As Abner gazed into the depths of those soft, gray eyes he thought so much beauty had never before been concentrated in one being. Irene's goodness of heart he had learned to know long ago. He was he thought, almost on the eve of discovering her parentage, but he determined to win her, be it high or low. "Irene," he said, "I am glad to be once more in this dear old home, to be once more with the parents I love; but the greatest happiness of all is to have you again by my side." "O Abner," she answered, lifting her earnest, tearful eyes, "do not say to me again what you said to me that last night! It breaks my heart to give you pain, but I know that you are wrong, that you have mistaken your own feelings. I have loved you so long as a sister! Oh, how terribly all things have changed! Do not you change, Abner! Be my brother still!" "Let what is broken so remain, The gods are hard to reconcile," said Abner, looking sorrowfully into the pale, pleading face. "When change has come, nothing can bring back the old order of things. But I will wait, I will promise you not to speak again of my love, until you can answer me without tears in your eyes. Now, let me see you smile, Irene, once more before I go." Irene could not sleep that night; her bed chamber was in the south wing of the house, and her window looked out upon a portion of the grounds directly shaded with trees and shrubbery. It was late when voices on the lawn below attracted her attention. The family, she knew, had been buried in sleep for hours, and it was something unusual for the slaves to select that portion of the grounds for midnight consultation. At last she arose and cautiously approached the window. The night was beautiful, the moon shone brightly, even penetrating the dark shade of the trees, beneath one of which two figures were distinctly visible. The night was very still, and, though the men were at some distance from the house, she could hear distinctly every word they spoke. The voice of one sounded familiar to Irene, and it took only a second glance to show her that it was Crazy Joe, engaged in conversation with some stranger. Crazy Joe had always made a strange impression on Irene. From her earliest recollection he had been either a resident or frequenter of the Tompkins' plantation. The poor lunatic had always shown the warmest attachment for her, and his strange wild talk, the mingling of early Scriptural and classical lessons, with ideas dwarfed by some sudden shock, had always had a strange fascination for her. All her fear instantly vanished as she recognized Crazy Joe, for she knew that no harm could ever come to any one of them through him, but her curiosity to know who was his companion and what their topic of conversation, became almost painful in its intensity.