and Phil would
surely go to sleep again. But I will come another time--I shall stay
in town several days."

"Yes, _do_ come, if you _must_ go," rejoined Graciella with emphasis.
"I want to hear more about the North, and about New York society
and--oh, everything! Good night, Philip. _Good_ night, Colonel
French."

"Beware of the steps, Henry," said Miss Laura, "the bottom stone is
loose."

They heard his footsteps in the quiet street, and Phil's light patter
beside him.

"He's a lovely man, isn't he, Aunt Laura?" said Graciella.

"He is a gentleman," replied her aunt, with a pensive look at her
young niece.

"Of the old school," piped Mrs. Treadwell.

"And Philip is a sweet child," said Miss Laura.

"A chip of the old block," added Mrs. Treadwell. "I remember----"

"Yes, mother, you can tell me when I've shut up the house,"
interrupted Miss Laura. "Put out the lamps, Graciella--there's not
much oil--and when you go to bed hang up your gown carefully, for it
takes me nearly half an hour to iron it."

"And you are right good to do it! Good night, dear Aunt Laura! Good
night, grandma!"

Mr. French had left the hotel at noon that day as free as air, and he
slept well that night, with no sense of the forces that were to
constrain his life. And yet the events of the day had started the
growth of a dozen tendrils, which were destined to grow, and reach
out, and seize and hold him with ties that do not break.

_Seven_

The constable who had arrested old Peter led his prisoner away through
alleys and quiet streets--though for that matter all the streets of
Clarendon were quiet in midafternoon--to a guardhouse or calaboose,
constructed of crumbling red brick, with a rusty, barred iron door
secured by a heavy padlock. As they approached this structure, which
was sufficiently forbidding in appearance to depress the most
lighthearted, the strumming of a banjo became audible, accompanying a
mellow Negro voice which was singing, to a very ragged ragtime air,
words of which the burden was something like this:

_"W'at's de use er my wo'kin' so hahd?
I got a' 'oman in de white man's yahd.
W'en she cook chicken, she save me a wing;
W'en dey 'low I'm wo'kin', I ain' doin' a thing!"_

The grating of the key in the rusty lock interrupted the song. The
constable thrust his prisoner into the dimly lighted interior, and
locked the door.

"Keep over to the right," he said curtly, "that's the ni