ance amid the engulfing exits
of the other ladies. I followed where I imagined she had gone, out by
a side door, into the beautiful graveyard; but among the flowers and
monuments she was not, nor was he; and next I saw, through the iron
gate, John Mayrant in the street, walking with his intimate aunt and her
more severe sister, and Miss La Heu. I somewhat superfluously hastened
to the gate and greeted them, to which they responded with polite,
masterly discouragement. He, however, after taking off his hat to them,
turned back, and I watched them pursuing their leisurely, reticent
course toward the South Place. Why should the old ladies strike me as
looking like a tremendously proper pair of conspirators? I was wondering
this as I turned back among the tombs, when I perceived John Mayrant
coming along one of the churchyard paths. His approach was made at right
angles with that of another personage, the respectful negro custodian
of the place. This dignitary was evidently hoping to lead me among
the monuments, recite to me their old histories, and benefit by my
consequent gratitude; he had even got so far as smiling and removing his
hat when John Mayrant stopped him. The young man hailed the negro by his
first name with that particular and affectionate superiority which few
Northerners can understand and none can acquire, and which resembles
nothing so much as the way in which you speak to your old dog who has
loved you and followed you, because you have cared for him.

"Not this time," John Mayrant said. "I wish to show our relics to this
gentleman myself--if he will permit me?" This last was a question put to
me with a courteous formality, a formality which a few minutes more were
to see smashed to smithereens.

I told him that I should consider myself undeservedly privileged.

"Some of these people are my people," he said, beginning to move.

The old custodian stood smiling, familiar, respectful, disappointed.
"Some of 'em my people, too, Mas' John," he cannily observed.

I put a little silver in his hand. "Didn't I see a box somewhere," I
said, "with something on it about the restoration of the church?"

"Something on it, but nothing in it!" exclaimed Mayrant; at which
moderate pleasantry the custodian broke into extreme African merriment
and ambled away. "You needn't have done it," protested the Southerner,
and I naturally claimed my stranger's right to pay my respects in this
manner. Such was our introduction,