against the steps, passed
by the carriage without a glance, and began digging furiously at one
side of the yard. The old woman watched him for a while, with a
self-absorption that was entirely oblivious of the visitors, and then
entered the house.

The colonel had been completely absorbed in this curious drama. There
was an air of weirdness and unreality about it all. Old Peter was as
silent as if he had been turned into stone. Something in the
atmosphere conduced to somnolence, for even the horses stood still,
with no signs of restlessness. The colonel was the first to break the
spell.

"What's the matter with them, Peter? Do you know?"

"Dey's bofe plumb 'stracted, suh--clean out'n dey min's--dey be'n dat
way fer yeahs an' yeahs an' yeahs."

"That's Mr. Dudley, I suppose?"

"Yas, suh, dat's ole Mars Ma'com Dudley, de uncle er young Mistah Ben
Dudley w'at hangs 'roun Miss Grac'ella so much."

"And who is the woman?"

"She's a bright mulattah 'oman, suh, w'at use' ter b'long ter de
family befo' de wah, an' has kep' house fer ole Mars' Ma'com ever
sense. He 'lows dat she knows whar old Mars' Rafe Dudley, _his_ uncle,
hid a million dollahs endyoin' de wah, an' huh tongue's paralyse' so
she can't tell 'im--an' he's be'n tryin' ter fin' out fer de las'
twenty-five years. I wo'ked out hyuh one summer on plantation, an' I
seen 'em gwine on like dat many 'n' many a time. Dey don' nobody roun'
hyuh pay no 'tention to 'em no mo', ev'ybody's so use' ter seein'
'em."

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Ben Dudley, who
came around the house, and, advancing to the carriage, nodded to
Peter, and greeted the colonel respectfully.

"Won't you 'light and come in?" he asked.

The colonel followed him into the house, to a plainly furnished
parlour. There was a wide fireplace, with a fine old pair of brass
andirons, and a few pieces of old mahogany furniture, incongruously
assorted with half a dozen splint-bottomed chairs. The floor was bare,
and on the walls half a dozen of the old Dudleys looked out from as
many oil paintings, with the smooth glaze that marked the touch of the
travelling artist, in the days before portrait painting was superseded
by photography and crayon enlargements.

Ben returned in a few minutes with his uncle. Old Malcolm seemed to
have shaken off his aberration, and greeted the colonel with grave
politeness.

"I am glad, sir," he said, giving the visitor his hand, "to make your