“Oh! I know it is not! I know it is not! And I can’t hear a word they say. I only want to know—want to know——Oh! I’m so afraid! I’m so afraid, ’Phia!” gasped the child, shuddering from head to foot. “’Fraid o’ what?” “Oh! ’fraid of something happening!” panted the little girl. “You can’t help of what happens, so what’s the use o’ bein’ afeard?” At that moment the voices in the closed room arose, both speaking together in violent, clashing frenzy. “Oh, ’Phia! Let’s go in! Let’s go in and stand between them!” pleaded the child, springing up. “Who?—me? No, I thank you, honey! I’m spunky enough, but I ain’t gwine to part a wolf from a wildcat, dere!” “Then I will! I will!” cried the brave child, running and flinging herself against the closed door; but it was locked fast, and resisted all her efforts, while the angry voices within clashed together in rage. Suddenly one voice arose above the other, with the roar of an infuriated wild beast. It was her uncle’s voice. It cried: “DIE, then! and end it all!” There was a heavy fall and groan. With a shriek of horror Gloria arose and fled to the negro woman and buried her face in her bosom. The next instant the door was suddenly unlocked and thrown open, and Marcellus de Crespigney—his face haggard, his eyes starting, his hair bristling—ran out, tore open the hall door and rushed from the house out into the winter night. “I must go see what’s happened,” hastily muttered the black woman, in a voice full of awe, as she put the child off her knee and went toward the sitting-room. Gloria, tottering, moaning, sobbing piteously, followed. The long room was silent and almost dark, for the candles had not been called for, and there was no light except from the smouldering logs of the fire in the open chimney. Fallen on a rug before this fire, lay a white form. Sophia stooped to look at it, and instantly started up in horror, crying out: “Lord have mercy upon us! He has killed her! Marster has murdered mist’ess!” HE HAD! There in a little pool of her own blood, lay the small, white face of Eusebie, with its eyes wide open and glazed. She was quite dead. CHAPTER V REMORSE And well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, deep, compassionate remorse. SHAKESPEARE. Filled with horror, that subdued all outward show of emotion, the old black woman lifted the light form of her mistress and bore it across the room to the lounge. Overcome with grief and terror, the child followed her, shaking as with a hard ague fit. ’Phia laid the fast-stiffening body down on the couch and straightened the limbs, and drew the white dress down to the small, rigid feet. Little Gloria stood by, clasping the woman’s skirts, and crying and sobbing as if her heart would burst.