“All well as can be ’spected—Marse Mark! Ah, chile! things is changed since you was here—‘deed dey is, honey. Tree year han’ runnin’ ole marse crap fail—‘fore my blessed Hebbenly Master, dey did, honey—tree year han’ runnin’. ‘Deed, den, when we-dem had fuss-rate crap, come de tornado, an’ ruin eberyting; and nothin’ eber been fix up right since. An’ ‘pears like nothin’ eber gone right since. Den ole marse he went to speculatin’, and loss heap o’ money—leastways so dey do say. Den arter a bit come de sheriff, executionizin’ down on top o’ we-dem poor coloured people, as hadden nothin’ ‘tal to do wid it—an’ carries away all de best of us—all my poor dear gals an’ boys, as I hoped to spen’ my ole days wid, an’ good many oders. And since dat, seem like we-dem aint had no heart to tend to nothin’—a-pinin’ arter our poor children—it kinder takes all the strength out’n us.” With a deep sigh, Mark Sutherland turned from the poor old man, and went up the stone steps that led to the Rose Terrace, that was also a neglected wilderness—but a wilderness of roses, and therefore still beautiful. Unannounced, he went up into the piazza; and before he could retreat, in an instant he saw and heard the following:—A man—or perhaps I should be expected to say, a gentleman—of very bloated and slothful appearance, was lazily reclining upon a bench, with his feet on the top of the balustrades, and with his right arm around the waist of a pretty, frightened quadroon girl, who seemed from the fan she still held, to have been engaged in keeping the flies off from him while he slept. She was now gently and fearfully struggling to free herself from his clasp, and saying, in hushed, frightened tones— “O! if you please, sir, don’t! Consider. Indeed it isn’t right. What would my dear mistress say?” “Mistress! my pretty Oriole! I wish she may say anything! Let her! You _shall_ kiss me!” “O master! O sir!” At this moment Mark Sutherland had entered, advanced, and bowed very coldly, saying—“Mr. St. Gerald Ashley, if I remember right?” The ruin of St. Gerald Ashley arose to his feet, and answered, with something of his former ease and self-possession, “Yes, sir. Mr. Sutherland, you are welcome to Cashmere again. Walk in; or would you prefer to sit down in the cool air here for a few moments? The house is very warm. Girl, go and let you mistress know that Mr. Sutherland has arrived.” He added this command in a tone of authority, in strong contrast of his tone of wooing of a moment since. Oriole, with her eyes filled with tears, and her face dyed with blushes, went gladly to obey. Mr. Ashley then conducted his guest into the house. In a few minutes Oriole returned. Her mistress was too indisposed to appear; Mr. Sutherland would please to excuse her. Within half an hour a servant, summoned for the purpose, showed Mr. Sutherland to his room, and supplied him with articles necessary to the bath and toilet.