"Have you fallen in love with each other?" asked Cicely. "It needed only that."

"I beg you to go," Eve entreated.

Paul hesitated. "Will you promise not to leave this lodge until I come back?"

"Yes."

Paul went out. As he did so, he saw the judge approaching, leaning heavily on Hollis's arm.

"It's nothing," Hollis explained. "The judge, he's only tuckered out; a night's rest is all he needs."

"Take me to Cicely," the judge commanded.

"Cicely ought to be quiet now," Paul answered in a decided voice. "Eve is with her, and they're all right; women do better alone together, you know, when one of them has hysteria."

"Hysteria! Is that what you called it?" said the judge.

"Of course. And it's natural," Paul went on:--"poor little girl, coming to herself suddenly here in the woods, only to realize that her husband is dead. We shall have to be doubly tender with her, now that she is beginning to be herself again."

"You didn't mind it, then?" pursued the judge. He was relieved, of course--glad. Still it began to seem almost an impertinence that Paul should have paid so little attention to what had been to the rest of them so terrible.

"Mind? Do you mean what she was saying? I didn't half hear it, I was thinking how I could get up that bank. And that reminds me there's something wrong with Porley; she's at the big pine. I am going out there to see. Cicely told me that she had tied her in some way."

"If she did, the wench richly deserved it," said the judge, going towards his lodge, his step stiff and slow.

"He came mighty near a stroke," said Hollis to Paul in an undertone.

"Hadn't you better go with him, then?"

"Oh yes; I'll go." He went towards the judge's lodge. "You go right into that lodge, fool Hollis, and stay there,--stay with that unreasonable, vituperative, cantankerous old Bourbon of a judge, and--judge of Bourbon! You smooth him down, and you hearten him up, you agree with him every time; you tuck him in, you hang his old clothes over a chair, you take his shoes out, and black 'em; and you conduct yourself generally like one of his own nigs in the glorious old days of slavery--Maryland, my Maryland!" He lifted the latch of the door, and went in.

Paul, meanwhile, had gone to the big pine; when he reached it, the twilight had darkened into night. A crouching figure stood close to the trunk--Porley; she was tied by a small rope to the tree, the firm ligatures encircling her in three places--at the throat, the waist, and the ankles; in addition, her hands were tied behind her.

"Well, Porley, a good joke, isn't it?" Paul said, as he cut the knots of the rope with his knife.

"Ah-_hoo!_" sobbed the girl, her fright breaking into audible expression now that aid was near.

"Mrs. Morrison thought she would see how brave you were."

"Ah-hoo! Ah-hoo-hoo-_hoo!_" roared Porley, in a paroxysm of frantic weeping.

"If you are so frightened as that, what did you let her do it for? You are five times as strong as she is."

"I coulden tech her, ma.r.s.e--I coulden! Says she, 'A-follerin' an'

spyin', Porley? Take dat rope an' come wid me.' So I come. She's cunjud me, ma.r.s.e; I is done fer."

"Nonsense! Where's the nurse?"

"I doan know--I doan know. Says she, 'We'll take a walk, Miss Mile.' An'

off dey went, 'way ober dat way. Reckon Miss Mile's dead!"

"No more dead than you are. Go back to the camp and un-cunjer yourself; there's a dollar to help it along."

He went off in the direction she had indicated. After a while he began to call at intervals; there was a distant answer, and he called again.

And then gradually, nearer and nearer, came the self-respecting voice of Mary Ann Mile. Each time he shouted, "h.e.l.lo there!" her answer was, "Yes, sir; present-lee," in a very well-educated tone.

"What is this, Mrs. Mile?"

"You may well ask, sir. Such an incident has never happened to me before. Mrs. Morrison remarked that she should enjoy a walk, and I therefore went with her; after we had proceeded some distance, suddenly she darted off. I followed her, and kept her in sight for a while, or rather she kept me in sight; then she disappeared, and I perceived not only that I had lost her, but that I myself was lost. It is a curious thing, sir,--the cleverness of people whose minds are disordered!"

"Her mind is no longer disordered, Mrs. Mile; she has got back her senses."

"Do you consider this an instance of it?" asked the nurse, doubtfully.

When Paul left Cicely's lodge, Eve closed the door. "Cicely, I have something to tell you. Listen."

"It is a pity you like that man--that Paul Tennant," Cicely answered.

"If I do like him, I can never be anything to him. This is what I wanted to tell you: that I shot his brother."

"Well, if his brother was like _him_--"

"Oh, Cicely, it was Ferdie--your Ferdie."

"What do you know about Ferdie?" demanded Cicely, coldly. "He never liked you in the least."

"Don't you know, Cicely, that Ferdie is dead?"

"Oh, yes, I know it. Paul would not let me go to him, and he died all alone."

"And do you know what was the cause of his death?"

"Yes; he was shot; there were some negroes, they got away in a boat."

"No, there were no negroes; I shot him. I took a pistol on purpose."

"It seems to be very hard work for you to tell me this, you are crying dreadfully," remarked Cicely, looking at her. "Why do you tell?"

"Because I am the one you must curse. Not Paul."

"It's all for Paul, then."

"But it was for you in the first place, Cicely. Don't you remember that we escaped?--that we went through the wood to the north point?--that you tried to push the boat off, and couldn't? Baby climbed up by one of the seats, and Ferdie saw him, and made a dash after him; then it was that I fired. I did it, Cicely. n.o.body else."

"Oh," said Cicely, slowly, "you did it, did you?" She rose. "And Paul kept me from going to him! It was all you two." She went to the crib, and lifted Jack from his nest. He stirred drowsily; then fell asleep again. (Poor little Jack, what journeys!)

"Open that door; and go," Cicely commanded.