in the
transformed swamp--now a swamp in name only--beneath the great oak,
dreaming. And what she dreamed there in the golden day she dared not
formulate even to her own soul. She rose with a start, for there was
work to do. Aunt Rachel was ill, and Emma went daily to attend her;
today, as she came back, she brought news that Colonel Cresswell, who
had been unwell for several days, was worse. She must send Emma up to
help, and as she started toward the school she glanced toward the
Cresswell Oaks and saw the arm-chair of its master on the pillared
porch.

Colonel Cresswell sat in his chair on the porch, alone. As far as he
could see, there was no human soul. His eyes were blood-shot, his cheeks
sunken, and his breath came in painful gasps. A sort of terror shook
him until he heard the distant songs of black folk in the fields. He
sighed, and lying back, closed his eyes and the breath came easier. When
he opened them again a white figure was coming up the avenue of the
Oaks. He watched it greedily. It was Mary Cresswell, and she started
when she saw him.

"You are worse, father?" she asked.

"Worse and better," he replied, smiling cynically. Then suddenly he
announced: "I've made my will."

"Why--why--" she stammered.

"Why?" sharply. "Because I'm going to die."

She said nothing. He smiled and continued:

"I've got it all fixed. Harry was in a tight place--gambling as
usual--and I gave him a lump sum in lieu of all claims. Then I gave John
Taylor--you needn't look. I sent for him. He's a damned scoundrel; but
he won't lie, and I needed him. I willed his children all the rest
except two or three legacies. One was one hundred thousand dollars for
you--"

"Oh, father!" she cried. "I don't deserve it."

"I reckon two years with Harry was worth about that much," he returned
grimly. "Then there's another gift of two hundred thousand dollars and
this house and plantation. Whom do you think that's for?"

"Helen?"

"Helen!" he raised his hand in threatening anger. "I might rot here for
all she cares. No--no--but then--I'll not tell you--I--ah--" A spasm of
pain shot across his face, and he lay back white and still. Abruptly he
sat up again and peered down the oaks. "Hush!" he gasped. "Who's that?"

"I don't know--it's a girl--I--"

He gripped her till she winced.

"My God--it walks--like my wife--I tell you--she held her head so--who
is it?" He half rose.

"Oh, father, it's nobody but Emma--little Emma--Bert