, and Jemima was showing some new and elegant 
 stitches. 
 
 “I am very glad to see you so much better, mother, ’ 
 he said, drawing a chair to the table and seating himself 
 close beside Zenobia. 
 
 The girl shrank from him as much as it was possible 
 to do without attracting attention. 
 
 “Yes, 1 am better,” replied Mrs. Horah. 
 
 “I thought they were all needlessly alarmed,” he ob¬ 
 served. 
 
 “I thought so, too,*’ she assented. 
 
 “Well, as you seem to have quite recovered, I suppose 
 there will be no objection to my starting to-morrow for 
 New York; for the steamer sails the next day at twelve, 
 and I shall barely have time to catch it. If 1 should miss 
 it, of course I should forfeit my passage money. I 11 fact, 
 
 I had arranged to go to-day, but your sudden seizure 
 arrested my journey,” said Murdok, with a slight sense 
 of injury in his tone. 
 
 “I am sorry youf journey was delayed; but there can '■ 
 be no objection to your starting now as soon as you 
 please,” said his mother, so calmly that Murdok, who 
 did not know that she was under the influence of a sed¬ 
 ative that had been administered by her physician, won¬ 
 dered at the seeming indifference with which she gave 
 her consent to his departure. 
 
 “Of course I will write to you from New York, and 
 also from the sea in case we should meet a homeward- 
 bound ship, and again as soon as I reach Liverpool,” said 
 Murdok, condescendingly. 
 
 . “I s h a d be glad to hear of your safe arrival,” replied 
 his mother, who had all the dread of the ocean common 
 to those who had never undertaken a sea voyage. 
 
 And I hope Zenobia will write to-morrow after I have 
 left,„for the last chance of my getting a letter before I 
 
 sail,” he said, much mollified by" the ease with which he 
 got his own way. 
 
 I will drive to the station and telegraph to you on 
 
2 $6 A Welcomed Departure. 
 
 ! Wednesday morning, so that you will have the latest news 
 before you sail; that will be best,’’.said Zenobia, who was 
 ready to do any kind act that did not expose her to his 
 familiarities. 
 
 But she was mistaken in thinking that she could be 
 safe this time. 
 
 “You are an angel! I must give you a kiss for that!” 
 he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her and kissing 
 her, not only once, but a dozen times, before she could 
 twist herself out of his grasp. 
 
 She ran out of the room into her own, shut and bolted 
 the door, and, as before, plunged her offended face into a 
 basin of water. 
 
 “Oh, Holy Virgin! I know it is a sin to hate! But 
 how can I help hating that monster!” she cried, as she 
 dried her face with a towel. 
 
 Meanwhile, Murdok had flung himself back in his chair, 
 and burst into a roar of hilarious laughter, exclaiming: 
 
 “That was sharp, wasn’t it? Ridiculous little prude! 
 Til bet if it had been that clown Noll Pryor, she wouldn’t 
 have made such a fuss! I'll warrant he has kissed her 
 often enough V 
 
 “Mr. Horah !” It was Jemima’s voice that spoke, and 
 Murdok looked up to meet the “tiger eyes” blazing upon 
 him. 
 
 “Well, Miss Abbace?” he inquired, with all the ef¬ 
 frontery he could summon. 
 
 “You are entirely mistaken, sir! My cousin Oliver 
 never offended any lady in that manner!” 
 
 “Did I say he offended her?” he demanded, with an in¬ 
 sinuating laugh. 
 
 “He would have unpardonably offended her by offering 
 such rudeness; but he was incapable of doing so! re¬ 
 torted Jemima. 
 
 “Children! Dear children! You are surely making 
 mountains of molehills,” said Mrs. Horah. 
 
 Jemima instantly took her hostess’ hand and pressed it, 
 saying,: 
 
 “Forgive me, dear friend. I am a bad-tempered wretch, 
 I know. And here comes Zenobia, to forgive everybody,” 
 she added, as the latter reentered the room, and, passing 
 by her former seat, took her place next Mrs. Horah. 
 
Nothing to Live For. ' 237 
 
 » 
 
 * Deeply offended as she was, she felt that she should not 
 
 absent herself from the society of her invalid “mamma” 
 and their guest. 
 
 Soon after the dinner bell rang, and Mrs. Horah begged 
 the girls to go down, and leave her to the care of Servia. 
 
 Murdok arose, and, with mock gallantry, opened the 
 door, and held it open for them to precede him, and then 
 followed them downstairs. 
 
 Not another chance did Murdok have to get very near 
 Zenobia. Jemima was her shield. 
 
 Early next morning, after a hasty, though hearty, 
 breakfast, Murdok Horah bade adieu to his mother, his 
 friends and his home, and started for New York, en route 
 for Europe. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 NOTHING TO LIVE FOR. 
 
 Slowly faded, day by day; 
 
 Her step grew weaker in our hall, 
 
 And fainter, at each evening fall, 
 
 Her sad voice died away. 
 
 Yet on her thin, pale lips the while 
 Sat resignation’s holy smile. 
 
 Calm as a child to slumber soothed, 
 As if an angel’s hand had smoothed 
 1 he still, white features into rest, 
 Silent and cold, without a breath 
 To stir the drapery on her breast. 
 
 She slept at last* in death.—W hittier. 
 
 After her son's departure for his tour around the world, 
 Mrs. Horah fell into a lethargy of indifference to all per¬ 
 sons, things and events. She seldom left her sitting room, 
 seldomer the house, and never the plantation. She re- 
 chned in an armchair, near the sunny window of her back 
 parlor, monotonously knitting, rarely speaking unless 
 spoken to, and too often answering at random, thus be¬ 
 traying her dreary absence of mind. 
 
 Zenobia devoted herself to her adopted mother with all 
 a daughters tenderness. Jemima remained at the Hall 
 to assist in serving and amusing the invalid. 
 
 Col. Pryor subscribed for about half a dozen magazines 
 
238 Nothing to Live For. 
 
 and newspapers, which he brought to the Hall for the 
 sick lady s entertainment. Oliver brought new music and 
 songs that Zenobia, Godfrey and himself might sing to the 
 accompaniment of the piano by Zenobia, and the violin by 
 the tutor. t 
 
 v • Gilbert posted himself regarding the literary news, and 
 sent for fresh novels to read to her. Even the negroes 
 brought their offerings of game of their own trapping or 
 shooting. 
 
 In short, all around her did all in their po\^er to help 
 her, to rouse her from the melancholy into which she was 
 falling. But all their well-meant efforts only bored and 
 wearied her. She was grateful for their affection and 
 thoughtfulness, yet it was with difficulty that she managed 
 to conceal from them how much they worried her. She 
 was sick of it all! She was sick of life! 
 
 She received a short letter from Murdok, dated New 
 York, written on the eve of sailing, in which he in¬ 
 formed her that he had caught the steamer by a “close 
 shave/’ and told her that he would ^write again from Liv¬ 
 erpool, and directed her to take good care of Zenobia, for 
 he meant to marry “that girl” when lie should return. 
 
 Mrs. Horah roused herself to reply to that letter, and 
 directed her answer to Liverpool, where, it might be sup¬ 
 posed, the young man and his traveling companion would 
 remain for a few days to view the town. 
 
 After this a month elapsed before she received a second 
 letter, in which he acknowledged the receipt of hers, and 
 said that he was about to leave* for London. She promptly 
 replied to this lettei^also, directing it to the address he had 
 given her. 
 
 After this nearly two months passed before she heard 
 from her son again. 
 
 Then he was about to leave London for Paris; and,t (as 
 he could not yet, he said, give any particular address, (as 
 he did not precisely know where he should “hang out/’ he 
 asked her to direct the letter to the Poste Restante of that 
 city, and to inclose him a letter of credit for five thousand 
 dollars. 
 
 Isabel Horah shuddered at this demand. He had taken 
 five thousand with hjni. Indeed, it was to* obtain this 
 monev that he visited his home in the early autumn. Now 
 
239 
 
 Nothing Live For. 
 
 she had in the bank but little more than the sum he de¬ 
 manded. Nor could she have any more until the next 
 years crops should be .grown, reaped and sold. Nor had 
 she any possessions that she cbuld sell to bring so much 
 money. Horali Hall Manor belonged to her son. The 
 widow’s “third” left by her husband was certainly hers, 
 but it consisted of old furniture of little value, and of old 
 plate of not much more, and a few slaves, rather than sell 
 whom she would choose to die. But she felt that she must 
 send him the money, even if it left her without a dollar 
 in the bank. 
 
 She decided to call in the aid of her faithful friend, Nat 
 Pryor, to get the letter of credit for her. So the next 
 day, when the colonel came to make a morning call, she 
 broached the business she wished him to execute. 
 
 Nat Pryor, though he knew nothing of the first five 
 thousand dollars that the young spendthrift had taken 
 with him and squandered in less than four months, was 
 aghast at the amount of money demanded. 
 
 “My dear Mrs." Horali! My dear friend!” he ex¬ 
 claimed, “that is a very large sum for a young man of his 
 moderate fortune, and not yet of age, to want to spend! 
 Why, at such a rate he will soon run through his estate, 
 ruin himself and you,..too! Send him five hundred, and 
 counsel him to come home. Pic has been abroad long 
 enough to see the whole of Europe. Be advised. You 
 have some responsibilities, my dear madam, wlule the 
 young man is under age.” 
 
 ‘‘He will be of v age next month,” said Mrs. Horah, 
 wearily, “and I shall be glad to be relieved of the respon¬ 
 sibility to which you refer.” 
 
 “But in the meantime you liaye it. Take my advice.” 
 
 “Well, well, I am sure you are right. I will do as you 
 think best. Will you—— But, oh, it is too much to 
 ask!” 
 
 “What is it? Don’t hesitate. There is nothing in my 
 power which I shall not be glad to do for you,” urged the 
 colonel. 
 
 Then’—she began, in a hesitating manner—“I sup¬ 
 pose that there cannot be a letter of credit obtained nearer 
 tiian Winchester, and it is too much to ask you to go so 
 far,” she said, with a deprecating sigh. 
 
240 
 
 Nothing to Live For. 
 
 “Indeed, no! I will go with the greatest pleasure. 
 When shall I start?” 
 
 “Oh, my friend, you are so kind to me. I cannot suf¬ 
 ficiently thank you. Go ^t your own convenience,” she 
 replied. ' ^ 
 
 “Then the sooner the better, I suppose. I s will start 
 early to-morrow morning.” 
 
 “Thank you—oh, thank you," she said, taking his hon¬ 
 est hand and pressing it cordially. Then she went to her 
 secretary and wrote a check for. the amount, and gave it 
 to the colonel. 
 
 “I will start to-morrow by sunrise, so as to get to town 
 before the bank closes/' he said; and, as it was growing 
 late, he took his leave. 
 
 The letter of credit was duly dispatched. And in less 
 time than an answer might have been expected from 
 across the Atlantic, it came. Murdok’s letter was evi¬ 
 dently written immediately upon the receipt of his 
 mother’s, and under the spur of great disappointment 
 and furious passion. It will not bear reproduction. It 
 was unfilial, abusive and scandalous. It ended by remind- 
 ing his mother that he was now, at last, of age, that the 
 money was his own, and that he did not propose to be 
 swindled out of it. 
 
 It had a new effect upon Mrs. Horah. It metaphoric¬ 
 ally froze her—turned her to stone. She sent immediately 
 for Col. Pryor, and silently placed the letter in his hand. 
 He read it, and looked at her with a face full of painful 
 compassion. 
 
 “What are you going to do?” he gently inquired. 
 
 “First, to ask you, my long-suffering friend, .to go 
 again to Winchester, draw out every dollar of" the money 
 deposited there in my name, and send it to Murdok. Just 
 send it in a plain envelope, direct from the bank. I can¬ 
 not answer that letter,” she said, as she moved to her 
 secretary, examined her bank account, wrote a check that 
 covered the full amount of her deposit, and handed it, 
 with her bank book, to her friend. Then she sank ex¬ 
 hausted in her chair. 
 
 Nat Pryor held the papers in his hand and sighed 
 deeply. 
 
 “Do vou know what you are doing in sending him all 
 
Nothing to Live For. 241 
 
 this money?” he inquired. “You are just giving him 
 rope enough to hang himself.” 
 
 ‘Let him hang himself!’ was on her lips, but she sup¬ 
 pressed the words and mentally prayed for forgiveness. 
 
 “Do you really mean to do this?” inquired the colonel, 
 looking at the check. 
 
 “Yes. It is his own, I suppose, and he demanded it, 
 and must have it. I am weary, weary, weary of con¬ 
 tention." 
 
 Col. Pryor sighed and rose to bid her good-evening. 
 
 And so the last ready money was sent to Mtirdok. 
 
 Isabel Horah gradually sank. The last time she was 
 downstairs was on Christmas Day, when she distributed 
 presents to all the colored folk according to her annual 
 custom. 
 
 Early in the new year she wrote a note to Col. Prvor, 
 asking him to come to the Hall, and bring with him a 
 lawyer, for she wished to make her will. 
 
 Poor Nat Pryor! He had, indeed“garnered up his 
 heart" in that one woman! Lately he had seen her sink¬ 
 ing slowly into her grave, yet had tried to “hope against 
 hope" for her recovery. Even now, when she was slowly 
 dying, he would have given much for the right to watch 
 beside her day and night. 
 
 He was so agitated by her note that it was some time 
 before he could sufficiently compose himself to order his 
 gig and drive to Mistyrock in search of Mr. Clement 
 Kent, the village lawyer. 
 
 He found that functionary at leisure to accompany him 
 to Horah Hall. 
 
 it was early in the afternoon when they reached that 
 place. Brush showed them into the drawing room, and 
 went to announce their arrival to his mistress. 
 
 He did not return, but Zenobia came in with a mes¬ 
 sage. She apologized to the lawyer, and requested him 
 to wait in the room for a little while, and asked the colo¬ 
 nel to accompany her to Mrs. Horah s chamber. 
 
 Col. Pryor found the invalid reclining in an easy-chair, 
 wasted to a bloodless form of skin and bone. She beck¬ 
 oned him to her side, where a chair had already been 
 olarrrl for his accommodation. 
 
242 
 
 Nothing to Live For. 
 
 There was some strictly confidential conversation be¬ 
 tween them, and then the lawyer was summoned. 
 
 Mr. Kent entered the room, bowed to the sick lady, and 
 took the indicated seat at the stand by her side, on which 
 writing materials had been arranged for his use. 
 
 Isabel Horah’s will was short and simple. She had but 
 little to leave. To the few slaves who were her own, she 
 gave their freedom. To her dear friend, Nathaniel Pryor, 
 she left her silver dinner set that had been her father’s. 
 To her beloved, adopted daughter, Zenobia de Leon, she 
 left the rest of her family plate, her jewels and her ward¬ 
 robe. She appointed Nathaniel Pryor executor of the 
 will, and guardian of Zenobia. 
 
 When the document was ready, Gilbert Godfrey and 
 Jemima Abbace were called in to witness it. Then all the 
 young people were sent from the room, and when Mrs. 
 Horah, Col. Pryor and Mr. Kent were left alone to¬ 
 gether, the lady said she wished him to draw up a special 
 deed of manumission for one of her servants. 
 
 And when tills document was written, and signed by 
 Isabel Horah, and witnessed by Nathaniel Pryor, she 
 placed it with the will in the colonel s hands, and said: 
 
 “I leave these papers in your charge. I desire you to 
 hold them until after my death. I have divined your 
 wishes in regard to our two dear, young people, who are 
 so much attached to each other, and I entirely sympathize 
 with you and with them. I would like, therefore, when I 
 go away, that you should take Zenobia, and Servia as her 
 attendant, home with you to The Notches, and that the 
 marriage of the young pair should take place within a 
 year. Also, that you retain possession of that deed of 
 manumission until the marriage of Zenobia and Oliver, 
 and then deliver it." 
 
 She paused to recover breath and strength. 
 
 Nat Pryor was silent, because he could not command 
 himself. 
 
 “Am I imposing on you too great a responsibility, deaf 
 friend?" she inquired, at last. 
 
 “Oh, no, no!" he said, in a broken, scarcely articulate 
 voice. “The greatest comfort I can have in this world 
 will be doing your will." 
 
 “God bless you, my true friend! And now I will not 
 
243 
 
 Nothing to Live For. 
 
 keep you any longer. 1 must lie down,” she said, in a 
 tone so low and faint that* Nat Pryor hastened to ring 
 the bell and summon Zenobia before he took leave and 
 left the- room with the lawyer. 
 
 ‘‘Take my gig and go home. Kent* I shall not leave 
 the house to-night. And as your office is within a few 
 feet of Dr. Blands, call and ask him to come here at 
 once.” 
 
 “All right,” said the lawyer, ‘Til do it.” 
 
 Mrs. Horah went to her bed, from which she never 
 rose again. She told Zenobia to close the window shut¬ 
 ters, draw the curtains and then leave the room, for she 
 was only a little more weary than usual, and wished to 
 be quite alone and very quiet. 
 
 Zenobia did all she required, kissed her tenderly, and 
 then very unwillingly went out of the chamber. 
 
 A little later in the evening she slipped oil her shoes 
 and tiptoed into the room, to find her beloved friend 
 sleeping. She sat down by her side to watch and wait. 
 It was a long vigil. Once in the profound silence she 
 heard Jemima cautiously approaching the room, but she 
 stole out to meet her friend, and forbade her to enter the 
 chamber for fear of waking the sleeper. Then Zenobia 
 returned and renewed her lonely watch of love. 
 
 Near morning she heard the sleeper murmuring to her¬ 
 self. She stopped to listen. 
 
 “How lovely he is! Did you ever see a lovelier baby, 
 Delphie?” 
 
 Zenobia stooped over the dreamer, and saw even in the 
 dim light that her eyes were wide open. 
 
 “Mamma! Dear mamma!” she whispered. 
 
 “No, Delphia, don’t take him away! My love! My 
 angel! My treasure! See how he smiles! What a 
 heavenly smile he has! Baby ! baby ! kiss mamma ! Poor 
 mamma! Put your little arms around her jieck ! This 
 way! There! Ah, my blessing! My blessing!” 
 
 In great alarm Zenobia gazed down into her face, but 
 could see nothing in the shadows but that her eyes were 
 open; she was not asleep. 
 
 Zendbia sped to the windows, drew' back the curtains 
 and opened the shutters. The late winter sunshine 
 streamed into the^oom. Then she returned to the bed- 
 
2 44 Nothing to Live For. 
 
 side and gazed down into the face of the invalid. Even 
 her inexperienced eyes saw death in that face. 
 
 ‘‘Mamma! dearest mamma! speak to me!” she pleaded, 
 taking her hand and gazing into her eyes. But her hand 
 felt cold and hard, and the eyes had no recognition in 
 them; they were brilliant with the light of joy that the 
 girl had never seen in them in all her knowledge of the 
 woman. 
 
 Zenobia fled downstairs to summon the household. The 
 first whom she found was Col. Pryor, who was walking 
 uneasily up and down the hall below. Before he could 
 turn to ask her a cpiestion, she hastily announced her 
 alarming intelligence, wringing her hands all the while. 
 
 “My God!” he exclaimed; “my God!” 
 
 But the sound of wheels on the drive near the house 
 immediately arrested his attention. 
 
 “Who is it?” demanded Zenobia, in impatient anguish. 
 
 “It is the doctor, for whom I sent last night,” exclaimed 
 Col. Pryor, hastening to unlock the door before the new¬ 
 comer had time to get out of his gig. 
 
 As soon as he entered, however, making excuse for not 
 having come on the evening before by .explaining that he 
 had been engaged all night on a case he could not sooner 
 leave, he was immediately hurried upstairs to Mrs. Ho- 
 rall’s bedside. But the dying woman was past all earthly 
 aid. 
 
 All that day Isabel Horah lay with such a light of hap¬ 
 piness illuminating her face as no one there had ever seen 
 before! . 
 
 Forgotten were all the sorrow's of her life! Forgotten 
 the husband w r ho had met a deservedly violent death! For¬ 
 gotten the unnatural son who had broken her heart! 
 Remembered only her baby boy; her own gallant father; 
 her sweet mother ! To them, and of them, she talked in¬ 
 cessantly. 
 
 “Is not my boy a beauty, mamma? Are you not proud 
 of your little grandson, papa? Ah! You want me to 
 give him to you, do you? To take home with you! But 
 I cannot spare my angel! Oh, no, indeed! ’ So she 
 babbled on and on. 
 
 Celia, who had come in and stood at the foot of the 
 
 y Jr 
 
A Calm Before' the Storm. 
 
 245 
 
 bed, could bear this no longer, but ran out of the room 
 of death, muttering incoherently: 
 
 “Oh, my God! my God! she knows it all now! In 
 her dying hour she knows! A curse will fall on us!” 
 
 “Here, give me my baby! Right in my arms! 1 am 
 
 going to sleep now,” Isabel Horah murmured, faintly. 
 
 And she went to sleep, never to wake in this world 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A CALM BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 We see but dimly through these mists and vapors, 
 Amid these earthly damps; 
 
 What seems to us hut sad funereal taper* 
 
 May be Heaven’s distant lamps. 
 
 1 here is no death! What seems so is transition. 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is hut a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call death.—L ongfellow. 
 
 What peace is so perfect as the peace of death? It is 
 only the living who disturb themselves. 
 
 I hat still, white face was an image of infinite content. 
 Hie good, old physician gazed upon it for a few' mo¬ 
 ments, while he felt the pulse to be sure that life had left 
 it, and lie then reverently drew the white coverlid over it. 
 saying softly to the bystanders as he turned toward them : 
 
 It is all over. She has gone!’ 
 
 Loud wails of anguish broke from all the servants who 
 were gathered in the chamber, except Servia, who prob- 
 aHv felt more deeply than the others, but who had long 
 betore learned to control her emotions. 
 
 Even Jemima sank into a chair and broke into sobs and 
 tears. 
 
 For a few seconds Zenobia looked dazed, as if unable 
 to realize what bad happened; then, suddenly, with a lou- 
 low moan of despair, she threw up her arms, and must 
 n<n e fallen to the (loor had not Col. Pryor intercepted her 
 and, with his arm around her waist, partly led ar.d partly 
 carried her from the room of death. 
 
246 
 
 A Calm Before tlie Storm. 
 
 He took her downstairs to the rear parlor, where so 
 many of the scenes of our story transpired, and where 
 Gilbert and Oliver were ^waiting. He took her* straight 
 to Oliver, who rose from his chair to meet them. 
 
 “Take her, my boy, and comfort her. She has only 
 you left now,” he said, as he placed her in the outstretched 
 arms of the youth. - . . 
 
 And Oliver—all his boyish, shy self-consciousness for¬ 
 gotten in the solemnity of death and despair—sank with 
 her into a chair, folded her to his bosom, and laid her 
 stricken young head against his honest, tender heart. He 
 sympathized too deeply and sincerely with her to utter 
 o'ne word of condolence, but he pressed his lips to her 
 forehead and mingled his tears with hers. 
 
 Col. Pryor left them alone, and went away by himself 
 into the deserted drawing* room, to give vent to the sor¬ 
 row that was filling his breast. 
 
 As soon as he could command himself sufficiently to do 
 his first duty, he passed into the familiar back parlor, 
 which so painfully recalled the image of his lost friend, 
 and which, under the circumstances, he was pleased to 
 find unoccupied, sat down zft the open secretary and wrote 
 a short letter to Murdok, He merely announced to him 
 the death of his mother. He felt that he could write no 
 more. He sealed the letter with black wax, and directed 
 it to the Poste Restante, Paris, hoping that it might reach 
 the young man before he should leave that city for the 
 East. 
 
 Then he took the letter out to Dr. Bland, who was 
 about to depart from the Hall, and requested him to let 
 his coachman post it when they reached Mistyrock. The 
 colonel also asked his old friend to call at the under¬ 
 taker’s establishment and send him on to the house. • 
 
 But why should we linger over these sad scenes ? 
 
 Col. Pryor, as executor of Mrs. Horalfs will, took 
 charge of everything at Horah Hall, including the order¬ 
 ing of the funeral. 
 
 And three days later the body of Isabel Horah was laid 
 in its last resting place, in the family vault at the church 
 of Mistyrock. » 
 
 From the church the household party returned to Ho¬ 
 rah Hall, accompanied by the family lawyer,, to witness 
 
A Calm Before the Storm. 
 
 247 
 
 the opening of the will of the deceased. After a short 
 rest and slight refreshment, the whole household was as¬ 
 sembled in the 'back parlor where Lawyer Kent, standing 
 at the center table, proceeded to break the seals and un¬ 
 fold the document. 
 
 As he read the preliminaries, and then of the little be¬ 
 quests to Col. Pryor and Zenobia, which immediately fol¬ 
 lowed, only silent tears coursed down the clicks of his 
 hearers; but, when reading on, he reached the clauses by 
 which she freed the slaves she personally owned, grief 
 for the lost mistress and gratitude for acquired freedom 
 burst forth from these dark children of nature in wild 
 wails. 
 
 It was some time before they discovered the fact that 
 Servia’s name was not among those ^f the emancipated, 
 and they began in whispers to express their surprise, be¬ 
 cause Servia had been the greatest favorite with the mis¬ 
 tress, and to ask each other what could be the reason oi 
 the omission, and whefher there might not be some mis¬ 
 take, after all! 
 
 Col. Pryor looked at the apparently neglected or for¬ 
 gotten favorite to see how . she would take this. The 
 woman's face was perfectly impassive. He walked over 
 to her side, and said: 
 
 “Servia, my good girl, what do yon think of this? ’ 
 
 “I do not know what to think of it, sir,” she said, rais¬ 
 ing her patient, dark eyes to his, “but 1 trust my dear, 
 lost mistress; and, above all/ 1 trust my Heavenly 
 Master." 
 
 “Then you do not distress yourself about the difference 
 that has been made between yourself and your companions 
 that seems so very much in their favor and against your¬ 
 self?” • " • ’ ' ■ 
 
 “Why should I, sir?" she gently inquired. “I am not 
 the worse for their being the better. And our lives are 
 so short that it does not seem worth while to worry over 
 anything that concerns only our personal selves. To be 
 sure, though, when, it is anybody one loves who is in 
 trouble, then we can't help worrying.” 
 
 “Still, I am afraid you do shrink from falling into the 
 hands of young Mr.- llorah,'' ventured the colonel. 
 
A Calm Before the Storm. 
 
 Her face changed and grew troubled, but only for a 
 moment. She almost instantly recovered herself, and 
 slowly and reverently bowing her head, she answered: 
 
 “I am really in the hands of the Lord, whoever else's 
 hands I may seem to be in. Nothing can happen to me 
 without His permission; therefore, no real evil can come 
 to me.” 
 
 “Servia, my good girl, tell me where you got your 
 great faith,” said Col. Pryor. 
 
 She looked at him with questioning surprise in her 
 truthful, dark eyes, and then said: 
 
 “Why, sir, from the Fountain of all good! But if you 
 ask me who led me to that fountain head, I will tell you 
 that it was my dear and honored mistress.” 
 
 The lawyer was carefully folding up the document 
 which he had finished reading, and now handed it with 
 a bow to the executor, and prepared to take leave. 
 
 Both Col. Pryor and Zenobia, the latter being in tem¬ 
 porary charge of the house, pressed him, as it was late, 
 to remain for the night. 
 
 He thanked them, but declined ; shook hands with every¬ 
 one, congratulated the emancipated negroes, and de¬ 
 parted. 
 
 “I am so sorry, Servia!—oh, so sorry!” said Zenobia, 
 as soon as they were alone together in the young girl’s 
 bedroom that night. 
 
 “Dear child, it is not worth being sorry for. Nothing 
 is, I think, but sin,” patiently replied the woman. 
 
 “You do not think hard of poor mamma, do you, Ser¬ 
 via?” pleaded the girl, who could scarcely justify the de¬ 
 ceased ladv herself. 
 
 j 
 
 “Think hard of my kind mistress! Oh, no, indeed! 
 She had her reasons, no doubt. And now, dear child, do 
 not distress yourself about that. Life is too short. Even 
 mv life is nearly half over now, though I should live to 
 the Psalmist’s limit, for I am nearly thirty years of age. 
 Let me see you in bed, dear child. Now, good-night. 
 God have you in His keeping!” 
 
 And so the patient woman left her beloved charge to 
 repose.- g 
 
 Meanwhile, in the kitchen, a gathering of weeping 
 ^negroes discussed their mistress’ will. 
 
A Calm Before the Storm. 249 
 
 “Mist’ess would a set all of us free ef we'd a ’longed 
 to her !” said Cindy, wiping her eyes. 
 
 “Yer ’member, chillun, dat day las’ week w’en she call 
 us all inter her room an’ had her trunks an’ bureaus all 
 open an her fine dresses an' scarfs an’ things 'splayed out 
 ter ’stribute among us? An’ she guv ’way ebery stitch 
 she had ’cept sum ole yaller lace* an’ dingy shawls what 
 she sabe fer Miss Snowby, an’ sum nightgowns an' un- 
 nerclose what she sabe for herself?” 
 
 “Yes,” joined in old Si, “an' she arter'ards sent fer all 
 we cullud ge men an’ dewided ole marse's wardrobe among 
 
 “Dere wern't nobodv she nebber fergot,” chimed in 
 Brush, contributing his voice to the chorus of praise. 
 
 “ Cept ’twer Servy! Now, isn't it queer ’bout Servy? 
 Servy wer' her favorite. An' she nebber left her free, 
 dough Servy wer' her own slave. Mouty queer ’bout 
 Servy, T tell yer all now !” said old Si. 
 
 “Why, sho’ enough, she didn’t cben make her no p'es- 
 ent!” exclaimed Cindy, as if the fact had just struck her. 
 
 “Somefin’ wrong ’twix Servy an’ mist'ess, now, I tell 
 yer, chillun!” suggested old Si. 
 
 “I be’liebe yer. Uncle Sias! I do,” exclaimed Brush. 
 “Yer’d a t ought so ef ver’d a ben inter dat room w en 
 poor mist’ess died! Rbery one oh 11 s cryin’ an' screamin’ 
 fit ter break our hearts, dere stood dat Servv a-standin* 
 an a-starin like a stone statue, widout a tear in her eve! 
 1 rufe I s a-tellin’ ver, chillun !” 
 
 I 
 
 “Yes, dat’s so,” chimed in all the others who had been 
 present at the deathbed of theiCmistress. 
 
 \She did that, Servy did! Starin’ at miffin’. T seen 
 her myself,” added Cindy, shaking her head. 
 
 Somefin mouty wrong tween dat gal Servv an poor 
 mist ess ! agreed all the i^fgroes. 
 
 Then there was a solemn silence for a few moments, 
 filled only by slowly shaking heads and soft sighs. 
 
 “Uncle Sias, can’t yer start somefin’ slow an’ sor’fuU 
 like on de banjo in honah ob de poor mist’ess?” asked 
 Cindy. 
 
 < • 
 
 been 
 
 HI try, Cindy, honey! I’ll try an’ do my best w’ich 1’s, 
 11 hankerin arter it,’ sighed the farm minstrel, as ho 
 
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