“Come again quickly,” said Flora.

“As soon as I can,” she replied, and hurried away with her little charge.

When Mr. Bright offered his hand to help Mrs. Blumenthal over the hedge, he burst into a hearty laugh.  “Wasn’t it funny,” said he, “to hear that baby calling us Bob-o-lith-o-nithts?  They begin education early down South.  Before the summer is out she’ll be talking about the cuth o’ Ham, and telling the story of Onethimuth.  But they’ve found a mare’s nest now, Mrs. Blumenthal.  The Deacon will be writing to his Carolina friends how the Massachusetts ladies hug and kiss niggers.”

Flora smiled as she answered:  “I suppose it must seem strange to them, Mr. Bright.  But the fact is, that black woman tended me when I was a child; and I haven’t seen her for twenty years.”

As soon as she entered the house, she explained the scene to Mrs. Delano, and then said to her daughter:  “Now, Rosen Blumen, you may leave your drawing and go to Aunt Rosa, and tell her I want to see her for something special, and she must come as soon as possible.  Don’t tell her anything more.  You may stay and spend the day with Eulalia, if you like.”

“How many mysteries and surprises we have,” observed Mrs. Delano.  “A dozen novels might be made out of your adventures.”

The hasty summons found Mrs. King still melancholy with the thought that her newly found son could be no more to her than a shadow.  Glad to have her thoughts turned in another direction, she sent Rosen Blumen to her cousin, and immediately prepared to join her sister.  Flora, who was watching for her, ran out to the gate to meet her, and before she entered the house announced that Tulee was alive.  The little that was known was soon communicated, and they watched with the greatest anxiety for the reappearance of Tulee.  But the bright turban was seen no more during the forenoon; and throughout the afternoon no one but the Deacon and his gardener were visible about the grounds.  The hours of waiting were spent by the sisters and Mrs. Delano in a full explanation of the secret history of Gerald Fitzgerald, and Mrs. King’s consequent depression of spirits.  The evening wore away without any tidings from Tulee.  Between nine and ten o’clock they heard the voice of the Deacon loud in prayer.  Joe Bright, who was passing the open window, stopped to say:  “He means his neighbors shall hear him, anyhow.  I reckon he thinks it’s a good investment for character.  He’s a cute manager, the Deacon is; and a quickster, too, according to his own account; for he told me when he made up his mind to have religion, he wasn’t half an hour about it.  I’d a mind to tell him I should think slave-trading religion was a job done by contract, knocked up in a hurry.”

“Mr. Bright,” said Flora, in a low voice, “if you see that colored woman, I wish you would speak to her, and show her the way in.”