s that it was agreed, with small preliminary, that on the
next morning Tallwoods should lose three of its late tenants.
Josephine ventured to inquire of Dunwody regarding Lily. "Take her
if you like," said he bruskly. "I will arrange the papers for it
with Clayton himself. There will be no expense to you. If he
wants to sell the girl I'll pay him. No, not a cent from you. Go
on, Lily, if you want to. This time you'll get shut of us, I
reckon, and we'll get shut of you. I hope you'll never come back,
this time. You've made trouble enough already."

Thus, then, on the day of departure, Josephine St. Auban found
herself standing before her mirror. It was not an unlovely image
which she saw there. In some woman's fashion, assisted by Jeanne's
last tearful services and the clumsy art of Lily, she had managed a
garbing different from that of her first arrival at this place.
The lines of her excellent figure now were wholly shown in this
costume of golden brown which she had reserved to the last. Her
hair was even glossier than when she first came here to Tallwoods,
her cheek of better color. She was almost disconcerted that the
trials of the winter had wrought no greater ravages; but after all,
a smile was not absent from her lips. Not abolitionist here in the
mirror, but a beautiful young woman. Certainly, whichever or
whoever she was, she made a picture fit wholly to fill the eyes of
the master of Tallwoods when he came to tell her the coach was
ready for the journey to St. Genevieve. But he made no comment,
not daring.

"See," she said, almost gaily, "I can put on both my gloves." She
held out to him her hands.

"They are very small," he replied studiously. He was calm now.
She saw he had himself well in hand. His face was pale and grave.

"Well," said she finally, as the great coach drove around to the
door, "I suppose I am to say good-by."

"I'll just walk with you down the road," he answered. "We walked
up it, once, together."

They followed on, after the coach had passed down the driveway,
Dunwody now moody and silent, his head dropped, his hands behind
him, until the carriage pulled up and waited at the end of the
shut-in at the lower end of the valley. Josephine herself remained
silent as well, but as the turn of the road approached which would
cut off the view of Tallwoods, she turned impulsively and waved a
hand in farewell at the great mansion house which lay back, silent
and strong,