When the end of the month came, Dr. Cary summoned his hands and paid them their wages one by one, according to his contract with Thurston, checking each name, as he paid them, on a pay-roll he had prepared. Their reception of the payment varied with the spirit of the men; some being gay and facetious; others taking it with exaggerated gravity. It was the first time they had ever received stipulated wages for their services, and it was an event. The Doctor was well satisfied with the result, and went in to make the same settlement with the house-servants. The first he met was Mammy Krenda, and he handed her the amount he had agreed on with Thurston as a woman’s wages. The old woman took it quietly. This was a relief. Mrs. Cary had been opposed to his paying her anything; she had felt sure that the mammy would feel offended. “Why, she is a member of the family,” she said. “We can’t pay her wages.” The Doctor, however, deemed himself bound by his engagement with Thurston. He had said he would pay all wages, and he would do so. So when the mammy took the money with her usual curtsey, in one way the Doctor’s spirits rose, though he was conscious of a little tug at his heart, as if the old ties had somehow been loosened. He rallied, however, at the reflection that he could satisfy his wife, at last, that he knew human nature more profoundly than she did—a doctrine he had secretly cherished, but had never been entirely successful in establishing. In this satisfactory state of mind, not wishing to sever entirely the tie with the mammy, as the old woman still stood waiting, he, after a moment, said kindly and with great dignity: “Those are your wages, mammy.” “My what, sir?” The Doctor was conscious of a certain chilling of the atmosphere. He looked out of the window to avoid her gaze. “Your wages—I—ah—have determined—I—think it better from this time to—ah—.” He had no idea it was so difficult. Why had he not got Mrs. Cary to attend to this—why had he, indeed, not taken her advice? Pshaw!— He had to face the facts; so he would do it. He summoned courage and turned and looked at the old woman. She was in the act of putting the money carefully on the corner of the table by her, and if the Doctor had difficulty in meeting her gaze, she had none in looking at him. Her eyes were fastened on him like two little shining beads. They stuck him like pins. The Doctor felt as he used to feel when a young man he went to pay his addresses to his wife—he was conscious that whenever he met Krenda she was inspecting him, searching his inmost soul—looking through and through him. He had to assert himself. “You see, I promised the Federal officer at the court-house to pay everyone wages,” he began with an effort, looking at the old woman. “How much does you pay _Miss Bessie_?” “How much what?” “_Wages._” He had no idea one word could convey so much contempt. “Why, nothing—of course—” Old Krenda lifted her head. “I’m gwine ’way.” “What!”