ase. We cannot fathom the motive of the crime. To-day
(rather yesterday now, for it is two o'clock in the morning) a
man accused of murdering her was lynched. To-night the man who
was supposed to have been lynched made his appearance at his
home. But the mother sticks to it that the real murderer, her
son, is the corpse, and appearances seem to bear out the
contention. Now it may be that Alene's murderer is yet alive
and that an injustice has been wrought upon somebody. My heart
is more firmly knit to my Southern white brethren than ever
before. I fling ambition to the winds. Tell my friends that I
shall not make the race for Congress, and thank them for me for
the way in which they have always seconded my aspirations. It
pains me much to not be in a position to attempt to scale the
heights which their loving hearts fancied I could make with
ease. I shall walk with my kith and kin of the South in the
shadow, for in the furnace of a common sorrow, my heart has
been melted into one with theirs. We of the South (you see I
call myself one of them), know not what the future has in store
for our beloved section, but we face the ordeal with the grim
determination of our race. If you believe in prayer, pray that
I may be just and may even in darkness do the right.

"RAMON, 'THE MAD.'"

When Alene had been laid to rest, Ramon, after lingering in Almaville
for a few weeks, disappeared completely, leaving behind no trace of
himself. He had previously given Mr. Daleman and friends assurances that
he would do no violence to himself. So while they knew not where he was
nor what was his mission, they were not unduly apprehensive as to his
welfare.

Ramon Mansford had simply stained himself a chocolate brown and had thus
passed from the Anglo-Saxon to the Negro race. He had gone to fathom the
mystery of Alene's murder.

CHAPTER XVII.

_Peculiar Divorce Proceedings._

"Dilsy Brooks, would you 'low me er few wurds wid you?"

Dilsy Harper, Bud's mother, paused in her knitting, pulled her
spectacles a little further down on her nose, and peered over them at
Silas Harper, her husband, who had just entered her room and stood with
his hat in his hand. He was low of stature, small and very bow-legged. A
short white beard graced his chin, while his upper lip was kept clean
shaven. His