state; it was an epicurean joy I took in tasting my impressions drop by drop.

Meanwhile, as I thought it all over, my eyes wandered over that part of the room visible in the candle-light, from the four-posted bed in which I lay, and almost unconsciously I noted the many evidences of taste and wealth. The furniture was all of antique style, undoubtedly genuine specimens of the best designs of the later colonial period.

The Japanese prints were the only pictures visible that I could see. They seemed like Utamaro's and Hiroshige's mostly, though near by were a couple of Yoshitora's and Toyokuni's brilliant actresses, veritable riots of color against the dull green of the wall. The floor was of oak parquetry, covered with Persian rugs of what I knew to be rare weaves. Altogether, the room had, in its severe formal way, the dignity of a museum.

She came back, after about ten minutes, with a tray of toast and tea, a jar of Bar-le-duc, and the most appetizing of lamb chops.

"Do you feel hungry?" she asked, setting the tray down upon a stand at the head of the bed.

As I assented most heartily, she leaned over and propped the pillows up behind my back, and then set the silver salver before me on the spread. Drawing up her chair, she sat down near enough to pour the tea and hand me what else I required. As she did so I noted the delicate way she held everything she touched—her fingers slightly parted naturally, curling like an acanthus leaf.

"You say that I have been out of my head?" I began.

"Yes, at intervals, since yesterday afternoon."

"I dimly remember it, now. Yes, it was curious. Somehow, though, it seems to me that there were two women here, though never at the same time, I think—but no doubt I got it all mixed up."

She looked down quickly, as if confused, but she replied, "Oh, it must have been Leah,—the other one. She's my maid; or, perhaps, rather more my companion. You must see her. I think she's wonderful. I wonder if you will!" She made the last remark under her breath, as if she spoke to herself rather than to me.

She went to the door and called, "Leah!" So few persons can raise their voices prettily, that I was delighted to hear it sound as musical as when she spoke to me. As she returned, the light shone on her soft-flowing, silken gown, making it look like frosted silver. In a few moments Leah entered the room, bearing a lighted lamp.

I was surprised, I confess, after what my hostess had said, perhaps as a test of my sensibility, to see that the maid was a negress, but, after giving her my first glance, I was still more surprised to see that she was of a kind one seldom sees, the best type, in fact, of Northern negro. As she approached us she had the bearing of a woman of great refinement and a face which, though uncompromisingly dark, showed an extraordinary mental if not moral caste. Her skin was a warm brown, something of the color of a Samoan, though more reddish than mulatto in tinge. This, I found afterward, was the result of a remote crossing with American Indian blood; it was just enough to enrich the color, and to keep down some of the negroid fullness of the lips and modify the crispness of her curling hair. Leah might, indeed, be considered beautiful; what could not, at least, be denied, was the impression of character which was stamped upon her. It was patent in her face, her carriage and her voice. I watched her in admiration. There was a neatness and an immaculate cleanness about her, and I could easily understand how my hostess might regard her as a friend.

Leah's affection for her mistress was evident by the sympathetic manner in which she listened, and by the softness of her look when her eyes fell on my hostess. There was in that look more than the traditional fondness of a negro "mammy" for her charge. I felt immediately one of those quick reactions one sometimes has with servants, or with other persons whom social customs have relegated to a conventionally inferior position. It was a case of spiritual noblesse oblige. Seeing her so fine, so sensitive, so tactful, I was myself put unconsciously upon my best behavior. I could not forget this in any look or any word I gave her. I was constantly watching myself lest I, a guest, a man of a dominant race, should, in consideration and in delicacy, fall behind this servant, this negress. It was a curious delicacy she seemed to enforce.

I can give this effect of Leah upon me, but it is not so easy to describe the cause. She effaced herself, she kept her place rarely. But with all this, she radiated—she had a potent personality. She put down the lamp, she straightened the covers of my bed, answered a few questions, speaking in a rich contralto voice, and went out. That was all. But in those few moments she had impressed me.

It was, no doubt, because of my enjoyment in watching, silently, what went on, that gave my companion the idea that I was exhausted. She apparently inferred that I wished to be left alone, and, rising, she took the tray from my lap and set it down while she readjusted my pillows. Then, removing a little silver Nuremberg bell, she took up the tray again, and rose to leave me.

"I'll leave the bell here at the head of your bed, Mr. Castle," she said (she had learned my name, of course, when she took my message), "and Leah will be glad to do anything for you that you wish."

As she turned, she looked back, smiling.

"Oh, I haven't told you my own name, yet, have I? I'm Miss Fielding—Joy Fielding. There's nobody here but Leah and me, except Uncle Jerdon, our man-of-all-work, and King, the Chinaman. Midmeadows is a lonely place, though it's lovely in the summer. Well, I hope you'll be able to sleep well, and be much better in the morning. I'll hope to see you then. Good night." She left me after placing the lamp just out of sight.

Later, Leah entered, bringing me some books to read, in case I should be wakeful. I dipped into them all immediately, seeking for further evidence of Miss Fielding's taste. One was of poems, one of essays, one of short stories, and one a novel.

The house was silent. I heard nothing until quite late, when the two women came up-stairs to retire. By their voices and footsteps, I made out that Leah slept in the room next to mine, and Miss Fielding across the hall, farther off. There was some soft conversation, Leah's voice deep and rich, Miss Fielding's rising several notes above, always with that fluttering, delicate quality which I had noticed. Then the doors closed, and I heard nothing more except, somewhere below, a heavy rhythmic snoring which I assumed came from Uncle Jerdon's room.

There came to me now one of those weary, irksome vigils of the sick, when the darkness and the pain seem to coöperate to stretch out the hours to infinite lengths. I tried one position and another, I lighted the candle and put it out again, but my discomfort and my sleeplessness persisted. I could think of nothing else but Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding, Joy Fielding! I think that a little of my delirium returned, also; but all through my torment I kept repeating to myself that I did not want to know who she was. I refused to speculate upon that, except in ways that were romantic and fantastic. What matter-of-fact, commonplace explanation of her life there might be, I wanted to hold off as long as possible.

II