wn by blooded horses and driven
by a darky in livery.

Graciella's cavalier wore, with the ease and grace of long habit, an
evening suit of some fine black stuff that almost shone in the light
from the open door. At the sight of him the waist of Ben's own coat
shrunk up to the arm-pits, and he felt a sinking of the heart as they
passed out of his range of vision. He would not appear to advantage by
the side of Colonel French, and he would not care to appear otherwise
than to advantage in Graciella's eyes. He would not like to make more
palpable, by contrast, the difference between Colonel French and
himself; nor could he be haughty, distant, reproachful, or anything
but painfully self-conscious, in a coat that was not of the proper
cut, too short in the sleeves, and too tight under the arms.

While he stood thus communing with his own bitter thoughts, another
carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses, drew up to the
curb in front of him. The horses were restive, and not inclined to
stand still. Some one from the inside of the carriage called to the
coachman through the open window.

"Ransom," said the voice, "stay on the box. Here, you, open this
carriage door!"

Ben looked around for the person addressed, but saw no one near but
himself.

"You boy there, by the curb, open this door, will you, or hold the
horses, so my coachman can!"

"Are you speaking to me?" demanded Ben angrily.

Just then one of the side-lights of the carriage flashed on Ben's
face.

"Oh, I beg pardon," said the man in the carriage, carelessly, "I took
you for a nigger."

There could be no more deadly insult, though the mistake was not
unnatural. Ben was dark, and the shadow made him darker.

Ben was furious. The stranger had uttered words of apology, but his
tone had been insolent, and his apology was more offensive than his
original blunder. Had it not been for Ben's reluctance to make a
disturbance, he would have struck the offender in the mouth. If he had
had a pistol, he could have shot him; his great uncle Ralph, for
instance, would not have let him live an hour.

While these thoughts were surging through his heated brain, the young
man, as immaculately clad as Colonel French had been, left the
carriage, from which he helped a lady, and with her upon his arm,
entered the hall. In the light that streamed from the doorway, Ben
recognised him as Barclay Fetters, who, having finished a checkered
scholastic career, had bee