"There!" she exclaimed. "There!" "Yes," he answered. "We can reach there in time to save ourselves. Is there any objection to our going,--in the last extremity?" For a second they looked into each other's eyes, and then she turned and sprang into the carriage. She laughed aloud. "Oh, no," she said. "Go there! It will be a nice place to stay--and the people will amuse you. Go there." They reached the house in a quarter of an hour instead of twenty minutes. They had driven fast and kept ahead of the storm, but when they drew up before the picket fence the clouds were black and the thunder was rolling behind them. It was Louisiana who got out first. She led the way up the path to the house and mounted the steps of the variegated porch. She did not knock at the door, which stood open, but, somewhat to Fermi's amazement, walked at once into the front room, which was plainly the room of state. Not to put too fine a point upon it, it was a hideous room. The ceiling was so low that Ferrol felt as if he must knock his head against it; it was papered--ceiling and all--with paper of an unwholesome yellow enlivened with large blue flowers; there was a bedstead in one corner, and the walls were ornamented with colored lithographs of moon-faced houris, with round eyes and round, red cheeks, and wearing low-necked dresses, and flowers in their bosoms, and bright yellow gold necklaces. These works of art were the first things which caught Ferrol's eye, and he went slowly up to the most remarkable, and stood before it, regarding it with mingled wonderment and awe. He turned from it after a few seconds to look at Louisiana, who stood near him, and he beheld what seemed to him a phenomenon. He had never seen her blush before as other women blush--now she was blushing, burning red from chin to brow. "There--there is no one in this part of the house," she said. "I--I know more of these people than you do. I will go and try to find some one." She was gone before he could interpose. Not that he would have interposed, perhaps. Somehow--without knowing why--he felt as if she did know more of the situation than he did--almost as if she were, in a manner, doing the honors for the time being. She crossed the passage with a quick, uneven step, and made her way, as if well used to the place, into the kitchen at the back of the house. A stout negro woman stood at a table, filling a pan with newly made biscuits. Her back was toward the door and she did not see who entered. "Aunt Cassandry," the girl began, when the woman turned toward her. "Who's dar?" she exclaimed. "Lor', honey, how ye skeert me! I aint no C'sandry." The face she turned was a strange one, and it showed no sign of recognition of her visitor. It was an odd thing that the sight of her unfamiliar face should have been a shock to Louisiana; but it was a shock. She put her hand to her side. "Where is my--where is Mr. Rogers?" she asked. "I want to see him."