Uncouth words poured forth rapidly in a weak, broken voice, with sobs and tears; but words that blanched the gold and roses of the face that bent with swimming eyes over the bowed and weeping figure on the floor. In the cold, succeeding silence, there was no sound but the dim sobs of Roux. The Captain stood with his features screwed into a hard rigor, gazing at the abject form beneath him. Harrington’s face was wan and rigid, and fixed on vacancy. The two little ones, frightened and almost crying, clung around the stupefied and staring Tugmutton, who sat holding the baby, with the big whites of his eyes glaring at Roux from the ashy pallor of his fat visage. “Mr. Roux.” At the gentle, silver tones of Muriel, at the firm touch of her hand on his shoulder, the negro lifted up his bowed head from his breast, and gazed with a haggard, beseeching face, all wet with tears, at the benignant countenance that bent above him. For an instant only, and then rising to his feet, ashamed of his emotion, yet unable to repress it wholly, the poor fellow stood awkwardly wiping away his tears with his rough sleeve, with his breast heaving, and the stertorous sobs still breaking from him. “It will all be well,” said Muriel, gently. “Do not grieve, Mr. Roux.” “Yes, Miss Eas’man, I wont; indeed I wont grieve. But sometimes I git desperate, Miss Eas’man,” he faltered. “’Pears sometimes as if everybody was against us colored folks, Miss Eas’man.” “Cheer up, Roux, we are all your friends here.” It was the strong, sweet baritone of Harrington that sounded now. Roux looked up, smiling mournfully, into the masculine, calm features, which strangely comforted him. “Yes, Roux, cheer up’s the word. ’Tan’t always goin’ to be slavery and slaveholders in this free and happy country, mind that, my man.” Thus the Captain, shaking a fore-finger at the negro, and then cheerfully punching him in the ribs with it. “An’ if I catch any kidnappers round this establishment, I’ll heave a brick at him,” screeched Tugmutton, in a rage, glaring with rolling eyes at everybody over the baby. Emily, who had risen, and stood wiping her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, burst into laughter, in which Muriel and Harrington joined. Tugmutton looked awfully irate for an instant, and then grinned sheepishly. “Come, come,” said Muriel, “we must be going. Where’s the basket? Oh, there it is on the floor. Mr. Roux,” she continued, stooping down to it, and unpacking, “I won’t go in again to your wife—by the way, I hope our talk has not disturbed her—but here are some baby-clothes which I wore myself when I was a baby—old things which I found yesterday, but they’ll do for the little boy. And here’s some nice beef and a pie, which my mother had cooked expressly for your dinner to-day. And here’s my copy of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ which you told me you hadn’t read. When you and your wife are done with it, Tugmutton, as you call him, can bring it up to the house, with the plates and napkins.”