“Poor David! Outside of his law-books, I don't believe he's ever read anything but Robinson Crusoe and the Bible and Mark Twain. Oh, you should have heard her talk about it!--'I couldn't bear it another day,' she said, 'I couldn't STAND it! In all the time I've known him I don't believe he's ever asked me a single question--except when he asked if I'd marry him. He never says ANYTHING--never speaks at ALL!' she said. 'You don't know a blessing when you see it,' I told her. 'Blessing!' she said. 'There's nothing IN the man! He has no DEPTHS! He hasn't any more imagination than the chair he sits and sits and sits in! Half the time he answers what I say to him by nodding and saying 'um-hum,' with that same old foolish, contented smile of his. I'd have gone MAD if it had lasted any longer!' I asked her if she thought married life consisted very largely of conversations between husband and wife; and she answered that even married life ought to have some POETRY in it. 'Some romance,' she said, 'some soul! And he just comes and sits,' she said, 'and sits and sits and sits and sits! And I can't bear it any longer, and I've told him so.'” “Poor Mr. Beasley,” I said. “_I_ think, 'Poor Ann Apperthwaite!'” retorted my cousin. “I'd like to know if there's anything NICER than just to sit and sit and sit and sit with as lovely a man as that--a man who understands things, and thinks and listens and smiles--instead of everlastingly talking!” “As it happens,” I remarked, “I've heard Mr. Beasley talk.” “Why, of course he talks,” she returned, “when there's any real use in it. And he talks to children; he's THAT kind of man.” “I meant a particular instance,” I began; meaning to see if she could give me any clew to Bill Hammersley and Simpledoria, but at that moment the gate clicked under the hand of another caller. My cousin rose to greet him; and presently I took my leave without having been able to get back upon the subject of Beasley. Thus, once more baffled, I returned to Mrs. Apperthwaite's--and within the hour came into full possession of the very heart of that dark and subtle mystery which overhung the house next door and so perplexed my soul. IV Finding that I had still some leisure before me, I got a book from my room and repaired to the bench in the garden. But I did not read; I had but opened the book when my attention was arrested by sounds from the other side of the high fence--low and tremulous croonings of distinctly African derivation: “Ah met mah sistuh in a-mawnin', She 'uz a-waggin' up de hill SO slow! 'Sistuh, you mus' git a rastle in doo time, B'fo de hevumly do's cloze--iz!'”