pon a table in the centre of the room, showed what had been
his occupation. Admitting Hathaway with great courtesy, he said:--

"Marse Harry bin havin' his ole trubble, sah, and bin engaged just dis
momen' on his toylet; ef yo'll accommodate yo'self on de sofa, I inform
him yo' is heah."

As the negro passed into the next room, Paul cast a hasty glance around
the apartment. The furniture, originally rich and elegant, was now
worn threadbare and lustreless. A book-case, containing, among other
volumes, a few law books--there being a vague tradition, as Paul
remembered, that Colonel Pendleton had once been connected with the
law--a few French chairs of tarnished gilt, a rifle in the corner, a
presentation sword in a mahogany case, a few classical prints on the
walls, and one or two iron deed-boxes marked "El Dorado Bank," were the
principal objects. A mild flavor of dry decay and methylated spirits
pervaded the apartment. Yet it was scrupulously clean and well kept,
and a few clothes neatly brushed and folded on a chair bore witness to
the servant's care. As Paul, however, glanced behind the sofa, he was
concerned to see a coat, which had evidently been thrust hurriedly in a
corner, with the sleeve lining inside out, and a needle and thread
still sticking in the seam. It struck him instantly that this had been
the negro's occupation, and that the pistol-cleaning was a polite
fiction.

"Yo' 'll have to skuse Marse Harry seein' yo in bed, but his laig's
pow'ful bad to-day, and he can't stand," said the servant reentering
the room. "Skuse me, sah," he added in a dignified confidential
whisper, half closing the door with his hand, "but if yo' wouldn't mind
avoidin' 'xcitin' or controversical topics in yo' conversation, it
would be de better fo' him."

Paul smilingly assented, and the black retainer, with even more than
the usual solemn ceremonious exaggeration of his race, ushered him into
the bedroom. It was furnished in the same faded glory as the
sitting-room, with the exception of a low, iron camp-bedstead, in which
the tall, soldierly figure of Colonel Pendleton, clad in threadbare
silk dressing-gown, was stretched. He had changed in eight years: his
hair had become gray, and was thinned over the sunken temples, but his
iron-gray moustache was still particularly long and well pointed. His
face bore marks of illness and care; there were deep lines down the
angle of the nostril that spoke of alternate savage