It was on one of these days of utter black despair, like the days that had gone before and the days that were still to come, that the same ragged negro boy on the straggly Indian pony, who once before had made his appearance at Perfection City, was seen skulking around the old land near Weddell’s Gully. He seemed to want to see without being seen. By and bye Napoleon Pompey chanced that way and of course pounced upon him with the universal query of “whar he gwine?” The boy after some hesitation made it clear that he had come on a secret mission. He wanted to find Uncle David without being seen by anyone else, especially not by the white-faced lady, Madame, of whom he stood in shivering dread. Napoleon Pompey, sympathising with the dread, volunteered to take a letter to Uncle David without fear of detection. Thereupon the darkie delivered over to him a scrap of newspaper upon which was written a scrawl with the burnt end of a stick, and having done so galloped off on his straggly pony with a whoop of delight, as one who had escaped dreadful peril. Napoleon Pompey, finding it difficult to deliver his embassy to Uncle David undetected, gave the curious missive to Ezra with intimations that it was to be put into Uncle David’s hands right away. Ezra took the scrap of paper, saying there must be some letter inside, and mechanically unfolded it, when the hoarse scream that he uttered almost made Napoleon Pompey jump through the window. “Where did you get this?” he panted. “Darkie gin it ter me jes’ while back.” “Who gave it? What was his name? Where did he live? Who sent him here?” asked Ezra in a breath. “Darkie he didn’t go for to say nuffin, on’y jes’ gin dat ar, an’ tole me ter pike to ole Uncle David wid it.” Ezra darted out of the house and ran like a mad-man to Madame’s and burst into the room where she and Uncle David were just sitting down to supper. He held out the scrap of paper to the old man and gasped: “Olive is somewhere!” “I presume that was already known, and that it can hardly be considered news,” said Madame’s cool cutting voice, which brought Ezra somewhat to his senses. “She is somewhere near. She sent a negro boy with this. Read it.” He shoved it under Uncle David’s nose. “I can’t see to read it, read it aloud, let me hear all she says in her letter,” said the old man with trembling eagerness. “It isn’t a letter. It says, ’Uncle come to Olive,’ only those four words, nothing else, and just look, scratched with a bit of burnt stick on a piece of newspaper! Oh, think of it! Where can she be? Why didn’t she write before if she was in trouble? What has happened?” “Perhaps it is a hoax,” said Madame between her drawn white lips. “There hain’t in this world a bein’ so lost to all feelin’ as would make a joke o’ our sorrow,” said Uncle David. “No, Ezra, that’s writ by our little gal. We must go to her. Come ’long, brother.” He put on his hat and started cheerfully for the door.