A light pull at the bell-rope brought to the library the body-servant of the late planter. This "boy," who was known by the name of _Hatchie_, was a mulatto. He was about forty years of age, and, having never been reduced to labor in the cane-fields, bore his age remarkably well. He was about six feet in height, very stout built, and was endowed with immense physical strength. His brow was a little wrinkled, and his head was a little bald upon the top,--and these were the only evidences of his years. His expression was that of great intelligence. In his countenance there was a kind of humility, to which his demeanor corresponded, that might have resulted from his condition, or have been inherent in his nature. He was a man who, even in a land of slavery, would be instinctively respected. He had been a great favorite with his late master, in whose family he had spent the greater part of his life. By being constantly in attendance upon him and his guests, he had acquired a much greater amount of information than is often found in those of his condition. He could read and write, and by his intelligence and singular fidelity had proved a valuable addition to his master's household. Possessing his confidence, and regarded more as a friend than a slave by Emily, he was a privileged person in the house,--a confidence which in no instance did he abuse, and which in no degree abated his affection or his fidelity. Hatchie was not a phrenologist, but he had long ago acquired a perfect knowledge of Jaspar's character,--a knowledge which his master or Emily had never obtained. Hatchie considered Emily, now that her father was dead, as his own especial charge, and he watched over her, in the disparity of their stations, very much as a faithful dog watches over a child intrusted to its keeping. Towards her he entertained a sentiment of the profoundest respect as his mistress, and of parental affection as one who had grown up under his eye. "Hatchie," said Jaspar, as the mulatto entered the library, "are the hands all in?" "Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, whose penetrating mind detected the tremulous quiver of Jaspar's lip; "all in two hours ago, according to regulations." "All right, then. You can go to bed now." "Yes, sir," replied Hatchie, with his customary obeisance, as he turned to depart. "Stay a moment. Go to Miss Emily, and get the keys of the secretary," said Jaspar, with assumed carelessness. Hatchie obeyed; and, suspecting something before, he was confirmed in the opinion now, and determined to watch. His suspicions of something--he knew not what--had been excited by seeing Maxwell in earnest consultation with Jaspar on the day of the funeral. He had, of course, no idea of the plots of the latter; but, in common with all the "boys," he hated Jaspar, and was willing to know more of his transactions. Giving the keys to Jaspar, he left the room, and heard the creaking of the bolt which fastened the door.