Clop, clop, went the horses’ hoofs. The same sound, yet how different to my ears! The croak of frogs, the swish of the wind through the wild mulberries, the murmur of the little rill we crossed—how changed was the note in all! Deep gratitude, a solemn peace set me apart, and hallowed my thoughts. How delicious seemed the darkness, how sweet the night scents—no magnolia on the coast was sweeter!—how fresh the passing air! But as water finds its level, so, soon or late, a man’s mind returns to its ordinary course. Before we reached the house, short as was the distance, other thoughts, and one in particular, took possession of me. What face would the girl put on what had happened? How would she act? How would she bear herself to them? And to me? True, I had shielded her as far as lay in my power. I had given way to a passing impulse and had lied; partly in order that her father might not learn the full callousness of her conduct, partly because I wished to see her punished, and I felt sure that no punishment would touch her pride so sharply as the knowledge that I had been silent and had not deigned to betray her. I wanted to see her punished, but even before revenge came curiosity. How would she bear herself, whether I spoke or were silent? Would she own the truth to her father? Would she own it to Marion of whom, I suspected, she stood in greater awe? And, if she did not, how would she carry it off? How would she look me in the face, whether I spoke, or were silent? As we drew up to the house the lighted windows still shone on the night, and a troop of dogs, roused by our approach, came barking round us, after the southern fashion. But no one appeared, no one met us; doubtless the white men had ordered the negroes to keep to their quarters. Wilmer, who was the first to reach the ground, helped me to dismount. “But keep behind us a minute,” he said. “We need not give my daughter a fright.” I assented gladly, hugging myself; I was to see a comedy! I stood back, and Marion and Wilmer mounted the porch and opened the door. Cries of alarm greeted them, but these quickly gave place to exclamations of joy, to cries of “Missie! Missie, he come! Marse Wilmer come!” I pressed up to the doorway to see what was passing. Mammy Jacks was pounding at the door of an inner room—doubtless her mistress’s. The other women with the vehemence of their race were kissing the Master’s hand and even his clothes. “Steady! Steady!” Wilmer was saying, “Don’t frighten her!” And he raised his voice, “Con, it’s I!” he cried. “All is well, girl. Here’s a visitor to see you!”