That afternoon Mercedes arrived. Her bag proved to be a trunk, and within an hour of her arrival, she had charmed the kitchen, made eyes at Silas, called Wright by his first name, hurt her finger--with resultant medical attention, and confided to me that she "hated men!" After which, she departed in the direction of the palm-grove with "Billy" and "Wright." I went to her room and viewed her gowns, hanging, like flowers, in her innovation steamer-trunk. After which, I went to my own room and took stock of my chiffon and satin armor. Bill came back at tea time. "Wright is reciting poetry to Mercedes on the stone bench under the orchids, and sketching her between verses," he announced, "but I crave more material food." "You might have stayed on," I suggested, passing him the sandwiches, "and made the recitation competitive." "Competitive," he remarked, choosing a ripe, red disk of tomato, flanked with thin circles of bread, and biting into it reflectively, "calls for numbers. I don't enjoy being part of a mob-scene, or a mass-meeting." "Here comes the Meistersänger," I said, as Wright came up the steps, with Mercedes unnecessarily on his arm. Selecting chairs, cups, plates and food, our guests joined us around the wicker tea-wagon. "He is not a nice young man at all," said Mercedes frankly, exhibiting a rather clever little pastel of herself, "this Wright. He says to me the most beautiful poetry, so sad and so lovely, all about unrequited love and dead girls floating in moonlit pools, and when, touched to the heart, I weep a little, he laughs and says it is wonderful how much tragedy one can turn out at fifty cents a line!" She opened ocular fire on her host as she spoke, and Bill responded nicely. "I'm sure," he said gravely, "that Wright will have plenty of happier inspiration now." And said Wright to me, under his breath, "In all justice, one must concede her a certain amount of beauty. I don't think she's going to look like her mother after all." "Whispering's rude," said Mercedes severely, "isn't it, Billy?" So the conversation became general again. At six, Bill drove over to the neighboring plantation to fetch Peterkins, who had spent the day there with the Crowell children, back to supper. When he returned, he looked rather serious. "What's up?" asked Wright idly, from the canvas verandah swing. "Nothing much," he answered, "that is, not yet. Run along to Sarah, Peter,--there's a good fellow." But I knew that something was wrong, and after the child had left us, I asked quietly, "Tell us, Bill, please!" "Crowell's been having some trouble with the natives," he answered, frowning. "It may blow over--and it may spread. They're like a lot of sheep. But I feel responsible to Reynolds, even if Silas is in charge. The people have a healthy respect for Silas, and they trust him,--but--" "What sort of trouble?" asked Wright, practically.