His form was tall, gaunt, and bent beneath the weight of an hundred winters. His face was black, hard, shining and seamed with wrinkles as a dried prune, and framed around with snow-white hair and beard in spectral contrast to its blackness. A suit of duck, seeming almost as old and weatherworn as himself, and a tattered blanket, pinned with a thorn around his neck, and hanging in ragged folds about his figure; a black tarpaulin hat, with a red handkerchief passed over the crown and round under his chin; and shoes of undressed leather, completed his strange and picturesque attire. In his hand he carried a rugged, unhewn club, upon which he leaned in walking. On approaching the strangers, he pulled the hat and handkerchief from his head, and holding them, came on, bowing and bowing, as in deprecation of their displeasure for the fright he had unconsciously given. The maid shrank away, but the mistress went forward to meet him. “Sarvint, Mist’ess,” once more said the old man, bowing very humbly, and then standing hat in hand before the lady. “Good-evening. You are Miss Brande’s servant?” “Yes, Mist’ess.” “She has let me her house. She referred me to you for the keys. We have just arrived to take possession. Will you, therefore, be so good as to get the keys, and show us the way thither?” said the lady. Now, this event was so unexpected that it took some time to make its way into the slow and unprepared brain of the old negro. He found nothing to say or do, but only stood bowing and bowing. Lady Montressor repeated her directions. But the old man, “still far wide,” only answered by another deep obeisance, and the pointless words: “Yes, Mist’ess—’deed it are.” Lady Montressor glanced hopelessly around toward Susan, who stood peeping over her mistress’s shoulder, and whose fears had disappeared before the gentle, deprecating manners of the black. “Why, what an old jelly brain!” she exclaimed impatiently, coming forward and confronting the old man. “Yes, honey, jes’ so,” replied the latter, bowing to her, and in no degree disturbed by the rudeness of her words. “Chut! can’t you understand, you antique idiot, that my mistress has rented the house from Miss Brande, and that she wants to get into it?” asked Susan, angrily. “’Cisely so, honey. When’s Miss Barbara spected home?” asked the old creature, mildly. Susan lost the last remnant of her patience. “Look here, ancient simpleton, we are tired of standing here! Where are the keys?” she peremptorily demanded. The curtness of her tone brought the old man at last to a point. “There ain’t but one key—de front door key; I carries it about with me. ’Cisely so, Mist’ess, here it are,” he said, producing a huge, old-fashioned iron key, that might have sufficed for a prison lock. “Well, now, go on before us, and open the door,” commanded Susan.