The major was fast asleep, David Kildare in the processes of bath and

toilet, Phoebe at her desk down-town and Mrs. Matilda away on her

mission, and thus it happened that nobody was near to fend the blight

from the flower of their anxious cherishing.

"Yes, indeed, it is a time of anxiety," Mrs. Cherry agreed with Caroline

as she crushed the lemon in her tea. "I shall be glad when it is over. I

feel that we all are making the utmost sacrifices for this election

of David Kildare's, and he's such a boy that he probably will make a

perfectly impossible judge. He never takes anything seriously enough to

accomplish much. It's well for him that no one expects anything from

him."

"Oh, but I'm sure he's taking this seriously," exclaimed Caroline Darrah

with a little gleam of dismay in her eyes. "His race has been an

exceptional one whether he wins or not. The major says so and the

other day Mr. Sevier told me--" At the mention of Andrew Sevier's name

Mrs. Cherry glanced around and an ugly little gleam came into her eyes.

"Oh, of course Andrew Sevier is too loyal to admit any criticism of David

to a _stranger_," she said with a slight emphasis on the word and a cold

glance at Caroline Darrah.

"But he wasn't talking to a stranger, he was talking just to me," said

Caroline quickly, not even seeing the dart aimed.

"You are so sweet, dear!" purred Mrs. Cherry. "Under the circumstances it

is so gracious of you not to feel yourself a stranger with us all and

especially with Andrew Sevier. Of course it would have been impossible

for him always to have avoided you and it was just like his generosity--"

"Miss Ca'line, honey," came in a decided voice from the doorway, "that

custard you is a-making for the major's supper is actin' curisome around

the aiges. Please, ma'am, come and see ter it a minute!"

"Oh, excuse me just a second," exclaimed Caroline Darrah to Mrs. Cherry

as she rose with alarm in her housewifely heart and hurried past Tempie

down the hall.

An instinct engendered by her love for Caroline Darrah had led Tempie to

notice and resent something in Mrs. Lawrence's manner to the child on

several previous occasions and to-day she had felt no scruples about

remaining behind the curtains well within ear-shot of the conversations.

Her knowledge of, and participation in, the Buchanan family affairs, past

and present and future, was an inheritance of several generations and she

never hesitated to assert her privileges.

"Lady," she said in a cool soft voice as she squared herself in the

doorway and looked Mrs. Lawrence directly in the face, "you is a rich

white woman and I's a poor nigger, but ef you had er secceeded in

a-putting that thare devil's tale into my young mistess's head they would

er been that 'twixt you and me that we never would er forgot; and there

wouldn't a-been more'n a rag left of that dead-husband-bought frock what

you've got on. Now 'fore I fergits myself I axes you out the front

door--and I'm a-fergittin' fast."




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