It was the voice of an aged negro; and the simultaneous slight creaking of a small hub and axle seemed to indicate that he was pushing or pulling a child's wagon or perambulator up and down the walk from the kitchen door to the stable. Whiles, he proffered soothing music: over and over he repeated the chant, though with variations; encountering in turn his brother, his daughter, each of his parents, his uncle, his cousin, and his second-cousin, one after the other ascending the same slope with the same perilous leisure. “Lay still, honey.” He interrupted his injunctions to the second-cousin. “Des keep on a-nappin' an' a-breavin' de f'esh air. Dass wha's go' mek you good an' well agin.” Then there spoke the strangest voice that ever fell upon my ear; it was not like a child's, neither was it like a very old person's voice; it might have been a grasshopper's, it was so thin and little, and made of such tiny wavers and quavers and creakings. “I--want--” said this elfin voice, “I--want--Bill--Hammersley!” The shabby phaeton which had passed my cousin's house was drawing up to the curb near Beasley's gate. Evidently the old negro saw it. “Hi dar!” he exclaimed. “Look at dat! Hain' Bill a comin' yonnah des edzacly on de dot an' to de vey spot an' instink when you 'quiah fo' 'im, honey? Dar come Mist' Dave, right on de minute, an' you kin bet yo' las hunnud dollahs he got dat Bill Hammersley wif 'im! Come along, honey-chile! Ah's go' to pull you 'roun in de side yod fo' to meet 'em.” The small wagon creaked away, the chant resuming as it went. Mr. Dowden jumped out of the phaeton with a wave of his hand to the driver, Beasley himself, who clucked to the horse and drove through his open carriage-gates and down the drive on the other side of the house, where he was lost to my view. Dowden, entering our own gate, nodded in a friendly fashion to me, and I advanced to meet him. “Some day I want to take you over next door,” he said, cordially, as I came up. “You ought to know Beasley, especially as I hear you're doing some political reporting. Dave Beasley's going to be the next governor of this state, you know.” He laughed, offered me a cigar, and we sat down together on the front steps. “From all I hear,” I rejoined, “YOU ought to know who'll get it.” (It was said in town that Dowden would “come pretty near having the nomination in his pocket.”) “I expect you thought I shifted the subject pretty briskly the other day?” He glanced at me quizzically from under the brim of his black felt hat. “I meant to tell you about that, but the opportunity didn't occur. You see--” “I understand,” I interrupted. “I've heard the story. You thought it might be embarrassing to Miss Apperthwaite.”