eight or nine years ago. He got cured, or at least half-cured,
in some extraordinary way; but ever since then he has been a skeleton.
See how he limps!"

The skeleton passed out of sight behind the house, and we waited a
while at the front porch. Then a m['e]tisse--turbaned in wasp colors,
and robed in iris colors, and wonderful to behold--came to tell us
that Madame hoped we would rest ourselves in the garden, as the house
was very warm. Chairs and a little table were then set for us in a
shady place, and the m['e]tisse brought out lemons, sugar-syrup, a
bottle of the clear plantation rum that smells like apple juice, and
ice-cold water in a _dobanne_ of thick red clay. My friend prepared
the refreshments; and then our hostess came to greet us, and to sit
with us,--a nice old lady with hair like newly minted silver. I had
never seen a smile sweeter than that with which she bade us welcome;
and I wondered whether she could ever have been more charming in her
Creole girlhood than she now appeared,--with her kindly wrinkles, and
argent hair, and frank, black, sparkling eyes....

* * * * *

In the conversation that followed I was not able to take part, as
it related only to some question of title. The notary soon arranged
whatever there was to arrange; and, after some charmingly spoken words
of farewell from the gentle lady, we took our departure. Again the
mummified negro hobbled before us, to open the gate,--followed by
all his callow rabble of chickens. As we resumed our places in the
carriage we could still hear the chippering of the creatures, pursuing
after that ancient scarecrow.

"Is it African sorcery?" I queried.... "How does he bewitch those
chickens?"

"Queer--is it not?" the notary responded as we drove away. "That negro
must now be at least eighty years old; and he may live for twenty
years more,--the wretch!"

The tone in which my friend uttered this epithet--_le
miserable!_--somewhat surprised me, as I knew him to be one of the
kindliest men in the world, and singularly free from prejudice. I
suspected that a story was coming, and I waited for it in silence.

"Listen," said the notary, after a pause, during which we left the
plantation well behind us; "that old sorcerer, as you call him, was
born upon the estate, a slave. The estate belonged to M. Floran,--the
husband of the lady whom we visited; and she was a cousin, and the
marriage was a love-match. They had been