elters. The older part was
of rough-hewn logs, whitewashed. To this had been added later a wing of
boulders; later still, one of brick. Across the long front ran a
brick-paved gallery, where a disused carriage had been drawn for
shelter, and taken possession of by a flock of turkeys.

Negroes, big and little, came running from the quarters at the back. A
huge, beaming black woman waddled out and lifted Kate bodily from the
saddle, loudly praising God.

"My Lawdy, ain't she des' a _beauty_? Ain't Mr. Bas' done picked him a
beauty-bright?"

In the open door waited another house-servant; a handsome young mulatto
girl, who curtseyed respectfully and stared at her new mistress with
hostile, curious eyes.

Remembering, Kate shuddered, as she had shuddered then with the
bewilderment, the sense of unreality, that took possession of her at
that moment. It was all so unlike what she had expected, so appallingly
unlike the gracious, well-ordered life of the stately Bluegrass homes
she had known.

Rank weeds grew to the very door-sill. Within she saw a huge, raftered
hall hung with antlers and guns and saddles, pelts, fox-brushes. There
was a stuffed bloodhound, the ancestor perhaps of Jove and Juno. A
horse's head protruded from the wall, nostrils dilated, glassy eyes
starting from the sockets, as if the poor creature were still running
his last race with Death.

"Welcome home, wife!" cried Basil Kildare, kissing her lips with a loud
smack.

The negroes guffawed in delight, the hounds bayed again till the hills
echoed.

Then beside the house she saw a few squares and circles of fresh-turned
earth, planted with limp coleas, and dusty-millers, and all the other
unlovely specimens of horticulture favored by men when they go
a-gardening. Her eyes filled with sudden tears.

"Why, Basil!" She slipped a hand into his. "You dear! How sweet of you
to try to make me the little garden!"

"Eh? What garden?" His eyes followed hers. "Oh! That must be some of
Benoix' doings. He's the only man 'round here who has time to fool with
posies."

CHAPTER IV

There was never a stranger honeymoon than that of Kate and Basil
Kildare. It began with a view-halloa. It ended ... how should happy
hunting end except with the death of something?

That first year was not without its heady charm for a girl with the
facile, the almost tragic, adaptability of seventeen years. True, it was
not married life as she had dreamed it; but it was