“Of co’se I could learn, Ma’am.  I’d do my very best.”

It was thus that it was agreed, with small preliminary, that on the next morning Tallwoods should lose three of its late tenants.  Josephine ventured to inquire of Dunwody regarding Lily.  “Take her if you like,” said he bruskly.  “I will arrange the papers for it with Clayton himself.  There will be no expense to you.  If he wants to sell the girl I’ll pay him.  No, not a cent from you.  Go on, Lily, if you want to.  This time you’ll get shut of us, I reckon, and we’ll get shut of you.  I hope you’ll never come back, this time.  You’ve made trouble enough already.”

Thus, then, on the day of departure, Josephine St. Auban found herself standing before her mirror.  It was not an unlovely image which she saw there.  In some woman’s fashion, assisted by Jeanne’s last tearful services and the clumsy art of Lily, she had managed a garbing different from that of her first arrival at this place.  The lines of her excellent figure now were wholly shown in this costume of golden brown which she had reserved to the last.  Her hair was even glossier than when she first came here to Tallwoods, her cheek of better color.  She was almost disconcerted that the trials of the winter had wrought no greater ravages; but after all, a smile was not absent from her lips.  Not abolitionist here in the mirror, but a beautiful young woman.  Certainly, whichever or whoever she was, she made a picture fit wholly to fill the eyes of the master of Tallwoods when he came to tell her the coach was ready for the journey to St. Genevieve.  But he made no comment, not daring.

“See,” she said, almost gaily, “I can put on both my gloves.”  She held out to him her hands.

“They are very small,” he replied studiously.  He was calm now.  She saw he had himself well in hand.  His face was pale and grave.

“Well,” said she finally, as the great coach drove around to the door, “I suppose I am to say good-by.”

“I’ll just walk with you down the road,” he answered.  “We walked up it, once, together.”

They followed on, after the coach had passed down the driveway, Dunwody now moody and silent, his head dropped, his hands behind him, until the carriage pulled up and waited at the end of the shut-in at the lower end of the valley.  Josephine herself remained silent as well, but as the turn of the road approached which would cut off the view of Tallwoods, she turned impulsively and waved a hand in farewell at the great mansion house which lay back, silent and strong, among the hills.

[Illustration:  She waved a hand in farewell.]

He caught the gesture and looked at her quickly.  “That’s nice of you,” said he, “mighty nice.”

In some new sort of half-abashment she found no immediate reply.  He left her then, and walked steadily back up the driveway, saying nothing in farewell, and not once looking back.  For a time she followed him with her gaze, a strange sinking at her heart of which she was ashamed, which gave her alike surprise and sudden fear.