“Dear, darling baby,” she said aloud, feeling an irresistible desire to hug the little creature to her bosom.  “Who are you, baby?  Where are you now? and how came you with Mr. St. Claire?”

She asked these questions aloud, and was answered by Richard calling from his seat beneath the maple to know why she tarried so long.  With one more lingering glance at the infant, she locked the doors and hastened out to her blind charge.  On three or four other occasions she came alone to Grassy Spring, opening the doors and windows, and feasting her eyes upon the beautiful little child.  Edith was wonderfully in love with that picture, and many a theory she built as to the original.  Grace had told her that Arthur had no sister, and this, while it tended to deepen the mystery, increased her interest.

“I’ll ask him about her when he gets home,” she thought; and she waited anxiously for his return, which occurred much sooner than she anticipated.

It was a cold, raw November day, and the rain was beating against the windows of the little room she called her boudoir, and where she now sat sewing, when Victor, who had been sent to Grassy Spring to see that the storm did not penetrate the western blinds, appeared before her, ejaculating, “Mon Dieu, Miss Hastings.  What do you think there is over yonder at Grassy Spring?  A whole swarm of niggers, and Guinea niggers at that, I do believe.  Such outlandish specimens!  There they sit bent up double with the cold and hovering round the kitchen fire, some on the floor, some on chairs, and one has actually taken the tin dish pan and turned it bottom side up for a stool.  They come from Florida, they say, and they sorter ’long to Marsa St. Claire.  They called me Marsa, too, and when Mr. St. Claire asked me how my master and young lady were, the old she one who sat smoking in the corner, with a turban on her head as high as a church steeple, took the pipe from her month and actually swore.

“Swore, Victor!” exclaimed Edith, who had listened in amazement to his story.

“I don’t know what you call it but swearing; says she, ’A white nigger, Lor’-a-mighty,’ and the whole bevy of them opened their ranks for time to sit down in their circle—­kind of a fellow feeling, you know,” and Victor endeavored to hide the shock his pride had received by laughing loudly at the negroes’ mistake.

“How did you get in?” asked Edith.  “He must have been there before you.”

“He had a key to the back door,” returned Victor, “and I gave him up mine.  He wants you to send the others.  Shall I take them over?”

“Yes—­no—­I will go myself,” said Edith, remembering Mr. Griswold, from Worcester, and the message she was to deliver.

“You go in this rain!  Mr. Harrington won’t let you,” said Victor, and Edith rejoined, “I shan’t ask him.  I’ve been out in worse storms than this.  Bring up Bedouin.”