“Law, I spects you is mistook, chile, an’ if it war anything she jest wants him herself and was a-laying out ter tell you some enflirtment she had been a-trying ter have with him.  Don’t pay no ’tention to it.”  By this time she had regained her composure and was able to reassure Caroline with her usual positiveness to which she added an amount of worldly tact in substituting a highly disturbing thought in place of the dangerous one.

“Do you really think she can be in love with—­with him, Tempie?” demanded Caroline Darrah, wide-eyed with astonishment.  She was entirely diverted from any desire to follow out or weigh Mrs. Lawrence’s remark to her by the wiliness of the experienced Tempie.

“They ain’t no telling what widder women out fer number twos will do,” answered Tempie sagely.  “Now, you run and let Miss Annette put that blue frock on you ’fore dinner.  In times of disturbance like these here women oughter fix theyselves up so as ter ’tice the men ter eat a little at meal times.  Ain’t I done put on this white apron ter try and git that no ’count Jefferson jest ter take notice a little uv his vittals.  Now go on, honey—­it’s late.”

And thus the love of the old negro had taken away the only chance given Caroline Darrah to learn the facts of the grim story, from the knowledge of which she might have worked out salvation for her lover and herself.

An hour later as they were being served the soup by the absorbed and inattentive Jeff, Mrs. Matilda laid down her spoon and said to Caroline anxiously: 

“I wish Phoebe had come out to-night.  I asked her but she said she was too busy.  She looked tired.  Do you suppose she could be ill?”

“Yes,” answered the major dryly, “I feel sure that Phoebe is ill.  She is at present, I should judge, suffering with a malady which she has had for some time but which is about to reach the acute stage.  It needs judicious ignoring so let’s not mention it to her for the present.”

“I understand what you mean, Major,” answered his wife with delighted eyes, “and I won’t say a word about it.  It will be such a help to David to have a wife when he is the judge.  How long will it be before he can be the governor, dear?”

“That depends on the wife, Mrs. Buchanan, to a large extent,” answered the major with a delighted smile.

“Oh, Phoebe will want him to do things,” said Mrs. Matilda positively.

“No doubt of that,” the major replied.  “I see David Kildare slated for the full life from now on—­eh, Caroline?”

And the major had judged Phoebe’s situation perhaps more rightly than he realized, for while David led the vote-directors’ rally at the theater and later was closeted with Andrew for hours over the last editorial appeal in the morning Journal, Phoebe sat before her desk in her own little down-town home.  Mammy Kitty was snoring away like a peaceful watch-dog on her cot in the dressing-room and the whole apartment was dark save for the shaded desk-light.