she court publicity. She
would write to Jack regularly, informing him of her progress, and he
would visit her whenever he could. Jack assented gravely to the further
proposition that he was to keep a strict account of all the moneys he
advanced her, and that she was to repay him out of the proceeds of her
first pictures. He had promised also, with a slight mental reservation,
not to buy them all himself, but to trust to her success with the
public. They were never to talk of what had happened before; she was to
begin life anew. Of such were their confidences, spoken often together
at the same moment, and with their mouths full. Only one thing troubled
Jack; he had not yet told her frankly who he was and what was his
reputation; he had hitherto carelessly supposed she would learn it,
and in truth had cared little if she did; but it was evident from her
conversation that day that by some miracle she was still in ignorance.
Unable now to tell her himself, he had charged Hannibal to break it to
her casually after he was gone. "You can let me down easy if you like,
but you'd better make a square deal of it while you're about it. And,"
Jack had added cheerfully, "if she thinks after that she'd better drop
me entirely, you just say that if she wishes to STAY, you'll see that
I don't ever come here again. And you keep your word about it too, you
black nigger, or I'll be the first to thrash you."

Nevertheless, when Hannibal and Aunt Chloe returned to clear away the
repast, they were a harmonious party; albeit, Mr. Hamlin seemed more
content to watch them silently from his chair by the window, a cigar
between his lips, and the pleasant distraction of the homely scents and
sounds of the garden in his senses. Allusion having been made again to
the morning performance of the organ, he was implored by Hannibal to
diversify his talent by exercising it on an old guitar which had passed
into that retainer's possession with certain clothes of his master's
when they separated. Mr. Hamlin accepted it dubiously; it had twanged
under his volatile fingers in more pretentious but less innocent halls.
But presently he raised his tenor voice and soft brown lashes to the
humble ceiling and sang.

"Way down upon the Swanee River,"

Discoursed Jack plaintively,--

"Far, far away,
Thar's whar my heart is turning ever,
Thar's whar the old folks stay."

The two dusky scions of an emotional race, that had been wont to