a garden path. One of them waved his
hat as Charity looked around. And behind them stood Jeems.

"Go away," said the worker, "go away, Judson Holmes. I haven't any time
for you today."

"Not after I've come all the way from New York to see you?" he asked
reproachfully. "Why, Charity!" He had the reddest hair Val had ever
seen--and the homeliest face--but his small-boy grin was friendliness
itself.

"Go away," she repeated stubbornly.

"Nope!" He shook his head firmly. "I'm staying right here until you
forget that for at least a minute." He motioned toward the picture.

With a sigh she put down her brush. "I suppose I'll have to humor you."

"Miss Charity," Jeems had not taken his eyes from the two models since
he had arrived and he did not move them now, "what're they all fixed up
like that fur?"

"It's a picture for a story," she explained. "A story about Haiti in the
old days--"

"Ah reckon Ah know," he nodded eagerly, his face suddenly alight.
"That's wheah th' blacks kilt th' French back in history times. Ah got
me a book 'bout it. A book in handwritin', not printin'. Pere Armand
larned me to read it."

Judson Holmes' companion moved forward. "A book in handwriting," he said
slowly. "Could that possibly mean a diary?"

Charity was wiping her hands on a paint rag. "It might. New Orleans was
a port of refuge for a great many of the French who fled the island
during the slave uprising. It is not impossible."

"I've got to see it! Here, boy, what's your name?" He pounced upon
Jeems. "Can you get that book here this afternoon?"

Jeems drew back. "Ah ain't gonna bring no book heah. That's mine an' you
ain't gonna set eye on it!" With that parting shot he was gone.

"But--but--" protested the other, "I've got to see it. Why, such a find
might be priceless."

Mr. Holmes laughed. "Curb your hunting instincts for once, Creighton.
You can't handle a swamper that way. Let's go and see Charity's
masterpiece instead."

"I don't remember having asked you to," she observed.

"Oh, see here now, wasn't I the one who got you this commission? And
Creighton here is that strange animal known as a publisher's scout. And
publishers sometimes desire the services of illustrators, so you had
better impress Creighton as soon as possible. Well," he looked at the
picture, "you have done it!"

Even Creighton, who had been inclined to stare back over his shoulder at
the point where Jeems disappeared, now gave it more than ha