“Yere, ole ’oman! Yere’s a stranger come to see us! Young Marse William Harkurt, wot used to be clerkin’ yere long o’ dat po’ w’ite trash, Tom Todd—Tom Todd! He were a proper fellah fo’ a young g’eman to be clerkin’ long o’, or fo’ ’spectable colored people to be sarvin’, he were! But, Lor’s! de worl’s turn upside down, it is!” Meanwhile, Wilet had risen from her seat, put down her pipe, and was courtesying to the visitor. “Now, yo’ take dis cha’, yite ’fo’ de fire, young ge’man. Sorry we ain’t got no fire in de pa’lor fo’ yo’,” she said, drawing up the one comfortable seat of the room, a flag-bottomed rocker with a patchwork cushion. “Thank you. This will do very well,” said Harcourt, taking his seat, and then adding: “Now, sit down, both of you, for I wish to have a talk with you; and take your pipes. I don’t object to smoke.” “Wouldn’t yo’ condorcent to take a pipe yo’se’f, sah? Ise got a new clay one, an’ some prime bakker,” said ’Rusalem politely. “Thank you, no. I never smoke, though I do not dislike it.” “Well, den, young marse, it’s a cole night, an’ so I’ll jes’ hang my kettle ober de fire, and pit some apples down to yoast on de haff, an’ ’Rusalem will get out his jug o’ w’isky—it’s prime, an’ none o’ p’ison, like Tom Todd used to sarve out to his cursemores—Tom Todd! We knows dis is prime, caze we gits it yight f’om de ’stillery, an’ it ’quainted wid de ’stillerers. An’ I’ll make yo’ de lubblies’ bowl o’ apple toddy, wid sugar an’ spices, an’ ebberyfin’ ’cordin’, like I use’ to brew fo’ ole Marse Henry Guyon an’ de gemmen, o’ winter nights; an’ ebbery single gemman drink my apple toddy, an’ praise it to de skies. Yes, sah. An’ now I gwine to make some fo’ yo’.” “No! no! I thank you very much, but I never drink anything of the sort. I wish to speak to you about the young couple who came here to spend their honeymoon,” said Harcourt. “Honeymoon!” echoed Wilet. “Honeymoon! Whew! Whip yo’ hosses!—pepper-winegarmoon! witriolmoon!—fire-an’-brimstonemoon!” exclaimed Wilet. “I heard in Snowden that they had parted,” said Harcourt. “Look here, young ge’man,” said Wilet, “I ’members yo’ come down in de boat ’long ob dem, but didn’t come in, nor likewise eben speak to nobody. Yo’ went yight back to de boat. But ef yo’ had come in an’ stayed yere—oh! I tells yo’ yo’d ’a’ seem a circus!” “Tell me all about it.” “Well, seein’ as yo’ seems to be an intermit frien’ ob de parties, I doane care ef I do,” said Wilet, and she began, and told Harcourt the whole story of Roma’s two days’ ordeal while a captive on the Isle of Storms. She told him more than she had told the landlord of the Snowden Hotel, whom she did not recognize as a friend of the family. She told him how it was that Roma, captive, guarded, had yet managed to communicate with her friends. For Wilet, either by accident or eavesdropping, had overheard the story of the carrier pigeon, as discussed by Roma and Mr. and Mrs. Gray on the morning of her departure from the island.