“Dere, I didn’t fink as I was gwine to ’ave so bad as dis. I didn’, fo’ a fac’. It ain’t no use, I know, but I can’t help ob it, young marse. I can’t, indeed,” she said. “I know it, poor soul. Don’t try to tell me any more to-night,” said Harcourt. “Oh, but I mus’. Young marse, it were de ole madam wat was moanin’. My po’ ole man—bress his heart!—were pas’ all dat. He were layin’ dere, peaceable as a sleepin’ baby. I heaved a prayer up to de Lord, an’ den I jus’ kiss my po’ ole man, I did, an’ den I took hol’ ob de mist’ess’ han’, I did, an’ she a-moanin’ low, an’ lif’ her up an’ sipport her wiv bofe arms, an’ lead her out inter her own yoom, an’ set her down in her own cha’, an’ she a-moanin’ an’ a-moanin’. I couldn’ speak, young marse; not den I couldn’.” “I can well believe it,” said Harcourt. “No, I couldn’t say nuffin. I could on’y keep on heavin’ prayers out’n my heart up to de Lord. But de ole madam, she speak fus’. I doane b’liebe she knowed as my po’ ole man was gone, ’caze she said, my ole mist’ess, she said, wiv her eyes up: “‘Oh, de disg’ace, Marfar! Oh, de disg’ace as has fall on me in my ole age. I’s bore sorrow an’ poverty an’ bereabement wivout murmurin’, but dis is wuss dan all de res’. Oh, de disg’ace! disg’ace!’” Harcourt turned very pale. What was this that his mother had heard from her dying servant? Was it—could it be that the old man had become acquainted with the secret of the Isle of Storms? And how could this have happened except through the treachery of Hanson? “What,” he faltered, “what was this secret Moses told my mother that caused her such anguish?” “She nebber tole me, young marse, an’ I had too much ’spec’ fo’ her to ax questions.” Harcourt wrung his hands together as they lay on his knees, and set his teeth to keep down, if possible, all utterance of the agony that tortured his heart. The next words of the woman reassured him: “No, she nebber give no word, de ole mist’ess didn’t, ob what de trubble yeally was. But she kept on sayin’: “‘Oh, de disg’ace! de disg’ace! Wot will my son say if he year ob it? Wot will my high-speeryitted, hono’ble Will say to dis dishonor as has fall on us? Wot will he say? Oh, I hope he will nebber, nebber year ob it!’” “So,” thought Harcourt, with a sigh of relief, “it is not the secret of the Crest House suicide that has been told my mother. But what can it be? What disgrace, in heaven’s name, could have come to us?” “So she kep’ on moanin’ an’ moanin’, ’til at las’ she seem to take frought, an’ she say, my ole mist’ess say: “‘Po’ ole Moses, he meant well; he did it all fo’ me! Go to him, Marfar, an’ tell him dat I freely fo’gibs him, for I do.’