“Oh, of course Andrew Sevier is too loyal to admit any criticism of David to a stranger,” she said with a slight emphasis on the word and a cold glance at Caroline Darrah.

“But he wasn’t talking to a stranger, he was talking just to me,” said Caroline quickly, not even seeing the dart aimed.

“You are so sweet, dear!” purred Mrs. Cherry.  “Under the circumstances it is so gracious of you not to feel yourself a stranger with us all and especially with Andrew Sevier.  Of course it would have been impossible for him always to have avoided you and it was just like his generosity—­”

“Miss Ca’line, honey,” came in a decided voice from the doorway, “that custard you is a-making for the major’s supper is actin’ curisome around the aiges.  Please, ma’am, come and see ter it a minute!”

“Oh, excuse me just a second,” exclaimed Caroline Darrah to Mrs. Cherry as she rose with alarm in her housewifely heart and hurried past Tempie down the hall.

An instinct engendered by her love for Caroline Darrah had led Tempie to notice and resent something in Mrs. Lawrence’s manner to the child on several previous occasions and to-day she had felt no scruples about remaining behind the curtains well within ear-shot of the conversations.  Her knowledge of, and participation in, the Buchanan family affairs, past and present and future, was an inheritance of several generations and she never hesitated to assert her privileges.

“Lady,” she said in a cool soft voice as she squared herself in the doorway and looked Mrs. Lawrence directly in the face, “you is a rich white woman and I’s a poor nigger, but ef you had er secceeded in a-putting that thare devil’s tale into my young mistess’s head they would er been that ’twixt you and me that we never would er forgot; and there wouldn’t a-been more’n a rag left of that dead-husband-bought frock what you’ve got on.  Now ’fore I fergits myself I axes you out the front door—­and I’m a-fergittin’ fast.”

And as she faced the domineering woman in her trappings of fashion all the humble blood in the negro’s veins, which had come down to her from the forewomen who had cradled on their black breasts the mothers of such as Caroline Darrah, was turned into the jungle passion for defense of this slight white thing that was the child of her heart if not of her body.  The danger of it made Mrs. Lawrence fairly quail, and, white with fright, she gathered her rich furs about her and fled just as Caroline Darrah’s returning footsteps were heard in the hall.

“Why, where did Mrs. Lawrence go, Tempie?” she demanded in astonishment.  Tempie had just the moment in which to rally herself but she had accomplished the feat, though her eyes still rolled ominously.

“She ‘membered something what she forgot and had ter hurry.  She lef’ scuses fer you,” and Tempie busied herself with the cups and tray.

“She was beginning to say something queer to me, Tempie, when you came in.  It was about Mr. Sevier and I didn’t understand.  I almost felt that she was being disagreeable to me and it frightened me—­about him.  I—­”