The whilom young master of the house was equally, if less picturesquely, warm in his expressions of pleasure at seeing the old man again, and gave him his carpet-bag with instructions to take it to his room and to tell Mrs. Allan that he was there.

The venerable darkey’s face fell.  The “new Mistis” had “changed the house around some,” he explained, apologetically, and “Marse’s Eddie’s” things had been moved to one of the servants’ rooms, but “Marse Eddie’s” old room was a guest chamber, and he “reckoned” that would be the place to take the bag.

The visitor’s whole manner changed at once—­froze.  The flush of pleasure died out of his face and left it pale, cold and stern.  A fierce and unreasonable rage possessed him. She had dismantled the room that his little mother had arranged for him and sent his things to a servant’s room! Was this insult intentional, he wondered?

To his mind, his “little Mother” was so entirely the presiding genius of the place—­he could not realize the right of anyone, not even a “new mistis,” to come in and “change the house around.”

Cut to the quick, he directed the old butler to leave the bag where it was and to let Mrs. Allan know that he was in the drawing-room.

No announcement could have given that lady greater surprise.  She regarded Edgar’s leaving West Point after her husband’s letter, as direct disobedience, and his presenting himself at her door as the height of impertinence.  Something of this was in the frigid dignity with which she received him—­standing, and drawn up to the full height of her imposing figure.

She had never been within speaking distance of anyone drunk to the point of intoxication, but, somehow, she had received an impression that this was pretty generally the case with the young man now before her, and when he began somewhat incoherently (in his foolish rage) to ask her confirmation of the old servant’s statement that his room had been dismantled, she was convinced that it was his condition at the moment.  Turning, with the grand air for which she was noted, to the hoary butler who stood in the doorway between drawing-room and hall, respectfully awaiting orders as to “Marse Eddie’s” bag, she said,

“Put this drunken man out of the house!”

The aged slave stood aghast.  Between the stately new mistress whom it was his duty to serve, and the beloved young master whose home-coming had warmed his old heart, what should he do?

He stood in silence, his lined black face filled with sadness, his chin in his hand, his eyes bent in sorrow and shame upon the floor.  What should he do?—­

Fortunately, the new mistress did not see his indecision as she swept from the room, and “Marse Eddie” quickly relieved him of the embarrassing dilemma by picking up the carpet-bag and passing out of the door, closing it behind him.

It was all a mistake—­a miserable mistake; but one of those mistakes in understanding between blind, prejudiced human beings by which hearts are broken, souls lost.