ling upward currents of heated air. She loved, in her own way,
the old black woman, and seemed to keep up a kind of silent communication
with her, as if they did not require the use of speech. She appeared to
be tranquillized by the presence of Helen, and loved to have her seated
at the bedside. Yet something, whatever it was, prevented her from
opening her heart to her kind companion; and even now there were times
when she would lie looking at her, with such a still, watchful, almost
dangerous expression, that Helen would sigh, and change her place, as
persons do whose breath some cunning orator had been sucking out of them
with his spongy eloquence, so that, when he stops, they must get some air
and stir about, or they feel as if they should be half smothered and
palsied.

It was too much to keep guessing what was the meaning of all this. Helen
determined to ask Old Sophy some questions which might probably throw
light upon her doubts. She took the opportunity one evening when Elsie
was lying asleep and they were both sitting at some distance from her
bed.

"Tell me, Sophy," she said, "was Elsie always as shy as she seems to be
now, in talking with those to whom she is friendly?"

"Alway jes' so, Miss Darlin', ever sense she was little chil'. When she
was five, six year old, she lisp some,--call me Thophy; that make her
kin' o' 'shamed, perhaps: after she grow up, she never lisp, but she kin'
o' got the way o' not talkin' much. Fac' is, she don' like talkin' as
common gals do, 'xcep' jes' once in a while wi' some partic'lar
folks,--'n' then not much."

"How old is Elsie?"

"Eighteen year this las' September."

"How long ago did her mother die?" Helen asked, with a little trembling
in her voice.

"Eighteen year ago this October," said Old Sophy.

Helen was silent for a moment. Then she whispered, almost
inaudibly,--for her voice appeared to fail her,

"What did her mother die of, Sophy?"

The old woman's small eyes dilated until a ring of white showed round
their beady centres. She caught Helen by the hand and clung to it, as if
in fear. She looked round at Elsie, who lay sleeping, as of she might be
listening. Then she drew Helen towards her and led her softly out of the
room.

"'Sh!--'sh!" she said, as soon as they were outside the door. "Don'
never speak in this house 'bout what Elsie's mother died of!" she said.
"Nobody never says nothin' 'bout it. Oh, God has made Ugly Things wi'
death in