Victor was never happier than when obeying Edith, and in an inconceivably short space of time Bedouin stood at the back piazza, where his mistress mounted him and rode away.  It was not until she had left the Collingwood grounds and was out upon the main road, that she began to feel any doubts as to the propriety of what she was doing.  She had not seen Arthur St. Claire for eight years.  She must, of course, introduce herself and would he not marvel to see her there in that rain, when a servant could have brought the keys its well.  And the message, too—­Victor might have delivered that had she been willing to trust him with it, but she was not.  Arthur St. Claire had a secret of some kind; Mr. Griswold was concerned in it, and it was to guard this secret from all curious ears that she was doing what she was.  Having thus settled the matter to her mind, Edith rode on, unmindful of the rain, which had partially subsided, but still dripped from her black plumes and glanced off from her velvet habit.  A slight nervous trepidation seized her, however, as she drew near to Grassy Spring, and noticed the look of surprise with which a stalwart African, standing by the gate, regarded her.  Riding up to him she said, good-naturedly, “How d’ye, uncle?” having learned so much of negro dialect from Rachel, who was a native of Georgia.

Immediately the ivories of the darkie became visible, and with a not ungraceful bow, he answered, “Jest tolable, thankee;” while his eyes wandered up the road, as if in quest of something they evidently did not find, for bending forward helooked curiously behind Edith, saying by way of apology, “I’se huntin’ for yer little black boy; whar is he?”

“Where’s who?” and in her fright, lest some one of the little “Guinea niggers” about whom Victor had told her, might be seated behind her, Edith leaped with on bound form the saddle, nearly upsetting the young man hastening out to meet her.

Southern bred as the negro was he could not conceive of a white lady’s riding without an escort, and failing to see said escort, he fancied it must be some diminutive child perched upon the horse, and was looking to find him, feeling naturally curious to know how the negroes of Yankee land differed from those of Florida.  All this Edith understood afterward, but she was too much excited now to thing of any thing except that she had probably made herself ridiculous in the eyes of Arthur St. Claire, who adroitly rescued her from a fall in the mud, by catching her about the waist and clasping one of her hands.

“Miss Hastings, I believe,” he said, when he saw that she had regained her equilibrium, “This is a pleasure I hardly expected in this storm,—­but come in.  You are drenched with rain;” and still holding her hand, he led her into the library, where a cheerful fire was blazing.