She was rather a handsome woman, but with a suggestion of coarseness in form and features, though her face, in spite of its too-evident signs of dissipation, was not a bad face. Seating herself on the top step, with her back against the post in an attitude of careless abandonment, she looked up at the negro who stood grinning in the doorway. “Bring me a highball, Jim: you know my kind.” Then to the company: “Somebody give me a cigarette.” Harry tossed a silver case in her lap. Another man, who sat near, leaned over her with a lighted match. Expelling a generous cloud of smoke from her shapely lips, she demanded: “What is this you are all shouting about Harry having another love-nest?” During the answering chorus of boisterous laughter and jesting remarks, she drank the liquor which the negro brought. Then Harry, pointing out Auntie Sue's house, which was easily visible from where they sat, related his experience. And among the many conjectures, and questions, and comments offered, no one suggested even that the man and the woman living in that little log house by the river might be entirely innocent of the implied charge. For those who are themselves guilty, to assume the guilt of others is very natural and altogether human. In the moment's quiet which followed the arrival of a fresh supply of drinks, the woman called Martha said: “But what is the man like, Harry? You have enthused quite enough about the girl. Suppose you tell us about the man in the case.” Harry gave a very good description of Brian Kent. “Oh, damn!” suddenly cried Martha, shaking her skirt vigorously. She had spilled some of the liquor from her glass. A woman on the outer edge of the circle whispered to her nearest neighbor, and a hush fell over the group. “Well,” said Martha, drinking the liquor remaining in her glass, “why the devil don't we find out who they are, if we are so curious?” “Find out! How? We'll find out a lot! What would you do,--ask them their names and where they are from?” came from the company. “It is easy enough,” retorted Martha. “There is that native girl that Molly picked up the day we landed here to help her in the kitchen. She must belong in this neighborhood somewhere. I'll bet she can tell us something. What is her name?” “Judy,--Judy Taylor. Great idea! Good! Send her out here, Jim,” responded the others. When the deformed mountain girl appeared before them, she looked from face to face with such a frightened and excited expression on her sallow, old-young features, and such a wild light in her black beady eyes, that they regarded her with silent interest. Judy spoke first, and her shrill monotone emphasized her excited state of mind: “That there nigger said as how Missus Kent was a-wantin' ter see me. Be ary one of youuns sure 'nough Missus Kent?” The group drew apart a little, and every face was turned from Judy to the woman sitting on the top step of the veranda with her back against the post.