slyly at my left hand, then chuckled again.

"Mars' George, yo' is wearin' yo' weddin'-ring now!"

"A ring! There is no ring on my hand, you rascal!" I said.

"Yaas, suh; dey sho' is, Mars' George," he insisted, still chuckling.

"I tell you I never wear a ring," I said, impatiently.

"'Scuse me, Mars' George, suh," he said, humbly. And, lifting my left
hand, laid it in his wrinkled, black palm, peering closely. I also
looked, and saw at the base of my third finger a circle like the mark
left by a wedding-ring.

"That is strange," I said; "I never wore a ring in all my life!"

"Das de sign, suh," muttered the old man; "das de Ormond sign, suh. Yo'
pap wore de ghos'-ring, an' his pap wore it too, suh. All de Ormonds
done wore de ghos'-ring fore dey wus wedded. Hit am dess dat-a-way.
Mars' George--"

He hesitated, looking up at me with gentle, dim eyes.

"Miss Dorry, suh--"

He stopped short, then dropped his voice to a whisper.

"'Fore Miss Dorry git up outen de baid, suh, I done tote de bre'kfus in
de mawnin'. An' de fustest word dat li'l Miss Dorry say, 'Cato,' she
say, 'whar Mars' George?' she say. 'He 'roun' de yahd, Miss Dorry,' I
say. ''Pears lak he gettin' mo' res'less an' mis'ble, Miss Dorry.'

"'Cato,' she 'low, 'I spec' ma' haid gwine ache if I lie hyah in
dishyere baid mo'n two free day. Whar ma' milk an' co'n pone, Cato?'

"So I des sot de salver down side de baid, suh, an' li'l Miss Dorry she
done set up in de baid, suh, an' hole out one li'l bare arm--"

He laid a wrinkled finger on his lips; his dark face quivered with
mystery and emotion.

"One li'l bare arm," he repeated, "an' I see de sign!"

"What sign?" I stammered.

"De bride-sign on de ring-finger! Yaas, suh. An' I say, 'Whar yo' ring,
Miss Dorry?' An' she 'low ain' nebber wore no ring. An' I say, 'Whar dat
ring, Miss Dorry?'

"Den Miss Dorry look kinder queer, and rub de ghos'-ring on de
bridal-finger.

"'What dat?' she 'low.

"'Dasser ghos'-ring, honey.'

"Den she rub an' rub, but, bless yo' heart, Mars' George! she dess
natch'ly gwine wear dat pink ghos'-ring twill yo' slip de bride-ring
on.... Mars' George! Honey! What de matter, chile?... Is you a-weepin',
Mars' George?"

"Oh, Cato, Cato!" I choked, dropping my head on his shoulder.

"What dey do to mah l'il Mars' George?" he said, soothingly. "'Spec'
some one done git saucy! Huh! Who care? Dar de sign! Dar de ghos'-ring!
Mars' George, yo' is dess boun' to wed, suh