“And how does Mr. Dudley Venner take all this?” he said, by way of changing the subject a little.

“Oh, Massa Venner, he good man, but he don’ know nothin’ ’bout Elsie, as Ol’ Sophy do.  I keep close by her; I help her when she go to bed, ‘n’ set by her sometime when she ‘sleep; I come to her in th’ mornin’ ‘n’ help her put on her things.”—­Then, in a whisper,—­“Doctor, Elsie lets Ol’ Sophy take off that necklace for her.  What you think she do, ’f anybody else tech it?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, Sophy,—­strike the person, perhaps.”

“Oh, yes, strike ’em! but not with her hands, Doctor!”—­The old woman’s significant pantomime must be guessed at.

“But you haven’t told me, Sophy, what Mr. Dudley Venner thinks of his nephew, nor whether he has any notion that Dick wants to marry Elsie.”

“I tell you.  Massa Venner, he good man, but he no see nothin’ ’bout what goes on here in the house.  He sort o’ broken-hearted, you know,—­sort o’ giv’ up,—­don’ know what to do wi’ Elsie, ‘xcep’ say ‘Yes, yes.’  Dick always look smilin’ ‘n’ behave well before him.  One time I thought Massa Venner b’lieve Dick was goin’ to take to Elsie; but now he don’ seem to take much notice;—­he kin’ o’ stupid-like ’bout sech things.  It’s trouble, Doctor; ‘cos Massa Venner bright man naterally,—­’n’ he’s got a great heap o’ books.  I don’ think Massa Venner never been jes’ heself sence Elsie’s born.  He done all he know how,—­but, Doctor, that wa’n’ a great deal.  You men-folks don’ know nothin’ ’bout these young gals; ‘n’ ‘f you knowed all the young gals that ever lived, y’ wouldn’ know nothin’ ’bout our Elsie.”

“No,—­but, Sophy, what I want to know is, whether you think Mr. Venner has any kind of suspicion about his nephew,—­whether he has any notion that he’s a dangerous sort of fellow,—­or whether he feels safe to have him about, or has even taken a sort of fancy to him.”

“Lor’ bless you, Doctor, Massa Venner no more idee ’f any mischief ’bout Dick than he has ‘bout you or me.  Y’ see, he very fond o’ the Cap’n,—­that Dick’s father,—­’n’ he live so long alone here, ‘long wi’ us, that he kin’ o’ like to see mos’ anybody ’t ‘s got any o’ th’ ol’ family-blood in ’em.  He ha’n’t got no more suspicions ‘n a baby,—­y’ never see sech a man ‘n y’r life.  I kin’ o’ think he don’ care for nothin’ in this world ‘xcep’ jes’ t’ do what Elsie wan’s him to.  The fus’ year after young Madam die he do nothin’ but jes’ set at the window ‘n’ look out at her grave, ‘n’ then come up ‘n’ look at the baby’s neck ‘n’ say, ‘It’s fadin’, Sophy, a’n’t it?’ ‘n’ then go down in the study ‘n’ walk ‘n’ walk, ‘n’ then kneel down ‘n’ pray.  Doctor, there was two places in the old carpet that was all threadbare, where his knees had worn ’em.  An sometimes,—­you remember ’bout all that,—­he’d go off up into The Mountain ‘n’ be gone all day, ‘n’ kill all the Ugly Things he could find up there.—­Oh, Doctor, I don’ like to think o’ them days!—­An’