"Our good Dickson had that paint on hand--he told me about it," explained Miss Leontine. "It was left over"--here she paused. "I don't know what you will think, but I believe it really was left over after a circus--or was it a menagerie? At any rate, the last thing that was exhibited here before the war." The vehicle in question was a long-bodied, two seated wagon, with a square box behind, which opened at the back like the box of a carrier's cart; its hue was the liveliest pea green. "Dickson had no business to give it to us; it was a damned impertinence!" said the judge, with a snort. "Don't spoil your voice, when you've got to sing to-night, grandpa," remarked Cicely. "And you will have to lead out Miss Leontine--who will sing 'Waiting.'" The judge glanced at Miss Leontine. He could not repress a grin. But tall Miss Leontine remained amiable, she had never heard of "Waiting." In any case she seldom penetrated jokes; they seemed to her insufficiently explained; often, indeed, abstruse. She was fifty-two, and very maidenly; her bearing, her voice, her expression, were all timidly virginal, as were also the tints of her attire, pale blues and lavenders, and faint green. Her face bore a strong resemblance to the face of a camel; give a camel a pink-and-white complexion, blue eyes, and light-brown hair coming down in flat bands on each side of its long face, and you have Miss Leontine. She was extraordinarily tall--she attained a stature of nearly six feet. Her step, as if conscious of this, was apologetic; her long narrow back leaned forward as though she were trying to reduce her height in front as she came towards one. She wore no crinoline; her head was decked with a large gypsy hat, from which floated a blue tissue veil. The little party of four--Eve, Cicely, the judge, and Miss Leontine--with Master Jack, had driven from Gary Hundred to Bellington; their hostess, Cousin Sarah Cray, had an old horse, and this wagon had been borrowed from Dickson, the village grainer (who had so mistakenly saved the circus paint); it would be a pleasant excursion in itself, and it would be good for Jack--which last was the principal point with them all. For the much longer excursion from Abercrombie Island to this inland South Carolina village had been taken on Jack's account; the attack of croup had left him with a harassing cough, a baby's little cough, which is so distressing to the ears of those who love him. Eve had walked about, day and night, carrying him in her arms, his languid head on her shoulder; she could not bear to see how large his eyes looked in his little white face; she did not sleep; she could scarcely speak. "We might go to Cousin Sarah Cray's for a while, away from the coast," Cicely suggested. She was always present when Eve walked restlessly to and fro; but she did not interfere, she let Eve have the child.