“Evenin’, Mis’ Brice.  De good Lawd bless you, lady, an’ Miste’ Brice,” said the old negress.

“Well, Nancy?”

Nancy pressed into the room.  “Mis’ Brice!”

“Yes?”

“Ain’ you gwineter’ low Hester an’ me to wuk fo’ you?”

“Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy.  But we are boarding.”

“Yassm, yassm,” said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence.  Then again, “Mis’ Brice!”

“Yes, Nancy?”

“Ef you ‘lows us t’ come heah an’ straighten out you’ close, an’ mend ’em —­you dunno how happy you mek me an’ Hester—­des to do dat much, Mis’ Brice.”

The note of appeal was irresistible.  Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked the trunks.

“You may unpack them, Nancy,” she said.

With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet and shawl!  “Whaffor you stannin’ dere, Hester?” she cried.

“Hester is tired,” said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came to her eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through that day.

“Tired!” said Nancy, holding up her hands.  “No’m, she ain’ tired.  She des kinder stupefied by you’ goodness, Mis’ Brice.”

A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane’s hired girl.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum,” she said.

If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane’s best parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room.  Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greeting does not tally with the limpness of their grasp.  He was attempting, when Stephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them, as a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor.  The gentleman had red chop-whiskers,—­to continue to put his worst side foremost, which demanded a ruddy face.  He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborly effusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs. Brice.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I used often to go to Boston in the forties.  In fact—­ahem—­I may claim to be a New Englander.  Alas, no, I never met your father.  But when I heard of the sad circumstances of his death, I felt as if I had lost a personal friend.  His probity, sir, and his religious principles were an honor to the Athens of America.  I have listened to my friend, Mr. Atterbury,—­Mr. Samuel Atterbury,—­eulogize him by the hour.”

Stephen was surprised.

“Why, yes,” said he, “Mr. Atterbury was a friend.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I knew it.  Four years ago, the last business trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street.  Absence makes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter.  They never change.  Atterbury nearly took me in his arms.  ‘My dear fellow,’ he cried, ‘how long are you to be in town?’ I was going the next day.  ’Sorry I can’t ask you to dinner,’ says he, but step into the Tremont House and have a bite.’—­Wasn’t that like Atterbury?”