I
pictured.

A stillness crept into the afternoon like the stillness of night. The
wide house was darkened and silent, and without a sunlight washed with
gold filtered through the leaves. There was a drowsy hum of bees, and in
the distance the occasional languishing note of a bird singing what must
have been a cradle-song. My mind wandered, and shirked the task that was
set to it.

Could anything be gained by meddling? I had begun to convince myself
that nothing could, when suddenly I came face to face with the
consequences of a possible marriage between Nick and Mademoiselle
Antoinette. In that event the disclosure of his mother's identity would
be inevitable. Not only his happiness was involved, but Mademoiselle's,
her father's and her mother's, and lastly that of this poor hunted woman
herself, who thought at last to have found a refuge.

An hour passed, and it became more and more evident to me that I must
see and talk with Mrs. Temple. But how was I to communicate with her? At
last I took out my portfolio and wrote these words on a sheet:--

"If Mrs. Clive will consent to a meeting with Mr. David Ritchie, he
will deem it a favor. Mr. Ritchie assures Mrs. Clive that he makes this
request in all friendliness."

I lighted a candle, folded the note and sealed it, addressed it to Mrs.
Clive, and opening the latticed door I stepped out. Walking along the
gallery until I came to the rear part of the house which faced towards
the out-buildings, I spied three figures prone on the grass under a
pecan tree that shaded the kitchen roof. One of these figures was Benjy,
and he was taking his siesta. I descended quietly from the gallery, and
making my way to him, touched him on the shoulder. He awoke and stared
at me with white eyes.

"Marse Dave!" he cried.

"Hush," I answered, "and follow me."

He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove, where I
stopped.

"Benjy," I said, "do you know any of the servants here?"

"Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows 'em,--some of 'em," he answered
with a grin.

"You talk to them?"

"Shucks, no, Marse Dave," he replied with a fine scorn, "I ain't no hand
at dat ar nigger French. But I knows some on 'em, and right well too."

"How?" I demanded curiously.

Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet. He was standing pigeon-toed.

"I done c'ressed some on 'em, Marse Dave," he said at length, and there
was a note of triumph in his voice.

"You did what?" I asked.

"