As these thoughts filled his mind something of the spring and buoyancy of his earlier youth came back to him. He could hardly restrain himself from shouting out in glee as he had done in the old days when they had scampered through the woods together. With each familiar spot his enthusiasm increased. There was the brook where they fished that morning for gudgeons, when little Phil came so near falling into the water; and there was the turn of the road that led to the school-house; and the little cabin near the spring. It would not be long now before he looked into her eyes! The few friends who knew him as a grave and thoughtful man of purpose and achievement would never have recognized him could they have watched his face as he sat astride his horse, his whole body quivering with expectancy, the hope that had lain dormant so long awake once more. Now it was his turn to be glad. He had reached the hill. Another moment and he would pass the mass of evergreens to the left, and then the quaint dormer-windows and chimneys of Derwood Manor would greet him. At the bend of the road, on the very verge of the hill, he checked his horse so suddenly as almost to throw him back on his haunches. A sudden chill seized him, followed by a rush that sent the blood tingling to the roots of his hair. Then he stood up in his stirrups as if to see the better. Below, against the background of ragged trees, stood two gaunt chimneys. All about was blackened grass and half-burned timbers. Derwood Manor had been burned to the ground! Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door. For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak. "I am Mr. Gregg," he said in a choking voice, "and was here ten years ago. When did this happen?" and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face, the bridle in his hand. "In de summer time--las' August, I think." "Where's your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?" "I ain't got no mist'ess--not now. Oh, you mean de young mist'ess what used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for 'em--she b'longed to 'em." "Yes, yes," urged Gregg. "She's daid!" "My God! Not when the house was burned?" "No, she warn't here. She was down in Baltimo'--she went dar after de Jedge died. But she's daid, fo' sho', 'cause Aunt Dinah was wid her, and she tol' me." Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began passing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees shook.