unately, Dolf was bowing at
the same moment, and their heads met with a loud concussion.

A wild giggle from the kitchen door completed Dolf's confusion. He
looked that way, and there stood Victoria, the chambermaid, now a spruce
mulatto of eighteen, enjoying Clorinda's discomfiture.

"De fault was mine," cried Dolf, in his gallantry; "all mine, so dat
imperent yaller gal need'n larf herself quite to death."

"Imperent yaller gal? am no more yaller den yer is," answered Vic.

"Any how yer needn't stand dar a grinning like a monkey, Vic," exclaimed
Clorinda, in wrath.

"Accidents will recur," said Dolf. "But, laws, Miss Victory, is dat you?
I had de pleasure of yer 'quaintance afore me and marster started on our
trabels."

"I've been alone here eber since," explained Victoria, not proof against
his fascinations. "I'm sure yer haint altered a bit, Mr. Dolf."

"I guess if yer don't go upstairs miss'll know why," cried Clorinda,
sharply. "Jes give me dat pan, Mr. Dolf; I kint wait all day for you to
empty it."

Dolf was recalled to wisdom at once--he could not afford to make a
misstep on the very day of his return. He emptied the pan, followed
Clorinda into the kitchen, making a sign of farewell to Vic which the
old maid did not observe. Once in Clorinda's own dominion, the darkey so
improved the impression already produced that he was soon discussing a
delicate luncheon with great relish, and so disturbing Clorinda's
equanimity by his compliments, that she greatly endangered the pie-crust
she was industriously rolling out on one end of the table where he sat.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE DEAD SECRET.

The morning after Elsie's return Grantley Mellen mounted his horse, and
rode off towards the shore tavern, a sad and heavy-hearted man. The
woman whom he had loved so devotedly with the first passion of his
youth, lay in that little chamber waiting for burial. Where destined
when she met her fate, or how much she suffered, he could only guess.
But there she was, after years of separation, thrown upon his charity
even for a grave, with no one to mourn her death, no one to care how or
where she was buried. He had not mentioned her to his wife or sister, an
aching memory at heart forbade that, but underneath the joy of his
return home lay this dead secret, haunting him with funereal shadows.

The woman was in her coffin when he entered the little chamber, which
was now so desolately clean; for he had given orders