“It is I, Martha! Open the door and let me in! How is mother?” called Harcourt impatiently. Open flew the door, disclosing Martha’s tall figure and astonished face. Before she could speak, Harcourt repeated his question: “How—how is my mother?” “She—she’s well—dat is, toler’ble well. The Lord a-messy upon me, young marse! Who’d ’a’ ’spected to see you yere to-night? Come in, honey. Come in an’ warm yo’se’f,” said the woman, standing aside to let him pass. “Thank heaven, she is well! Has she retired?” inquired the young man as he entered the kitchen and threw himself into the only chair, which Martha had hastily set by the little fire of pine knots. “Yes, sah, de ole madam is ’tire.” “Is she asleep, do you think?” “Oh, yes, young marse—soun’.” “Then I can go in and look at her without disturbing her,” said the young man, rising to pass into the other room. “No, yo’ can’t, young marse! No, yo’ can’t, indeed, sah! Set down an’ rest yo’se’f!” exclaimed the woman. Harcourt dropped into his seat. A new fear seized him. “What do you mean?” he demanded. “You say that she is well, you say that she is sound asleep! Do you mean—do you mean——” “I mean yight wot I say, nuffin besides. De ole madam is asleep in her comfortable bed, but it ain’t in dis mis’ble log house; it’s in de big house wot used to was her berry own,” Martha explained, in breathless haste. Harcourt threw himself back on his chair with a sigh of relief, and then said: “I don’t understand you. You mean to say that your mistress is staying at Lone Lodge?” “Dat’s wot I mean to say, young marse.” “But still I don’t understand, how she should be there.” “I know yo’ don’t, young marse; but now ef yer let me get yer some water to wash dat dere brack ingyne smut often yo’ face, an’ make yo’se’f comfor’able w’ile I hangs on a kittle an’ get yo’ some supper, den I’ll tell yo’ all about it,” said Martha. And she got up and filled two large pitchers, one with hot water from a pot that stood on the hearth, and one with cold water from a pail on the shelf, and took both into the adjoining room, which had once been her mistress’. Harcourt not unwillingly followed her, deferring his interest until after he had finished his simple toilet. “I’s got a heap to tell yo’, young marse, an’ dat’s de trufe; but I kin tell it to yo’ w’ile yo’ eatin’ yo’ supper,” said Martha, as she laid some clean, coarse towels on the rough washtable. “Now I’s gwine to hurry up dat supper,” she added, as she left the room. I don’t know how it is, but the negroes of Maryland and Virginia, no matter how poor they may be in all other respects, always, or nearly always, contrive to have “something good to eat in the house.” When Harcourt had thoroughly washed and combed himself, and changed all his clothes from the resources of his carpetbag, he went into the kitchen, to find a substantial supper laid on the neat table, and a pot of fragrant tea steaming on the hearth.