th several times. Until now he had only come in contact with the
pleasant pastoral side of life, given added interest because, just
now, all its peace was encircled by war; but it _was_ peace for all
that--peace in an eminently Christian land, a land of homes and
churchly environment, and made picturesque by the grotesque features
and humor of the dark exiles. He had only laughed with them until now
and marveled at the gaiety of the troops singing in the rice fields,
and suddenly another window had been opened and through it one caught
glimpses of tragedies.

"And the poor woman's child?" he asked, after a little.

"Mahs Matt done send her down to Mahs Larue's Georgy plantation, an'
we all nevah seen her no mo'. Mahs Larue done sold that Georgy
plantation 'bout five yeahs back an' move up fo' good on one his wife
own up heah. An' little while back I hear tell they gwine sell it,
too, an' flit way cross to Mexico somewhah. This heah war jest broke
them up a'ready."

"And the child was sold?--do you mean that?"

"Deed we all nevah got a sure story o' what come o' that baby; only
when Retta come back Mahs Matt tell her little Rhoda dead long time
ago--dead down in Georgy, an' no one evah heah her ask a word from
that day to this. But one Larue's niggahs _tole me_"--and the voice
and manner of Nelse took on a grotesquely impressive air--"they done
raise a mighty handsome chile 'bout that time what was called Rhoda,
an' she went to ferren parts with Mahs Larue an' his family an' didn't
nevah come back, no mo', an' Mahs Matt raise some sort o' big row with
Mahs Jean Larue ovah that gal, an' they nevah was friends no mo'. To
be suah maybe that niggah lied--_I_ don't know. But he let on as how
Mars Larue say that gal gwine to fetch a fancy price some day, an' I
thought right off how Mahs Matt said Retta boun' to fetch a fancy
price in Orleans; an' taken' it all roun' I reckoned it jest as well
Retta keep on thinken' that chile died."

Delaven agreed. From the house he could hear the ladies talking, and
Evilena's laugh sang out clear as a bird's song. He wondered if they
also knew the story of the silent deft-handed bondwoman?--but
concluded it was scarcely likely. Mrs. Nesbitt might know something of
it, but who could tell Tom Loring's daughter?--and Evilena, of course,
was too much of a child.

"I should like to see the picture you spoke of," he said at last, "the
small one the painter left."

"I reckon that picture d