The people were leaving the dining room. Captain Masterson, who had time for but a brief call, was walking along the veranda in low converse with the Judge. Judithe had separated herself from the rest and walked through the sitting room into the library, when she halted, surprised at those two facing each other with the air of arrested combat or argument. She recovered her usual manner enough to glance at the clock, and as her eyes crossed Margeret's face she saw traces of tears there. "It is time, almost, for the mail up from Pocotaligo today, is it not, Pluto?" she said, moving towards a book-case. Receiving no reply, she stopped and looked at him, at which he recovered himself enough to mutter, "Yes, mist'ess," and turned towards the door, his trembling tones and the half-groping movement as he put his hand out before him showed he was laboring under some emotion too intense for concealment, and involuntarily she made a gesture of command. "Wait! You have grief--some sad misfortune?" and she glanced from his face to that of Margeret, questioningly. "Poor fellow--is it a death?" "No death, and nothing to trouble a white lady with," he said, without turning, and with hopeless bitterness in his voice; "not fit to be told 'long side o' white folks merry-maken', only--only Rosa, my boy's mother, died yeah ago ovah on Larue plantation, an' now the chile hisself--my Rosa's baby--gwine to be sold away--gwine to be sold to the traders!" His voice broke in a sob; all the bitterness was drowned in the wave of grief under which his shoulders heaved, and his broken breaths made the only sound in the room, as Judithe turned questioningly to Margeret, who bent her head in confirmation of his statement. "But," and the questioner looked a trifle bewildered, "a little child, that would not mean a great expense, surely if your mistress, or your master, knew, they would help you." Margeret shook her head, and Pluto spoke more calmly. "Not likely; this war done crippled all the folks in money; that why Mahs Jean Larue sell out an' go ovah in Mexico; that why Loren'wood up fo' sale to strangers; that why Judge Clarkson done sell out his share in cotton plantation up the river; ain't _nobody_ got hundreds these days, an' lawyers won't take promises. I done paid eighteen dollars on Rosa when she died, but I ain't got no writin'," he went on, miserably, "that was to go on Zekal, an' I have 'nigh onto nine dollars 'sides that. I gwine take it ovah to Mahs Larue nex' week, sure, an' now--an'--now--" His words were smothered in a sigh; what use were words, any way? Judithe felt that Margeret's eyes were on her face as she listened--wistful, questioning eyes! Would the words be of no use? "The Jean Larue estate," she said, meditatively, seating herself at the table and picking up a pen, "and your wife was named Rosa?"