IMMEDIATELY on parting with Carson, Helen went down to Linda's cottage. Lewis was leaning over the little, low fence talking to a negro, who walked on as she drew near.

“Where is Mam' Linda?” she asked, guardedly. “In de house, missy,” Lewis answered, pulling off his old slouch hat and wadding it tightly in his fingers. “She 'ain't heard nothin' yit. Jim was des tellin' me er whole string er talk folks was havin' down on de street; but I told 'im not to let 'er hear it. Oh, missy, it gwine ter kill 'er. She cayn't stan' it. Des no longer 'n las' night she was settin' in dat do' talkin' 'bout how happy she was to hear Pete was doin' so well over on Marse Carson's place. She said she never would forget young marster's kindness to er old nigger'oman, en now”—the old man spread out his hands in apathetic gesture before him—“now you see what it come to!”

“But nothing serious has really happened to Pete yet,” Helen had started to say, when the old man stopped her.

“Hush, honey, she comin'!”

There was a sound of a footstep in the cottage. Linda appeared in the doorway, and with a clouded face and disturbed manner invited her mistress into the cottage, placing a chair for the young lady, and dusting the bottom of it with her apron.

“How do you feel this morning, mammy?” Helen asked, as she sat down.

“I'm well emough in my body, honey”—the old woman's face was averted—“but dat ain't all ter a pusson in dis life. Ef des my body was all I had, I wouldn't be so bad off, but it's my mind, honey. I'm worried 'bout dat boy ergin. I had bad dreams las' night, en thoo 'em all he seemed ter be in some trouble. Den when I woke dis mawnin' en tried ter think 'twas only des er dream, I ain't satisfied wid de way all of um act. Lewis look quar out'n de eyes, en everybody dat pass erlong hatter stop en lead Lewis off down de fence ter talk. I ain't no fool, honey! I notice things when dey ain't natcherl. Den here you come 'fo' yo' breakfust-time. I've watched you, chile, sence you was in de cradle en know every bat er yo' sweet eyes. Oh, honey”—Linda suddenly sat down and covered her face with her hands, pressing them firmly in—“honey,” she muttered, “suppen's done gone wrong. I've knowed it all dis mawnin' en I'm actually afeard ter ax youall ter tell me. I—can't think of but one thing, I'm so muddled up, en dat is dat my boy done thowed up his work en gone away off somers wid bad company; en yit, honey”—-she now rocked herself back and forth as if in torture and finished with a steady stare into Helen's face—“dat cayn't be it. Dat ain't bad ernough ter mek Lewis act like he is, en—en—well, honey, you might es well come out wid it. I've had trouble, en I kin have mo'.”

Helen sat pale and undecided, unable to formulate any adequate plan of procedure. At this juncture Lewis leaned in the doorway, and, as his wife's back was towards him, he could not see her face.

“I want ter step down-town er minute, Lindy,” he said. “I'll be right back. I des want ter go ter de sto'. We're out er coffee, en—”

Linda suddenly turned her dark, agonized face upon him. “You are not goin' till you tell me what is gone wrong wid my child,” she said. “What de matter wid Pete, Lewis?”

The old man's surprised glance wavered between his Wife's face and Helen's. “Why, Lindy, who say—” he feebly began.

But she stopped him with a gesture at once impatient and full of fear. “Tell me!” she said, firmly—“tell me!”

Lewis shambled into the cottage and stood over her, a magnificent specimen of the manhood of his race. Helen's eyes were blinded by tears she could hot restrain.

“'Tain't tiothiri', Lindy, 'pon my word 'tain't nothin' but dis,” he said, gently. “Dar's been trouble over near Marse Carson's farm, but not one soul is done say Pete was in it—not one soul.”

“What sort o' trouble?” Linda pursued.

“Er man en his wife was killed over dar in baid last night.”

“What man en woman?” Linda asked, her mouth falling open in suspense, her thick lip hanging.

“Abe Johnson en his wife.”

Linda leaned forward, her hands locked like things of iron between her knees. “Who done it, Lewis?—who killed um?” she gasped.

“Nobody knows dat yit, Lindy. Mrs. Johnson lived er little while after de neighbors come, en she said it was er—she said it was er yaller nigger, en—en—” He went no further, being at the end of his diplomacy, and simply stood before her helplessly twisting his hat in his hands. The room was very still. Helen wondered if her own heart had stopped beating, so tense and strained was her emotion. Linda sat bent forward for a moment; they saw her raise her hands to her head, press them there convulsively, and then she groaned.

“Miz Johnson say it was a yaller nigger!” she moaned. “Oh, my Gawd!”

“Yes, but what dat, 'oman?” Lewis demanded in assumed sharpness of tone. “Dar's oodlin's en oodlin's er yaller niggers over dar.”

“Dey ain't none of 'em been whipped by de daid man, 'cepin' my boy.” Linda was now staring straight at him. “None of 'em never made no threats but Pete. Dey'll kill 'im—” She shuddered and her voice fell away into a prolonged sob. “You hear me? Dey'll hang my po' baby boy—hang 'im—hang 'im!”

Linda suddenly rose to her full height and stood glowering upon them, her face dark and full of passion and grief combined. She raised her hands and held them straight upward.

“I want ter curse Gawd!” she cried. “You hear me? I ain't done nothin' ter deserve dis here thing I've been er patient slave of white folks, en my mammy an' daddy was 'fo' me. I've acted right en done my duty ter dem what owned me, en—en now I face dis. I hear my onliest child beggin' fer um to spare 'im en listen ter 'im. I hear 'im beggin' ter see his old mammy 'fo' dey kill 'im. I see 'em drag-gin' 'im off wid er rope roun'—” With a shriek the woman fell face downward on the floor. As if under the influence of a terrible nightmare, Helen bent over her. She was insensible. Without a word, Lewis lifted her in his arms and bore her to a bed in the corner.

“Dis gwine ter kill yo' old mammy, honey,” he gulped. “She ain't never gwine ter git up fum under it—never in dis world.”

But Helen, with womanly presence of mind, had dampened her handkerchief in some water and was gently stroking the dark face with it. After a moment Linda drew a deep, lingering breath and opened her eyes.

“Lewis,” was her first thought, “go try en find out all you kin. I'm gwine lie here en pray Gawd ter be merciful. I said I'd curse 'Im, but I won't. He my mainstay. I got ter trust 'Im. Ef He fail me I'm lost. Oh, honey, yo' old mammy never axed you many favors; stay here wid 'er en pray—pray wid all yo' might ter let dis cup pass. Oh, Gawd, don't let 'em!—don't let 'em! De po' boy didn't do it. He wouldn't harm a kitten. He talked too much, case he was smartin' under his whippin', but dat was all!”

Motioning to Lewis to leave them alone, Helen sat down on the edge of the bed and put her arm round Linda's shoulders, but the old woman rose and went to the door and closed it, then she came back and stood by Helen in the half-darkness that now filled the room.

“I want you ter git down here by my baid en pray fer me, honey,” she said. “Seem ter me lak de Lawd always have listen ter white folks mo' den de black, anyway, en I want you ter beg 'Im ter spare po' li'l' foolish Pete des dis time—des dis once.” Kneeling by the bed, Helen covered her wet face with her hands. Linda knelt beside her, and Helen prayed aloud, her clear, sweet voice ringing through the still room.