It was this that made Ariel realize a thing of which hitherto she had not been able to convince herself:  that she was actually once more in the town where she had spent her long-ago girlhood; now grown to seem the girlhood of some other person.  It was true:  her foot was on her native heath and her name was Ariel Tabor—­the very name of the girl who had shared the town’s disapproval with Joe Louden!  “Rescue the Perishing” brought it all back to her; and she listened to these sharply familiar rites of the Canaanite Sabbath evening with a shiver of pain.

She turned from the gate to go into the house, heard Eugene’s voice at the door, and paused.  He was saying good-night to Mamie.

“And please say `au revoir’ to Miss Tabor for me,” he added, peering out under his hand.  “I don’t know where she can have gone.”

“Probably she came in and went to her room,” said Mamie.

“Don’t forget to tell her `au revoir.’ "

“I won’t, dear.  Good-night.”

“Good-night.”  She lifted her face and he kissed her perfunctorily.  Then he came down the steps and went slowly toward the gate, looking about him into the darkness as if searching for something; but Ariel had fled away from the path of light that led from the open door.

She skimmed noiselessly across the lawn and paused at the side of the house, leaning against the veranda, where, on a night long past, a boy had hid and a girl had wept.  A small creaking sound fell upon her ear, and she made out an ungainly figure approaching, wheeling something of curious shape.

“Is that you, Sam?” she said.

Mr. Warden stopped, close by.  “Yes’m,” he replied.  “I’m a-gittin’ out de hose to lay de dus’ yonnah.”  He stretched an arm along the cross-bar of the reel, relaxing himself, apparently, for conversation.  “Y’all done change consid’able, Miss Airil,” he continued, with the directness of one sure of privilege.

“You think so, Sam?”

“Yes’m.  Ev’ybody think so, I reckon.  Be’n a tai’ble lot o’ talkum ‘bout you to-day.  Dun’no’ how all dem oth’ young ladies goin’ take it!” He laughed with immoderate delight, yet, as to the volume of mere sound, discreetly, with an eye to open windows.  “You got ’em all beat, Miss Airil!  Dey ain’ be’n no one ‘roun’ dis town evah got in a thousum mile o’ you!  Fer looks, an’ de way you walk an’ ca’y yo’self; an’ as fer de clo’es—­name o’ de good lan’, honey, dey ain’ nevah see style befo’!  My ole woman say you got mo’ fixin’s in a minute dan de whole res’ of ’em got in a yeah.  She say when she helpin’ you onpack she must ‘a’ see mo’n a hunerd paihs o’ slippahs alone!  An’ de good Man knows I ‘membuh w’en you runnin’ roun’ back-yods an’ up de alley rompin’ ’ith Joe Louden, same you’s a boy!”

“Do you ever see Mr. Louden, nowadays?” she asked.

His laugh was repeated with the same discreet violence.  “Ain’ I seen him dis ve’y day, fur up de street at de gate yonnah, stan’in’ ’ith you, w’en I drivin’ de Judge?”