As Rhody passed through the back gate, she chanced to glance toward Pulaski Tomlin's house, and saw a light shining from the library window. "Ah-yi!" she exclaimed, "he's dar, an' dey ain't no better place fer 'im. Dey's mo' home fer 'im right dar den dey yever wus er yever will be whar he live at." So saying, she turned her steps in the direction of Neighbour Tomlin's. In the kitchen, she asked if Paul was in the house. The cook didn't know, but when the house-girl came out, she said that Mr. Paul was there, and had been for some time. "Deyer holdin' a reg'lar expeunce meetin' in dar," she said. "Miss Fanny sho is a plum sight!" The house-girl went in again to say that Rhody would like to speak with him, and Rhody, as was her custom, followed at her heels. "Come in, Rhody," said Miss Fanny. "I know you are there. You always send a message, and then go along with it to see if it is delivered correctly. 'Twould save a great deal of trouble if the rest of us were to adopt your plan." "I hope you all is well," remarked Rhody, as she made her appearance. "I declar', Miss Fanny, you look good enough to eat." "Well, I do eat," responded Miss Fanny, teasingly. "I mean you look good enough ter be etted," said Rhody, correcting herself. "Now, that is what I call a nice compliment," Miss Fanny observed complacently. "Brother Pulaski, if I am ever 'etted' you won't have to raise a monument to my memory." "No wonder you look young," laughed Rhody. "Anybody what kin git fun out'n a graveyard is bleeze ter look young." Paul was lying on the wide lounge that was one of the features of the library. His eyes were closed, and his Aunt Fanny was gently stroking his hair. Pulaski Tomlin leaned back in an easy chair, lazily enjoying a cigar, the delicate flavour of which filled the room. There was something serene and restful in the group, in the furniture, in all the accessories and surroundings. The negro woman turned around and looked at everything in the room, as if trying to discover what produced the effect of perfect repose. It is the rule that everything beautiful and precious in this world should have mystery attached to it. There is the enduring mystery of art, the mystery that endows plain flesh and blood with genius. A little child draws you by its beauty; there is mystery unfathomable in its eyes. You enter a home, no matter how fine, no matter how humble; it may be built of logs, and its furnishings may be of the poorest; but if it is a home, a real home, you will know it unmistakably the moment you step across the threshold. Some subtle essence, as mysterious as thought itself, will find its way to your mind and enlighten your instinct. You will know, however fine the dwelling, whether the spirit of home dwells there.