It was two weeks now since that dreadful afternoon up at Ellismere, and it has been a quiet two weeks for all of our little party. No one has had the heart for very much fun, for Grandma Ellis has been very ill up at Ellismere, and dear old Joe is lying helpless in bed in his own little cabin. After the storm had spent its force they had carried Joe up to the house, and there he had lain unmindful of everything about him for three whole days together. Then, when at last consciousness came back, power to move either right arm or leg did not come with it, and then they learned that poor old Joe was paralysed. As soon as possible after that they moved Joe up to Arlington, for he longed for his own bed and his own familiar cabin. And who do you suppose went up to care for Joe, but Mammy! “If you can spare me. Miss Lindy,” Mammy had said to Grandma Ellis, “I would like to look out for Joe de res’ of his days. I ain’t allers been ober kin’ to dat ole gem’an, an’ I ain’t had no idea what splendid stuff he had in him,” and it seemed a very little thing to Grandma Ellis to spare Mammy for the sake of the one who had saved Brevet’s life. That Joe had saved it there was but little question, for the storm had seemed to be at its very height when it reached the island, levelling and demolishing everything upon it. The tent had been carried off bodily, no one knew where, and the little pine trees uprooted lay wedged in the rocks as though pounded in with an anvil, so that it seemed impossible that Brevet could have escaped being hurled into the river, or dashed against the rocks with the same terrible force as the pine trees.

Harry had been unable to bring any one from the stables, for both the men, as it happened, were three miles away at the blacksmith’s, and but for Joe’s instant action, any help would have come too late.

I doubt if Teddy will ever quite forgive Grandma Ellis, or his sister Mary, for forbidding him to join the party in search of Brevet, or ever cease to be thankful that at last, rushing out of the house in spite of all their protests, he was able to render such timely aid.

As for Joe, he accepted his utter helplessness with a beautiful resignation, but there was something on Joe’s mind, and one day he said to Mammy: "Would you min’, Mammy, just sendin’ fo’ Miss Courage to come heah for awhile dis ebenin’. I’se somethin’ important ter say ter lier, ‘Tain’t dat I couldn’t trus’ you wid it, Mammy, only you knows dey am times when a ‘spectable cullud pusson seem ter need der advice of a pusson what is born ter a different colour and station.’

“Miss Courage shall be sent for dis bery ebenin’, Joe,” for Mammy had made up her mind that Joe was to be humoured in every particular. And so Courage came, and with Brevet, who had happened to be spending the day at Homespun, for her companion. They stopped to leave the buckboard at the stable, where a young mulatto boy was now doing Joe’s work, and then Brevet asked permission to run on ahead. He had something on his mind, as well as Joe, and he was longing to ask him a question that had just occurred to him the day before, and which had made his little heart very heavy.

“Joe,” he said in an awed whisper, stepping into the cabin and looking quickly about to see if Mammy happened to be out of hearing, “are you asleep, Joe?”

“No, bless your little heart,” and Joe’s old face lighted up with the joy of Brevet’s coming, “I was des habin a bit o’ a day-dream.” "Joe,” whispered Brevet, tip-toeing close to his side, “I want you to tell me something. You’re paralysed, you know, Joe.”

“Yes, Honey, I knows.”

“Well, it wasn’t because you went in the river for me, was it, Joe? It just happened to come then, didn’t it, Joe?” in anxious inquiry, and as though to find out that he was responsible for Joe’s illness would be more than he could bear.

“Des happen? o’ course, chile, des happen. Why, des look at me, Honey! I’se pow’ful ole; reckon nobody knows how ole I be,” (which was the truth, for Joe, if he knew himself, had never told any one), “whereas mos’ white-haired cullud pussons is par’Iysed long afore my time o’ life, par’Iysed all over too, not des a sort o’ half par’Iysed like me. No, neber you b’lieve it anythin’ but des happened, no matter what folks say, case you ‘member Joe tol’ you so, an’ I ought ter know, I reckon, better’n anybody.”

It was as though a great shadow had been lifted from Brevet. Courage, wondering how to account for the little fellow’s apparent spiritlessness all day, wondered now, as she entered, at the little illumined face.

“See here, Brevet,” said Joe, smiling a welcome to Courage, “will you look ober de place while I’se talkin’ ter Miss Courage. Go up to de house and down ‘roun’ General Sheridan’s grave, an’ my Oder special fav’rites, an’ see if eberythin’ is bein’ kept up ter de handle, case no one knows as well as you, Brevet, how Joe allers like ter hab ‘em kep’.”

Brevet joyously obeyed, proud to be sent on such an important errand; and after Courage and Joe had exchanged a few words of greeting, Joe at once settled to the particular business in hand.

“Miss Courage,” he said, very solemnly, “I don’ b’lieve dey’s such anoder mean contemptible good for nothin’ darkey in all dis county as I is. Look at dis cabin! des as orderly as can be, an’ den ‘member how I’se allers treated Mammy. She ain’t nowhere roun’, is she?” raising himself on one arm and looking cautiously about the room.

“No; Mammy is way up the hill yonder, knitting under the chestnut tree. I met her as I came, and she told me that you had something important to say to me, and that she wouldn’t come back until I called her.”

“Beats me,” answered Joe, “ter see Mammy so considerate an’ behavin’ hersel’ in dis fashion. Why, dere ain’t nothin’ Mammy can think of to make me mo’ comfortable dat she doesn’t up an’ do in a jiffy. Why, when yo’ Sylvy comes down ebry day or so, ter see if she can len’ a hand as you are so good as ter sen’ her, dey ain’t, as a rule, nuffin lef for her ter do, ‘ceptin’ Mammy set her ter make some little relish for me to pay her fo’ de trouble of cornin’. Now can you ‘magine, Miss Courage, how all dis mak’ me feel, case I’se allers been down on Mammy? You ‘member I neber so much as invite her ter my Fo’th July dinner. I allers ‘spect Grandma Ellis staid away so as to let Mammy think she was nowise invited either.”

“But you mustn’t blame yourself too much, Joe,” Courage interrupted, “for if I’m not mistaken, Mammy has been always rather down upon you. No wonder that she wants to make amends. You’re a perfect hero in all our eyes now, Joe. Just think of the terrible risk you ran and of all it has cost you, Joe—”

“‘Tain’t cost me nuffin, Miss Courage,” Joe said, almost angrily. “Oh, I des hope for Brevet’s sake dey won’t be sayin’ any such foolish t’ing as dat. I happen ter know dat Brevet would neber get over it if he thought he was ‘sponsible for me lyin’ here in bed. No, Miss Courage, dat paralysis des happened ter come. I want it ter be so understood. I’d had the queerest numb sort o’ feelin’s creepin’ over me a whole week ‘fo’ I took dat plunge in de riber—but—-but, what I sent for you for am dis: I’se had a heap o’ time, lyin’ heah, an’ I’se been usin’ my eyes, an’ sure huff I hab an idea. You know your Sylvy? Well, she tol’ me dat day when ole Colonel Anderson an’ all of you were at Arlington, an’ we was clearin’ up de dinner dishes, dat she been ris up in an institution in Brooklyn, an’ so far as she knew she didn’t hab a relashun in de worl’. Now, do you happen ter know, Miss Courage, who took Sylvy to dat ‘sylum?”

“No, Joe; and I’m quite sure Sylvia once told me that nobody knew; but if you wish, I can write and make some inquiry. But why do you want to know, Joe?”

“Why, case I b’lieve it isn’t de mos’ impossible t’ing in de worl’ dat Mammy and Sylvy is related,” and Joe lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper.

“But whatever do you found that upon?” Courage asked, eagerly.

“Observation, Miss Courage, an’ what you might call human probability,” (Joe was perfectly delighted to find two such fine long words at his command) “an’ as I tol’ you, I’se been usin’ my eyes lyin’ heah, an’ dey has little ways an’ gestures, Mammy and Sylvy, common to bof of ‘em. Den you know Mammy had a daughter sol’ way from her des befo’ de wah, an’ as Sylvy ain’t no idea what name she was born to, ‘tain’t impossible is it, dat she should be Mammy’s gran’chile?”

“No, it isn’t impossible, Joe, but I must honestly say I do not think it probable. Just think how very little you really have to build upon.”

“Mighty little, I grant you, Miss Courage, ‘cepting dose little ways an’ gestures; but you’ll write, won’t you, case there ain’t the least harm in writing is there?”

“Yes, indeed I will, Joe, this very night, but you mustn’t hang too many hopes upon it, so as not to be too much disappointed.”

“Dey’s hung dere already. Miss Courage,” said incorrigible Joe, “an’ I’se not goin’ter take ‘em down till I has ter.”

“All right,” laughed Courage. “May I call Mammy back now? for I should like to see her for awhile before I go home.”

“Yes, you call her, an’ des you notice, now your ‘tention’s called ter it, if dere isn’t some ways dat ‘mind you of Sylvy.”

And Courage did notice, and was really so surprised at some points of resemblance, that she wrote her letter that night with a deeper conviction that they might be on the verge of a discovery than she had that morning thought possible.