"'I can't get out--I can't get out!' cried the starling," which isn't in any prayer book of course, save the prayer book of a woman's imprisoned heart. She was in the kitchen garden one morning just beside the gatehouse showing Bele for the thousandth time how to trench the peas without burying them, when a crumpled old man in a rough cap with a basket under his arm, limped through the gate. "I want to see Major Trenton--" he said firmly. Felicia turned. No one ever came to see the Major any more. Not even Certain Legal Matters since the time of the Major's fall. Felicia had signed many papers at his last visit some three years before and since then no one had bothered the Major. "You'll have to see me," answered Felicia, coolly, "Bele, not--so-- deep! You're smothering them--what is your business?" The man took off his cap, he put down his basket and knelt to open it and out popped the littlest, drollest fluff of a spaniel that ever frisked. "Oh, oh!" cried Felicia softly and dropped to her knees. "Oh, oh, it's a little Babiche! Oh Zeb! Zeb! To think I didn't see who you were--" And they walked across the paved door-yard with the tears in their eyes and Felicia took him in to Margot and brought him soup and fed the wee doggie and fluttered about like a wild young thing instead of a sedate person of twenty-seven. "I want to ask you a thousand million things! I want to ask Marthy a thousand million things--" Zeb closed his eyes and shook his head. Felicia patted his shoulder. "Has she gone away, like Maman?" she asked softly. "I know how hard it is when folks go away, Zeb." "But that's not the matter o' my comin'--" Zeb pushed his bowl away and stood respectfully, "That matter o' my comin' was as I must see the Major. On your going away, Miss Felicia, he promised me rent free for my lifetime and he gave me all the breedin' stock they was and left me the business for what I could make, so's to speak. Which isn't what it were, with new-fangled big dogs getting in style now. And with Marthy gone and all. But now with Mr. Burrel skipped out like he did, things is awful--just awful--and It seemed like I'd got to tell the Major--" Margot pulled out a chair for Felicia. "Sit down, Cherie," she murmured, "Margot will get it out--have you seen Mr. Burrel?" she questioned eagerly, "We've no sign of him this long time--" "He's skipped out--" repeated Zeb dully, "Things is awful--Come last Thursday they pasted 'Auction, April 10 for Unpaid Taxes' over everything. So's when I was packing my things I come on some writing Miss Octavia left Marthy. As to how to get here, and I come." He was weary and spent with his journey; he was stupider than ever, poor old Zeb. Not even the round faced doctor, whom Margot and Felicia called for advice, could learn anything more from his disconnected story, save that there were "heathen, dirty filthy heathen" living in the old house. Felicia cuddled the new Babiche thoughtfully.