sad under a low, moist sky, but my heart was high with a sense of adventure at all times strong in me, and I read promise between the lines of Mrs. Brane's kind little note.

I slept well in my berth that night and the next afternoon came safely to Pine Cone. My only experience had been the rather annoying, covert attention of a man on the train. He was a pleasant-enough looking fellow and, though he tried to conceal his scrutiny, it was disagreeably incessant. I was glad to leave him on the train, and I saw his face peering out of the window at me and caught a curious expression when I climbed into the cart that had been sent to meet me from "The Pines." It was a look of intense excitement, and, it seemed to me, almost of alarm. Also, his fingers drew a note-book from his pocket and he fell to writing in it as the train went out. I could not help the ridiculous fancy that he was taking notes on me.

I had never been in the South before, and the country impressed me as being the most desolate I had ever seen. Our road took us straight across the level fields towards a low, cloudlike bank of pines. We passed through a small town blighted by poverty and dark with negro faces which had none of the gayety I associated with their race. These men and women greeted us, to be sure, but in rather a gloomy fashion, not without grace and even a certain stateliness. The few whites looked poorer than the blacks or were less able to conceal their poverty.

My driver was a grizzled negro, friendly, but, I soon found, very deaf. He was eager to talk, but so often misinterpreted my shouted questions that I gave it up. I learned, at least, that we had an eight-mile drive before us; that there was a swamp beyond the pine woods; that the climate was horribly unhealthy in summer so that most of the gentry deserted, but that Mrs. Brane always stayed, though she sent her little boy away.

"Lit'l Massa Robbie, he's jes' got back. Sho'ly we-all's glad to see him too. Jes' makes world of diffunce to hev a child about."

I, too, was glad of the child's presence. A merry little lad is good company, and can easily be won by a housekeeper with the pantry keys in her hand.

"Mrs. Brane is an invalid?" was one of my questions, I remember, to which I had the curious answer, "Oh, no, missy, not to say timid, not timorous. It's jes' her way, don' mean nothin'. She's a right peart little lady. No, missy, don' get notions into yo' haid. We ain't none of us timid; no, indeed."

And he gave his head a valiant roll and clipped his fat gray horse with a great show of valor. Evidently he had mistaken my word "invalid," for "timid," but the speech was queer, and gave me food for thought.

We had come to an end of our talk by the time we reached the low ridge of pines, and we plodded through the heavy sand into the gloom, out of it, and down into the sudden dampness of the swamp, in silence. This was strange country; a smothered sort of stream under high, steep banks went coiling about under twisted, sprawling trees, all draped with deadlooking gray moss. Everything was gray: sky, road, trees, earth, water. The air was gray and heavy. I tried not to breathe it, and was glad when we came out and up again to our open sandy stretches. There was a further rise and more trees; a gate, an ill-weeded drive, and in a few minutes we stopped before a big square white house. It had six long columns from roof to ground, intersected at the second story by a balcony floor. The windows were large, the ceilings evidently very high. In fact, it was the typical Southern house, of which I had seen pictures, stately and not unbeautiful, though this house looked in need of care.

I felt very nervous as I stepped across the porch and pulled the bell. My hands were cold, and my throat dry. But, no sooner was the door opened, than I found myself all but embraced by a tiny, pale, dark woman in black, who came running out into the high, cold hall, took me by both hands, and spoke in the sweetest voice I had ever heard.

"Oh, Miss Gale, indeed I'm glad to see you. Come in now and have tea with me. My little boy and I have been waiting for you, all impatience since three o'clock. George must just have humored the old horse. They're both so old that they spoil each other, out of fellow-feeling, I reckon."

She went before me through a double doorway, trailing her scarf behind her, and I came into a pleasant, old-fashioned room, crowded with fussy little ornaments and large furniture.

It was thickly carpeted, and darkly papered, but was lit to warmth by a bright open fire of coals. The glow was caught high up by a hanging chandelier with long crystal pendants, and under this stood a little boy. My heart tightened at sight of him, he looked so small and delicate.

"Here is our new friend, Robbie," said Mrs. Brane. "Come and shake hands."

I took the clammy little hand and kissed the sallow little face. The child looked up. Such a glare of speechless, sudden terror I have never seen in the eyes of any child. I hope I shall never see it again. I stepped back, half afraid, and hurt, for I love children, and children love me, and this little, sickly thing I longed to take close to my heart.

"Why, Robbie!" said Mrs. Brane, "Robbie, dear! He's very timid, Miss Gale, you'll have to excuse him."

She had not seen the look, only the shrinking gesture. He was much worse than "timid." But I was really too overwhelmed to speak. I turned away, tears in my silly eyes, and took off my hat and coat in silence, tucking in a stray end of hair. The child had got into his mother's lap, and was clinging to her, while she laughed and coaxed him. Under her encouragements he ventured to look up, then threw himself back, stiffened and shrieked, pointing at me, "It's her hair! It's her hair! See her hair!"

For a few moments his mother was fairly unnerved, then she began to laugh again, looked apologetically at me, and, rocking the poor, frightened baby in her arms, "Oh, Miss Gale," she said sweetly, "we're not used to such splendor in our old house. Come, Robbie dear, all women are not as little and black and dreary as your poor mamma. I'll let him creep off into a corner, Miss Gale, while we have tea, then he'll get used to your prettiness and that wonderful hair from a distance."

As I came up, the child fled from me and crouched in a far corner of the room, from which his little white face glimmered fearfully.

Mrs. Brane poured tea, and chattered incessantly. It was evident that she had suffered greatly from loneliness. Her eyes showed that she had lived too long in memories. I felt a warm desire to cheer and to protect her. She was so small and helpless-looking.

"Since my husband died," she said, "I really have n't had the courage to go away. It's difficult to pull up roots, and, then, there are the old servants who depend so absolutely upon me. If I moved away it would simply be to explode their whole existence. And I can't quite afford to pension them." Here she paused and added absently, "At least, not yet."

I wondered if she had expectations of wealth. Her phrase suggested it.

"By the by," she went on, "you must meet Delia, and Jane and Annie. They are your business from now on. Delia's the cook, while Annie and Jane do all the other work. I'll tell you about them so you'll be able to understand their crotchets. They're really old dears, and as loyal as loyalty itself. Sometimes,"—she laughed a hollow little laugh that sounded as if it had faded from long disuse,—"I wonder how on earth I could get rid of them."

She gave me a humorous account of the three old women who did the indoors work at "The Pines." She had hardly finished when Jane came in. This was the fat, little one; wrinkled, with gray curls; a pursed-up face, little, bright, anxious eyes. Again I was struck by the furtive, frightened air every one at "The Pines" wore, except George, the colored coachman, with his bravado.

Jane was introduced to me, and gave me rather a gloomy greeting. Nevertheless, I thought