y, as was her custom, followed at her heels.

"Come in, Rhody," said Miss Fanny. "I know you are there. You always
send a message, and then go along with it to see if it is delivered
correctly. 'Twould save a great deal of trouble if the rest of us were
to adopt your plan."

"I hope you all is well," remarked Rhody, as she made her appearance.
"I declar', Miss Fanny, you look good enough to eat."

"Well, I do eat," responded Miss Fanny, teasingly.

"I mean you look good enough ter be etted," said Rhody, correcting
herself.

"Now, that is what I call a nice compliment," Miss Fanny observed
complacently. "Brother Pulaski, if I am ever 'etted' you won't have to
raise a monument to my memory."

"No wonder you look young," laughed Rhody. "Anybody what kin git fun
out'n a graveyard is bleeze ter look young."

Paul was lying on the wide lounge that was one of the features of the
library. His eyes were closed, and his Aunt Fanny was gently stroking
his hair. Pulaski Tomlin leaned back in an easy chair, lazily enjoying a
cigar, the delicate flavour of which filled the room. There was
something serene and restful in the group, in the furniture, in all the
accessories and surroundings. The negro woman turned around and looked
at everything in the room, as if trying to discover what produced the
effect of perfect repose.

It is the rule that everything beautiful and precious in this world
should have mystery attached to it. There is the enduring mystery of
art, the mystery that endows plain flesh and blood with genius. A little
child draws you by its beauty; there is mystery unfathomable in its
eyes. You enter a home, no matter how fine, no matter how humble; it may
be built of logs, and its furnishings may be of the poorest; but if it
is a home, a real home, you will know it unmistakably the moment you
step across the threshold. Some subtle essence, as mysterious as thought
itself, will find its way to your mind and enlighten your instinct. You
will know, however fine the dwelling, whether the spirit of home dwells
there.

Rhody, as she looked around in the vain effort to get a clew to the
secret, wondered why she always felt so comfortable in this house. She
sighed as she seated herself on the floor at the foot of the lounge on
which Paul lay. This was her privilege. If Miss Fanny could sit at his
head, Rhody could sit at his feet.

"You wanted to speak to Paul," suggested Miss Fanny.

"Yes'm; he lef' de house in a