It was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white but now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and inside the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished without hindrance. He strode up the narrow path to the low front door. Finding it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low, roughly plastered sitting-room. The window blinds were open, permitting light and air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare, there was ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy by a hand which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art of making a little go a long way. The bedroom and the kitchen were in order. There were rag carpets on the floors, and the place was immaculately clean. A narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the end of the sitting-room to the attic, where he discovered a bed for his servant. Out at the back was the stable and a wagonshed. These he did not inspect. A high rail fence stretched between the two yards. As he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he was wondering how Viola Gwyn would look in her garb of black,--the hated black she had cast aside for one night only. He was oppressed by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of excitement which attended the adventure. What was he to do or say if the door was opened by Rachel Carter? His jaw was set, the palms of his hands were moist, and there was a strange, tight feeling about his chest, as if his lungs were full and could not be emptied. After a moment's hesitation, he rapped firmly on the door with his bare knuckles. The door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue sunbonnet and carried a red shawl over her arm. "Is Miss Viola at home?" he inquired. "Is dis Mistah Gwynne, suh?" "Yes." "Come right in, suh, an' set down." He entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set of stairs. "Right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a door at his left.