The snows of ten winters had powdered the nameless stranger's grave

in the servant's burial-ground of the Ridgeley plantation. For nine

years the wallet taken from his person had lain unopened in a hidden

drawer of Mabel Dorrance's escritoire, and the half-guessed secret

been hidden in her breast. Mammy Phillis had followed her mistress

to the tomb, six months after her removal from her beloved cottage

to the despised "quarters." She never held up her head from the day

of her degradation, died from a broken heart, murmured those who

best knew her--of a "fit of spleen," said Mrs. Aylett, in cool

reprehension of her unmannerly vassal.

Mabel had guarded the mystery well. Her husband examined

her--covertly, as he thought; awkwardly, according to her ideas--with

regard to the vagaries of her delirium, and was foiled by the grave

simplicity of her manner and replies.

"All she knows or remembers is substantially this," Herbert jotted

down in his notes for his sister's perusal: "she has associated in

some way--she cannot tell exactly how or why--the name with the

tramp who died in the garret. She is not sure that it was his

designation. Thinks it was not, or that, if used by him, it was an

alias. Has an impression that it was marked upon his clothing, or

upon a paper found in his pocket. Showed no agitation and little

interest in the subject, except when she inquired if I saw the

stranger at all--living or dead. Was glad I could reply truly,

'No.' Answer seemed to gratify her, which you may consider a

disagreeable augury. Am convinced that her illness resulted from

natural and unavoidable causes--that neither F---C---nor

J----L---had any connection with it. It will be months before mind

and body recover their tone."

"Lawyerly! ergo, absurd and unsatisfactory!" pronounced the reader,

to whom the foregoing leaf had been committed on the morning of her

brother's departure with his slowly-convalescing wife for their

Albany home. "But until the nettle pricks more nearly, I shall

continue to enjoy my roses."

They had blossomed thickly about her path during this decade. Her

matronly beauty was the wonder and praise of the community. The

changing seasons that had bleached the locks upon her husband's

temples and heightened his forehead had spared the bronzed chestnut

of her luxuriant tresses. Her figure was larger and fuller, but

graceful, and more queenly than of yore--if that could be. There

was not an untuneful inflection in her voice, or a furrow between

her brows. Under her careful management the homestead wore every

year an air of increased elegance. No other furniture for many miles

on both sides of the river could compare with hers; no other

servants were so well-trained, no grounds so beautifully ornamented

and trimly kept.




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