The voice, and the unmistakable African dialect, reassured the pair, whose only dread was the police; and to barricade their doors against chance visitors was no part of the Francoise policy. Mamma glided toward the pallet where lay her returned Prodigal, and bent above him. His face was turned outward toward the door, and putting two strong hands beneath his shoulders, she applied her strength to the task of rolling him over, drew a ragged blanket well up about him, and left him lying thus, his face to the wall and completely hidden from whoever might enter. Then she went boldly to the door, and opening it wide, stood face to face with a tall African, black as ebony, and wearing a fine suit of broadcloth, poorly concealed underneath a shabby outer garment. He bowed to Mamma as obsequiously as if she were a duchess, and this garret her drawing-room, and stepping inside, closed the door behind him. "You will excuse me," he said, politely, "but my business is private, and some one might come up the stairs." "What do you want?" The incautious words were uttered by Papa Francoise, who, noting the entire absence of his negro accent, arose hastily, his face full of alarm. The African smiled blandly. "I assumed my accent in order to reassure you, sir," he said, coolly. "You might not have admitted me if you had thought me a white man, and I am sent by your patron." "By our patron!" Mamma echoed his words in skeptical surprise. "Yes; I am his servant." Papa and Mamma gazed at each other blankly and drew nearer together. "He has sent you this note," pursued the nonchalant fellow, keeping his eyes fixed upon Mamma's face while he drew from his pocket a folded paper. "And I am to take your answer." Papa took the proffered note reluctantly, glanced at the superscription, and suddenly changed his manner. "That is not directed to me," he cried, sharply. "You have made a mistake." "It is directed to Papa Francoise." Papa peered closer at the superscription. "Yes; I think that's it. It's not my name; it's not for me." "My dear sir, I know you too well. You need not fear me; I am Mr. Warburton's body servant." "Oh!" Mamma uttered the syllable sharply, then suddenly restrained herself, and coming toward the messenger with cat-like tread, she said, coaxingly: "And who may this Mr. War--war, this master of yours be?" The man looked from one to the other, and then turned his gaze upon the occupants of the two pallets. "Who are these?" he asked, briefly. Mamma's answer came very promptly. "Only two poor people we knew in another part of the city. They have been turned out by their landlord, poor things, and last night they slept in the street." A smile crossed the face of the wily African, and he turned toward Papa. "Read my master's note, if you please," he said. "It was written to _you_." Slowly Papa unfolded the note, and his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets as he read.