And upon my soul, she looked diabolical enough to live forever, and walk over all of our graves. I began to speak, but she waved her hand imperiously. "I have had enough of this. The old carter and his sons have prowled, jackal-like, at my gate for years, waiting to prey on my dead body. If they are needy, let them work. I thought better of your instincts than to suppose you would hear the country gossip, and, worse still, regale my ears with it." "I spoke simply in the cause of humanity. If the country people judge your conduct as I do, Madam, they are more just than I hoped." She was silent a moment; but I think in her secret soul she liked the coarse, rough blow. "The matter is an old story to me," tapping her box impatiently. "I find it wearisome. For this ring to which you allude, have you remarked it? It is a Nubian antique,--rare, I fancy." And so on, and on, sketching the history of the rings she wore, with a curious felicity in throwing an interest about trifles. I dined with her that day for the first time: a meagre repast, served on the family plate. But her wines were exquisite, and dealt with an unsparing hand. I left her that evening, as I supposed forever,--looking back at the bent figure in the massive doorway, and thinking her the loneliest human being I had ever seen. One of her morbid fancies was to intensify that very solitude,--the negro-quarters being at some distance from the house, and after she was undressed at night everything living was banished thence out of her sight. Out of that long life she had not brought the love of even a dog to bear her company in the last hour. When I parted with Matthew Steadman, I said nothing to him of what I had tried to do. I saw his eye grew brighter, and he laughed and joked as at first. "I told you I had a plan, and I find it will answer." "Well, Matt?" "Joe Carver is an old friend of ours,--Captain of the Belle Louise, you know, runnin' to Orleans. He begun by pilotin', an' has gone up as they do on these boats. He'll take me on as fireman, and for pay give mother her passage down. Once there, I'll turn an honest penny." "By carpentering?" "Yes, I find one always clears the ground faster by keepin' in the same road. Abe won't go with us. He thinks luck's comin' soon, and he'll wait for it. That Luck has been a ghost in the house. I for one will breathe freer to be clear of it." "And Jane?" His face showed that I had touched a sore chord. "Jane will go out as seamstress somewhere. If ever the good day dawns, I'll come back for her. But my first care is mother." I left them the next day, with a real reluctance. I had few friends, and these boys had come near to me in many ways. But years passed, and I never heard from them again. Mails were uncertain in those days. I wrote often, but they never received my letters.