“See dat now! I mus’ go back ter ole mist’ess. I s’eeps in her yoom ebery night, to take care ob her. I does fo’ her all day, too, dough I keeps on dis ole cabin to keep my fings in; an’ young marse, I kin mak’ yo’ mons’ous comfo’ble in de oder yoom, w’ere ole mist’ess used to s’eep, ef yo’ doane min’ s’eepin’ yere ter-night. De ruff doane let in no water, eben if de rain come, dough it is men’ed moughty rough.” “I shall sleep here, if you please, so long as I stay in the neighborhood.” “All yight, young marse. I’ll do de bes’ I kin fo’ yo’.” Martha went into the other room, made the bed, laid out towels, and filled the pitcher with fresh water. Then she returned, and said: “Now, young marse, yo’ll be comfo’ble fo’ de night, an’ airly ter-morrer mornin’, fo’ ole mist’ess wake up. I’ll yun down yere an’ git yo’ breakfas’ yeddy. Good-night, young marse.” “Good-night. But how will you get into the house without disturbing the family?” “Oh, I got de key ob de ole mist’ess’s yoom, wot open on de piazza. I allers comes in an’ out ob dat do’, an’ not de one wot opens on to de parlor. Good-night, sah.” When Martha had left the cabin Harcourt started up and followed her. “Wot de matter, young marse?” she inquired, turning back when she heard him. “Do not tell your mistress that I have returned. Wait until I go to the house.” “Course I won’t, young marse. It would mak’ her too res’less ’til she seed yo’,” answered Martha, and she turned again and hurried up the hill. Harcourt stood looking around him on the night scene, and meditating on all that he had heard. The March wind was still blowing, driving ragged black clouds across the expanse of sky above, and swaying the pine trees on the top of the hills around. Was he glad or sorry that his mother was an honored guest at Lone Lodge, humored in the delusion that repossessed her of all her lost treasures of husband and children, home and wealth, and made her completely happy? He found it impossible to answer that question until he should have seen and talked with Dorothy Harcourt. But of one other circumstance he was deeply glad and grateful—that Roma was free! Come what might to himself now, Roma was free! He wondered whether Martha or any of the people at Lone Lodge or at Logwood knew anything about the motive of his mother’s sudden journey to Washington city, when she went to attend his hasty marriage, or whether any of them knew anything about the ceremony that had been performed at the little church at the dawn of day, or even anything about his engagement to Roma Fronde. He had been anxious to ascertain, but could not, even indirectly, ask the question; for if Martha knew nothing about the circumstances such inquiry would start speculation, if it did not give information.