The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon. Almost every day strangers on their way South had passed her cabin, looking for friends they would never see again--a woman for her husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the others. For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together. "And the little boy--or rather the son--he must be grown now. Philip was his name--what has become of him?" He had regained something of his old poise--his voice and manner showed it. "I ain't never yeard what 'come 'o him. Went in de army, I reck'n. Daid, I spec'--mos' ev'ybody's daid dat was here when I growed up." Adam turned his head and looked once more at the blackened ruins. What further story was yet to come from their ashes? "One more question, please. Were you here when the fire came?" "Yes, suh, me and my husban' was both here. He ain't home to-day. We was takin' care of de place when it ketched fire--dat's how we come to save dis cabin. Dere warn't no water and nobody to help, and dis was all we could do." Again Adam bowed his head. Was there nothing left?--nothing to recall even her smile? Then slowly, as if he feared the result: "Was anything saved--any furniture, or--pictures--or----" "Nothin' but dem two chairs inside dar--and dat bench what you's settin' on. Dey was on de lawn and dat's how we come to git 'em." For some minutes Adam sat looking into the ground at his feet, his eyes blurred with tears. "Thank you," was all he said. And once more he turned his horse's head towards the North. V A thin, shabby little man, with stooping shoulders, hooked nose and velvet tread, stood before the card rack in the lower corridor of the old studio building on Tenth Street. He was scanning the names, beginning at the top floor and going down to the basement. Suddenly his eyes glistened: "Second floor," he whispered to himself. "Yes, of course; I knew it all the time--second floor," and "second floor" he kept repeating as he helped his small body up the steps by means of the hand-rail. The little man earned his living by obtaining orders for portraits which he turned over to the several painters, fitting the price to their reputations, and by hunting up undoubted old masters, rare porcelains, curios and miniatures for collectors. He was reasonably honest, and his patrons followed his advice whenever it was backed by somebody they knew. He was also cunning--softly, persuasively cunning--with all the patience and philosophy of his race.