who she
is, these days; seems like the very shape o' her face been changed
sence she--"

"Nelse," said Mrs. Nesbitt, a trifle sharply, "whatever you do you are
not to let Mr. Loring know about those runaways; maybe you better keep
out of his sight altogether this visit, for he's sure to ask questions
about everything, and the doctor's orders are that he is not to see
folks or have any business talks--you understand? and nothing ever
does excite him so much as a runaway."

"Oh, yes, Miss Sajane, I un'stan'; I'll keep out. Hearen' how things
was I jes' come down to see if Miss Gertrude needs any mo' help
looken' after them field niggahs. They nevah run away from _me_."

"Well"--and she halted doubtfully at the door--"I'll tell her. And if
you want Dr. Delaven to hear about the old racing days, honey, hadn't
you better take him into the library where the portraits are? I'm a
trifle uneasy lest Mr. Loring should take a notion to come in here.
Since he's commenced to walk a little he is likely to appear anywhere
but in the library. He never does seem to like the library corner."

Delaven glanced at the library walls as the three advanced thereto--walls
paneled in natural cedar, and hung with large gilt frames here and
there between the cases of books. "I should think any man would like a
room like this," he remarked, "especially when it holds one's own family
portraits. There is a picture most attractive--a fine make of a man."

"That Mahs Tom Loring, Miss Gertrude's father," explained Nelse. "Jest
as fine as he looks theah, Mahs Tom was, and ride!--king in heaven!
but he could ride. 'Taint but a little while back since he was killed,
twenty yeahs maybe--no, eighteen yeahs come Christmas. He was
followen' the houn's, close on, when his horse went down an' Mahs Tom
picked up dead, his naik broke. His wife, Miss Leo Masterson, she was,
she died some yeahs befo', when Miss Gertrude jest a little missy. So
they carried him home from Larue plantation--that wheah he get
killed--an' bury him back yonder beside her," and he pointed to a
group of pines across the field to the north; "so, after that--"

"Oh, Nelse, tell about live things--not dead ones," suggested Evilena,
"tell about the races and your Mahs Duke, how he used to go horseback
all the way to Virginia, to the races, and even to Philadelphia, and
how all the planters gathered for hundreds of miles, some of the old
ones wearing small clothes and buckled shoes, and ho