s,
Miss Kate, whar you gwine at wif my prize? Huccom you took'n hit away
fum me?"

Unnoticed, an old, shambling negro had approached across the field, and
was gazing in wide-eyed dismay at the china vase under her arm.

Mrs. Kildare welcomed the interruption. She did not often encourage her
emotions.

"Aha! Well met, Ezekiel," she said dramatically. "Search your heart,
search your black heart, I say, and tell me whether a magnificent trophy
like this deserves no better resting place than a cabin whose door-yard
looks like a pig-sty."

"But ain't I done won it?" insisted the negro. "Ain't I done won it fa'r
and squar'? Wan't my do'-yahd de purtiest in de whole Physick League?"

"It was, two weeks ago; and now what is it? A desert, a Sahara strewn
with tomato-cans and ashes. No, no, Ezekiel. Winning a prize isn't
enough for the Civic League--nor for God," she announced, sententiously.
"You've got to keep it won."

She moved on, resistless, like Fate. The negro gazed after her, his
month quivering childishly.

"She's a hard 'ooman, the Madam, a mighty hard 'ooman! Huccom she
kissin' Mr. Philip Benoix dataway? Him a preacher, too!" Suddenly his
eye gleamed with a forgotten memory. "De French doctor's boy--my Lawd!
De French doctor's own chile!" He shook his fist after the retreating
pair. "White 'ooman, white 'ooman, ain't you got no shame 't all?" he
muttered--but very low, for the Madam had good ears.

CHAPTER II

As they jogged along, man and mare at the same easy foot-pace, Benoix
said, "Are you sure that vase doesn't really belong to old Zeke, Miss
Kate?"

"No, I'm not," she answered frankly. "I suppose it does belong to him,
as a matter of fact. But the whole purpose of the Civic League I formed
among the village negroes was to keep their quarters decent. If it fails
of that--Well, the Madam giveth, and the Madam taketh away." She shot
him a mischievous glance. "Evidently you don't approve of me, Philip?"

"Of you. Not of your ethics, perhaps. They 're rather--feminine."

She shrugged. "Oh, well--feminine ethics are enough for Storm village.
They have to be," she said, succinctly.

Before them, outlined against the red round of the low sun, stood the
rambling gray outlines of a house, topping a small hill. From one of its
huge chimneys a pennant of smoke waved hospitably. The mare whinnied,
and chafed a little against the bit.

"Clover smells her oats," said Mrs. Kildare, "and I smell Big Liz