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There was no threat, impatience, or acting in her voice, but he recognized the same dull desperation he had once heard in it, and her eyes, which a moment before were quick and mobile, had become fixed and set. He had no idea of trying to penetrate the foolish secret of her name and relations; he had never had the slightest curiosity, but it struck him now that Stratton might at any time force it upon him. The only way that he could prevent it was to let it be known that, for unexpressed reasons, he would shoot Stratton “on sight.” This would naturally restrict any verbal communication between them. Jack’s ideas of morality were vague, but his convictions on points of honor were singularly direct and positive.

III.

Meantime Hamlin and Sophy were passing the outskirts of the town; the open lots and cleared spaces were giving way to grassy stretches, willow copses, and groups of cottonwood and sycamore; and beyond the level of yellowing tules appeared the fringed and raised banks of the river. Half tropical looking cottages with deep verandas–the homes of early Southern pioneers–took the place of incomplete blocks of modern houses, monotonously alike. In these sylvan surroundings Mr. Hamlin’s picturesque rusticity looked less incongruous and more Arcadian; the young girl had lost some of her restraint with her confidences, and lounging together side by side, without the least consciousness of any sentiment in their words or actions, they nevertheless contrived to impress the spectator with the idea that they were a charming pair of pastoral lovers. So strong was this impression that, as they approached Aunt Chloe’s laundry, a pretty rose-covered cottage with an enormous whitewashed barn-like extension in the rear, the black proprietress herself, standing at the door, called her husband to come and look at them, and flashed her white teeth in such unqualified commendation and patronage that Mr. Hamlin, withdrawing himself from Sophy’s side, instantly charged down upon them.

“If you don’t slide the lid back over that grinning box of dominoes of yours and take it inside, I’ll just carry Hannibal off with me,” he said in a quick whisper, with a half-wicked, half-mischievous glitter in his brown eyes. “That young lady’s–A LADY–do you understand? No riffraff friend of mine, but a regular NUN–a saint–do you hear? So you just stand back and let her take a good look round, and rest herself, until she wants you.” “Two black idiots, Miss Brown,” he continued cheerfully in a higher voice of explanation, as Sophy approached, “who think because one of ’em used to shave me and the other saved my life they’ve got a right to stand at their humble cottage door and frighten horses!”

So great was Mr. Hamlin’s ascendency over his former servants that even this ingenious pleasantry was received with every sign of affection and appreciation of the humorist, and of the profound respect for his companion. Aunt Chloe showed them effusively into her parlor, a small but scrupulously neat and sweet-smelling apartment, inordinately furnished with a huge mahogany centre-table and chairs, and the most fragile and meretricious china and glass ornaments on the mantel. But the three jasmine-edged lattice windows opened upon a homely garden of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, and their fragrance filled the room. The cleanest and starchiest of curtains, the most dazzling and whitest of tidies and chair-covers, bespoke the adjacent laundry; indeed, the whole cottage seemed to exhale the odors of lavender soap and freshly ironed linen. Yet the cottage was large for the couple and their assistants. “Dar was two front rooms on de next flo’ dat dey never used,” explained Aunt Chloe; “friends allowed dat dey could let ’em to white folks, but dey had always been done kep’ for Marse Hamlin, ef he ever wanted to be wid his old niggers again.” Jack looked up quickly with a brightened face, made a sign to Hannibal, and the two left the room together.