adroon who had been a
servant in his family many years ago--how long no one seemed to
remember!--and who had been his nurse before she had received her
freedom. She enjoyed the distinction of being feared in the
neighborhood; her fetishes had a power no other witch's possessed, and
many of the negroes would have done anything to have possessed these
infallible charms, save crossing her threshold to get them. Mauville,
when he found fortune slipping away from him and ruin staring him in
the face, had been glad to transfer his abode to this unhallowed
place; going into hiding, as it were, until the storm should blow by,
when he expected to emerge, confident as ever.

But inaction soon chafed his restless nature, and drove him forth in
spite of himself from the streets in that quarter of the town where
the roofs of various-colored houses formed strange geometrical figures
and the windows were bright with flaring head-dresses, beneath which
looked out curious visages of ebony. Returning one day from such a
peregrination, he determined to end a routine of existence so
humiliating to his pride.

Pausing before a doorway, the land baron looked this way and that, and
seeing only the rotating eyes of a pickaninny fastened upon him,
hurried through the entrance. Hanging upon the walls were red and
green pods and bunches of dried herbs of unquestionable virtue
belonging to the old crone's pharmacopoeia. Mauville slowly ascended
the dark stairs and reached his retreat, a small apartment, with
furniture of cane-work and floor covered with sea-grass; the ceiling
low and the windows narrow, opening upon a miniature balcony that
offered space for one and no more.

"Is dat yo', honey?" said an adoring voice on the landing.

"Yes, auntie," replied the land baron, as an old crone emerged from an
ill-lighted recess and stood before him.

Now the light from the doorway fell upon her, and surely five score
years were written on her curiously wrinkled face--five score, or
more, for even the negroes did not profess to know how old she was.
Her bent figure, watery eyes and high shrill voice bore additional
testimony to her age.

"Yo's home earlier dan usual, dearie?" she resumed. "But yo' supper's
all ready. Sit down here."

"I'm not hungry, auntie," he returned.

"Not hungry, honey?" she cried, laughing shrilly. "Yo' wait!" And she
disappeared into an adjoining room, soon to emerge with a steaming
platter, which she set on the snow-