“What’s been common talk?  What is it?” demanded ’Lena; and old Milly, seating herself upon a trunk, commenced:  “Why, honey, hain’t you hearn how you done got Mr. Graham’s pictur and gin him yourn ’long of one of them curls—­how he’s writ and you’ve writ, and how he’s gone off to the eends of the airth to get rid on you—­and how you try to cotch young Mas’r Durward, who hate the sight on you—­how you waylay him one day, settin’ on a rock out by the big gate—­and how you been seen mighty nigh fifty times comin’ home afoot from Captain Atherton’s in the night, rainin’ thunder and lightnin’ hard as it could pour—­how after you done got Miss Anna to ’lope, you ax Captain Atherton to have you, and git mad as fury ’cause he ’fuses—­and how your mother warn’t none too likely, and a heap more that I can’t remember—­hain’t you heard of none on’t?”

“None, none,” answered ’Lena, while Milly continued, “It’s a sin and shame for quality folks that belong to the meetin’ to pitch into a poor ’fenseless girl and pick her all to pieces.  Reckon they done forgot what our Heabenly Marster told ’em when he lived here in old Kentuck, how they must dig the truck out of thar own eyes afore they go to meddlin’ with others; but they never think of him these days, ‘cept Sundays, and then as soon as meetin’ is out they done git together and talk about you and Mas’r Graham orfully.  I hearn ’em last Sunday, I and Miss Fontaine’s cook, Cilly, and if they don’t quit it, thar’s a heap on us goin’ to leave the church!”

’Lena smiled in spite of herself, and when Milly, who arose to leave the room, again told her not to care, as all the blacks were for her, she felt that she was not utterly alone in her wretchedness.  Still, the sympathy of the colored people alone could not help her, and dally matters grew worse, until at last even Nellie Douglass’s faith was shaken, and ’Lena’s heart died within her as she saw in her signs of neglect.  Never had Mr. Livingstone exchanged a word with her upon the subject, but the reserve with which he treated her plainly indicated that he, too, was prejudiced, while her aunt and Carrie let no opportunity pass of slighting her, the latter invariably leaving the room if she entered it.  On one such occasion, in a state bordering almost on distraction ’Lena flew back to her own chamber, where to her great surprise, she found her uncle in close conversation with her grandmother, whose face told the pain his words were inflicting.  ’Lena’s first impulse was to fall at his feet and implore his protection, but he prevented her by immediately leaving the room.

“Oh, grandmother, grandmother,” she cried, “help me, or I shall die.”

In her heart Mrs. Nichols believed her guilty, for John had said so—­he would not lie; and to ’Lena’s touching appeal for sympathy, she replied, as she rocked to and fro, “I wish you had died, ’Leny, years and years ago.”

’Twas the last drop in the brimming bucket, and with the wailing cry, “God help me now—­no one else can,” the heart-broken girl fell fainting to the floor, while in silent agony Mrs. Nichols hung over her, shouting for help.