“What is my fate, then?”

“Ah ‘spec’ yo’ gwine fine yo’se’f in love,” she said, softly; and I strove to smile with ever-stiffening lips.

A little numbness that tingled spread over me; it was pleasant; I did not care to withdraw my eyes.  Presently the tightness in my face relaxed, I moved my lips, smiling vaguely.

“In love,” I repeated.

“Yaas, Mars’ Ormon’.”

“When?”

“‘Fore yo’ know h’it, honey.”

“Tell me more.”

“‘Spec’ ah done tole yo’ too much, honey.”  She looked at me steadily.  “Pore Mars’ Gawge,” she murmured, “‘spec’ ah done tole yo’ too much.  But it sho’ am a-comin’, honey, an’ h’it gwine come pow’ful sudden, an’ h’it gwine mek yo’ pow’ful sick.”

“Am I to win her?”

“No, honey.”

“Is there no hope, Aunt Tulip?”

She hesitated as though at fault; I felt the tenseness in my face once more; then, for one instant, I lost track of time; for presently I found myself standing in the hallway watching Sir Lupus through the open door of the gun-room, and Sir Lupus was very angry.

“Dammy!” he roared, “am I to eat my plate?  Cato!  I want my porridge!”

Confused, I stood blinking at him, and he at table, bibbed like a babe, mad as a hornet, hammering on the cloth with a great silver spoon and bellowing that they meant to starve him.

“I don’t remember how I came here,” I began, then flushed furiously at my foolishness.

“Remember!” he shouted.  “I don’t remember anything!  I don’t want to remember anything!  I want my porridge!  I want it now!  Damnation!”

Cato, hastening past me with the steaming dish, was received with a yelp.  But at last Sir Lupus got his spoon into the mess and a portion of the mess into his mouth, and fell to gobbling and growling, paying me no further attention.  So I closed the door of the gun-room on the great patroon and walked to the foot of the stairway.

A figure in soft buckskins was descending—­a blue-eyed, graceful youth who hailed me with a gesture.

“Dorothy!” I said, fascinated.

Her fringed hunting-shirt fell to her knees, the short shoulder-cape from throat to breast; gay fringe fluttered from shoulder to wrist, and from thigh to ankle; and her little scarlet-quilled moccasins went pat-patter-pat as she danced down the stairway and stood before me, sweeping her cap from her golden head in exaggerated salute.

She seemed smaller in her boy’s dress, fuller, too, and rounder of neck and limb; and the witchery of her beauty left me silent—­a tribute she found delightful, for she blushed very prettily and bowed again in dumb acknowledgment of the homage all too evident in my eyes.

Cato came with a dish of meat and a bottle of claret; and we sat down on the stairs, punishing bottle and platter till neither drop nor scrap remained.

“Don’t leave these dishes for Sir Lupus to fall over!” she cried to Cato, then sprang to her feet and was out of the door before I could move, whistling for our horses.