“She po’ly, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, and paused for adequate words.  I took note of this darky who, faithful to a family, had come hither to share her mistress’s exile and obscurity.  Lindy was spare, energetic, forceful—­and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for the unfortunate.  “She po’ly, Marse Dave, an’ she ain’ nebber leabe dis year house.  Marse Dave,” said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice and taking a step closer to me, “I done reckon de Mistis gwine ter die ob lonesomeness.  She des sit dar an’ brood, an’ brood—­an’ she use’ ter de bes’ company, to de quality.  No, sirree, Marse Dave, she ain’ nebber sesso, but she tink ‘bout de young Marsa night an’ day.  Marse Dave?”

“Yes?” I said.

“Marse Dave, she have a lil pink frock dat Marsa Nick had when he was a bebby.  I done cotch Mistis lookin’ at it, an’ she hid it when she see me an’ blush like ’twas a sin.  Marse Dave?”

“Yes?” I said again.

“Where am de young Marsa?”

“I don’t know, Lindy,” I answered.

Lindy sighed.

“She done talk ‘bout you, Marse Dave, an’ how good you is—­”

“And Mrs. Temple sees no one,” I asked.

“Dar’s one lady come hyar ebery week, er French lady, but she speak English jes’ like the Mistis.  Dat’s my fault,” said Lindy, showing a line of white teeth.

“Your fault,” I exclaimed.

“Yassir.  When I comed here from Caroliny de Mistis done tole me not ter let er soul in hyah.  One day erbout three mont’s ergo, dis yer lady come en she des wheedled me ter let her in.  She was de quality, Marse Dave, and I was des’ afeard not ter.  I declar’ I hatter.  Hush,” said Lindy, putting her fingers to her lips, “dar’s de Mistis!”

The door into the back room opened, and Mrs. Temple stood on the threshold, staring with uncertain eyes into the semi-darkness.

“Lindy,” she said, “what have you done?”

“Miss Sally—­” Lindy began, and looked at me.  But I could not speak for looking at the lady in the doorway.

“Who is it?” she said again, and her hand sought the door-post tremblingly.  “Who is it?”

Then I went to her.  At my first step she gave a little cry and swayed, and had I not taken her in my arms I believe she would have fallen.

“David!” she said, “David, is it you?  I—­I cannot see very well.  Why did you not speak?” She looked at Lindy and smiled.  “It is because I am an old woman, Lindy,” and she lifted her hand to her forehead.  “See, my hair is white—­I shock you, David.”

Leaning on my shoulder, she led me through a little bedroom in the rear into a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colors and redolent with the scent of flowers.  A white shell walk divided the garden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding, from the chimney of which blue smoke curled upward in the evening air.  Mrs. Temple drew me almost fiercely towards a bench against the adobe wall.