“Not gone yet, dear,” she said, with a bright smile. “Just going, mother.” “Well the carriage is below, and here is little Charles come to say that Mrs. Roux is rather poorly. And he says, dear, which I hope is not true, that some of those dreadful men are in town.” Muriel’s face grew grave, and she flew to the door. “Charles!” she called. “Come up-stairs, Charles.” “Yes, Miss Eas’man. Comin’ right up, Miss Eas’man,” chirruped a shrill, smart voice, from below, followed by the softened bounce of feet on the carpeted flight, coming up two stairs at a time. “What is it?” asked the wondering Emily. “The kidnappers,” returned Muriel. “Come in, Charles.” A most astonishing fat negro boy entered, cap in hand, ducking and bowing, with a scrape of his foot, and showing a saucy row of splendid white teeth in the droll grin which expanded his big mouth and nostrils; his great eyes meanwhile revolving rapidly around the library, and momently vanishing in their whites with a facility curious to behold. His face, surmounted by a mass of ashen-colored wool, parted on one side into two great shocks, was exactly the shape of a huge d’Angouleme pear, the great blobber cheeks making the forehead, which was respectably large, seem small. His complexion was a clean, warm, dark grey. He was not tall for his age, which was about ten years, but he was broad. Breadth was the characteristic of his figure. His short arms were broad; his short legs were broad; his body was broad; and he broadened his face at present with a grin. He had big feet, clad in battered old shoes; and big hands, which just now played with his cap. He wore a grey jacket thrown back from his fat chest, which was covered with a blue and white small-striped shirt; and his legs were incased in grey trowsers. Grey, in fact, was the prevailing color of him all over. The face was intelligent, and full of precocity, assurance, and supreme self-importance, with what people call a little-old-man-look pervading it all, though this was only seen when he was in his grave moods, and now was not visible. “What is it, Charles?” anxiously asked Muriel. “Please, Miss Eas’man,” he began, suddenly stopping his grin, and looking preternaturally demure, with a portentous roll of his saucer eyes, “please, Miss Eas’man, I jus’ run up here like a bob-tail nag for to say—to wit, that Brudder Baby is fus’ rate; so is Josey; so is Tom; so is I; so is father; and mar isn’t not nearly so well, an’ she feels right bad lest father should be took off, an’ them kidnappers is in town, an’ we’ll all be took off, jus’ so sure’s my name’s Tugmutton, Miss Eas’man—yes, Miss Eas’man, there aint no sort of a chance for us anyway, jus’ so sure as you’re born.”