My walk homeward with Matthias gave me the needed opportunity to talk with him, where naught save the air wandering off to the hills could hear us.  I told him of the conversation which I had overheard, and also that I proposed to take the burden on my own shoulders of revealing to Miss Harris the fact of Mr. Benton being with us.  “For,” I said, “Matthias, it will hardly be safe for you to bear all this.  He believes, I think, that you have helped Miss Harris to find him, and has been looking out for trouble since you came to us, for he warned both Louis and myself, and told us not to trust you.  He did not, of course, say he knew you; that would not have done at all.  But I will do all she asks, then your poor old shoulders will be relieved a little.”

“Jes as you say, Miss Emly, pears like its queer nuf an’ all happin too, an’ ef he had worn just dat mustaff, without de whiskers, I’d know him yere straight off.  I said long nuf, he set me on de tinkin groun—­um—­um—­here come Mas’r Louis lookin’ arter his gal, I reckin, mighty wise he is; I’d tote a long ways ef ’twas to help him.”

Louis went to the village early and had returned to hear from Clara’s lips my morning discovery, and came to meet me, anxious to learn the story of the poor lamb, which I rehearsed, having time to tell it all during the rest of the walk, and ending with “it is strange enough to make a book,” just as we entered our gate.

Louis said the cloud must break ere long; and when Matthias left I followed along the path behind him, feeling that Mr. Benton might again assail him, and I was not mistaken.

“Look here,” came from the angle, and “yas, sah,” from Matthias as he turned to answer.

“What did you come home with Miss Minot for?” said Benton.

“Kase she axed me too, sah.”

“Whom has she been to see?”

“Dat poor gal.”

“Who is that girl, do you know?

“Yas, sah,” said the honest old man.

“You know more to-day than you did yesterday.”

“Yas, sah.”

“Why don’t you tell me who she is.”

“You did’nt ax me, you said did I know?”

“I don’t want any of your nigger talk.  I want her name, and by the great ——­”

“Look yer, Mas’r Benton, if you’s gwine to dip in an’ swar, I’ll tote long by myself.”

“Well, tell me who she is.”

“She tole me she was dat little Molly Harris dat lived down in Charleston, an—­”

“How in thunder did she get here?”

“Dunno, sah.”

“You do know, and I tell you you’ll make money to tell me all about it.”

“Dunno nothin’ moah.  I said dat same word, how you git yere, and she say never min ’bout dat.”

“What else did she say, what does she want?”

“Wall, de res ob what she tell me, ’pears like she didn’t ’spect me tell.  I’ll go over thar, an’ tell her you wants to know, an—­”

“The devil you will, you impudent rascal—­all I want to know is if she wants to find me.”