“You will excuse me, sir?” he asked after a pause, dismounting, and noticing, as he did so, that Frowenfeld’s knees showed recent contact with the turf; “I have, myself, some interest in two of these graves, sir, as I suppose—­you will pardon my freedom—­you have in the other four.”

He approached the old but newly whitened paling, which encircled the tree’s trunk as well as the six graves about it.  There was in his face and manner a sort of impersonal human kindness, well calculated to engage a diffident and sensitive stranger, standing in dread of gratuitous benevolence or pity.

“Yes, sir,” said the convalescent, and ceased; but the other leaned against the palings in an attitude of attention, and he felt induced to add:  “I have buried here my father, mother, and two sisters,”—­he had expected to continue in an unemotional tone; but a deep respiration usurped the place of speech.  He stooped quickly to pick up his hat, and, as he rose again and looked into his listener’s face, the respectful, unobtrusive sympathy there expressed went directly to his heart.

“Victims of the fever,” said the Creole with great gravity.  “How did that happen?”

As Frowenfeld, after a moment’s hesitation, began to speak, the stranger let go the bridle of his horse and sat down upon the turf.  Joseph appreciated the courtesy and sat down, too; and thus the ice was broken.

The immigrant told his story; he was young—­often younger than his years—­and his listener several years his senior; but the Creole, true to his blood, was able at any time to make himself as young as need be, and possessed the rare magic of drawing one’s confidence without seeming to do more than merely pay attention.  It followed that the story was told in full detail, including grateful acknowledgment of the goodness of an unknown friend, who had granted this burial-place on condition that he should not be sought out for the purpose of thanking him.

So a considerable time passed by, in which acquaintance grew with delightful rapidity.

“What will you do now?” asked the stranger, when a short silence had followed the conclusion of the story.

“I hardly know.  I am taken somewhat by surprise.  I have not chosen a definite course in life—­as yet.  I have been a general student, but have not prepared myself for any profession; I am not sure what I shall be.”

A certain energy in the immigrant’s face half redeemed this childlike speech.  Yet the Creole’s lips, as he opened them to reply, betrayed amusement; so he hastened to say: 

“I appreciate your position, Mr. Frowenfeld,—­excuse me, I believe you said that was your father’s name.  And yet,”—­the shadow of an amused smile lurked another instant about a corner of his mouth,—­“if you would understand me kindly I would say, take care—­”

What little blood the convalescent had rushed violently to his face, and the Creole added: