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might not be symptoms in his favor. He remembered her kind
solicitude for his comfort and happiness during the past year; but he
as readily recalled that he had not been the only recipient of such
favors. His reflections led to no certainty, except that he loved her
and meant to tell her so.
    Thérèse's door being closed, and moreover locked, Aunt Belindy, the
stout negress who had superintended the laying of supper, felt free to
give low speech to her wrath as she went back and forth between
dining-room and kitchen.
    "Suppa gittin' dat cole 'tain' gwine be fittin' fu' de dogs te' tech.
Believe half de time w'ite folks ain't got no feelin's, no how. If dey
speck I'se gwine stan' up heah on my two feet all night, dey's foolin'
dey sef. I ain't gwine do it. Git out dat doo' you Mandy! you want me
dash dis heah coffee pot at you—blockin' up de doo's dat away? W'ar
dat good fu' nuttin Betsy? Look yonda, how she done flung dem dere
knife an forks on de table. Jis let Miss T'rèse kotch'er. Good God
A'mighty, Miss T'rèse mus' done gone asleep. G'long dar an' see."
    There was no one on the plantation who would have felt at liberty to
enter Thérèse's bedroom without permission, the door being closed; yet
she had taken the needless precaution of bringing lock and bolt to the
double security of her moment of solitude. The first announcement of
supper had found her still in her riding habit, with head thrown back
upon the cushion of her lounging chair, and her mind steeped in a
semi-stupor that it would be injustice to her brighter moments to call
reflection.
    Thérèse was a warm-hearted woman, and a woman of clear mental vision;
a combination not found so often together as to make it ordinary.
Being a woman of warm heart, she had loved her husband with the
devotion which good husbands deserve; but being a clear-headed woman,
she was not disposed to rebel against the changes which Time brings,
when so disposed, to the human sensibilities. She was not steeped in
that agony of remorse which many might consider becoming in a widow of
five years' standing at the discovery that her heart which had fitted
well the holding of a treasure, was not narrowed to the holding of a
memory,—the treasure being gone.
    Mandy's feeble knock at the door was answered by her mistress in
person who had now banished all traces of her ride and its resultant
cogitations.
    The two women, with Hosmer and Grégoire, sat out on the veranda after
supper as their custom was during these warm summer evenings. There
was no attempt at sustained conversation; they talked by snatches to
and at one another, of the day's small events; Melicent and Grégoire
having by far the most to say. The girl was half reclining in the
hammock which she kept in a slow, unceasing motion by the impetus of
her slender foot; he sitting some distance removed on the steps.
Hosmer was noticeably silent; even Joçint as a theme failing to rouse
him to more than a few words of dismissal. His will and tenacity were
controlling him to one bent. He had made up his mind that he had
something to say to Mrs. Lafirme, and he was impatient at any enforced
delay in the telling.
    Grégoire slept now in the office of the mill, as a measure of
precaution. To-night, Hosmer had received certain late telegrams that
necessitated a return to the mill, and his iron-grey was standing
outside in the lane with Grégoire's horse, awaiting the pleasure of
his rider. When Grégoire quitted the group to go and throw the saddles
across the patient animals, Melicent, who contemplated an additional
hour's chat with Thérèse, crossed over to the cottage to procure a
light wrap for her sensitive shoulders against the chill night air.
Hosmer, who had started to the assistance of Grégoire, seeing that
Thérèse had remained alone, standing at the top of the stairs,
approached her. Remaining a few steps below her, and looking up into
her face, he held out his hand to say good-night, which was an unusual
proceeding, for