That he was still dissatisfied with her question, Estelle seemed to detect by some sixth sense, for she ran on suavely: "You know, I neveh lived in the country, lak you. Tha's why I axed you what I did. I reckon I don' know how sweet the country is. Moss, I wish we gwine the country to-mo'ow to live!" She flung her arms about his neck and let herself settle down upon his broad chest. Tears filled the giant's eyes. "I wish you was, honey. But I cyarn take you--juss yit. Got to wait a li'l' while--juss a li'l' while." In that moment Estelle probably meant what she said. In that moment her love for the man whose name she bore was probably uppermost in her foolish heart. In that moment her impulse toward a higher life may have carried her beyond her love of finery, and she may have been willing to give up the city and the very questionable means which it afforded for securing that finery. [Illustration: "IT WAS INTO THIS ATMOSPHERE THAT THE STUDENT TOOK HIS WAY"] II We drift along the placid stream of Time, complaining of the monotony of the voyage, when already the murmur of rapids which are to try every muscle and thrill every nerve might be heard if we but stilled our peevish notes long enough to listen. A week after the above events a party of four ladies from central Kentucky arrived one evening at the Bluegrass. The register showed them to be mother and daughters; and their gentle manners and soft voices, added to the beauty of the girls, had put the clerk on his mettle, spurring him to an exhibition of his choicest Kentucky gallantry. He had just promised them a large, cool room on the second floor, containing two beds, and, in answer to their laughing, half-ironical request that they might be shown the Congo King, he had assured them that they should be seated at that royal scion's table. "You certainly are entitled to the privilege," he added blandly, "for his real name is the same as yours." "Harper?" queried the mother of the pretty trio, with some surprise. "Yes; Moss Harper." The four ladies exchanged quick glances. "Why, our carriage-driver, long before the War, was an old negro named Moss. He had a son named Benjy, who ran away during the War. I don't want to impeach the genealogy of your King, but I wonder--" She stopped, as if recalling that her auditor was a stranger, then added, with a smile: "Anyhow, we _must_ be waited on by him, now." * * * * * Moss was aware that the ladies at his table were scanning him with more interest than even his size and legendary history usually evoked, and he was not much surprised, therefore, when the eldest of them said: "Excuse me, please, but is your real name Moss Harper?" "Yassum," he answered, halting instantly in his employment, as old Benjy had taught him to do, and dumbly waiting the lady's further pleasure. "Do you know your father's name?" "Yassum. Ole Benjy." "Is he still living?" "Yassum; livin' with me."