Margaret shook her head and sighed. She did not believe that either could be established. "Now don't let your fears run away with you, Margaret. Be sensible. Mr. De Jarnette wouldn't harm Philip. It is absurd to think of it." "Oh, I _am_ afraid! There is no telling what he would do if he ever got hold of him. He must have some object in wanting him. And you know it is no good object." It was useless to reason with her. Her fears had placed her beyond reason. He went away, promising to see Mr. De Jarnette again. When he was gone, Margaret went to her room and sat down. Her strength seemed suddenly gone. She could not stand. Her head was dry and burning and her hands like ice. A thousand fears assailed her. A girl of twenty-one, shielded from contact with the world or a knowledge of its wickedness was poorly fitted to cope with such fears. They were unreasonable, of course, but Margaret did not know it. If she could only get away where he could never find them! or at any rate until Philip was no longer a baby. She might have courage to face it when he was a few years older--but a baby was _so_ helpless! And she looked despairingly at the little form lying there in the unconscious grace of sleep, the soft breath parting rosy lips, and the moist locks clustering in rings on the fair forehead. "Oh, Mammy Cely," she cried in desperation, "_why_ does he want my baby?" The black woman shook her head. There had been no secrecy with her about the will. Her relations with the mother and child had been too close for Margaret to have any hesitation about telling her, and her own need of comfort too urgent for her to have been prudent had she had. She must talk to somebody. So Mammy Cely knew the whole story, and was wrung between sympathy for Margaret and loyalty to "Marse Richard." "The Lord knows, Miss Margaret!" she said, shaking her head. "It beats me!" She turned away and began arranging the shades for the night, muttering below her breath as she did so, "Hit's the wolf blood! That's what it is!" "What did you say, Mammy Cely?" The old woman made no reply. "Mammy _Cely_! what did you _say_?" "Miss Margaret,--I don't want to tell you nothin' about it--maybe it ain't so anyway." "Maybe what isn't so?" Margaret's curiosity was now thoroughly aroused. "Why,--'bout the Jarnettes' havin' wolf hearts. That's what they used to say. I don't know 'm. But I reckon it's so. I thought sho' Marse Richard was gwineter 'scape it. He ain' never showed that strain befo'. But look lak it's a curse. They can't git shet of it. Hit's there. Fire can't burn it and water can't squinch it! Honey ... it was Marse Richard's daddy wha' sold my little Cass away from me." "Your baby?" cried Margaret in horror. "Sold your baby?"