room to get ready.

A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in
the direction of the western suburbs of the town.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE LAST.

We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy's deep-laid schemes in
behalf of Manuela and the "sick man" miscarried.

That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his
account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the
wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other
features.

"Sooz'n," he said, "de white folk is past my compre'nshin altogidder,
an' I ha'n't got words to tell you how t'ankful I am dat you an' me was
born black."

"Das true, Quash. We's got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?"

"What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt'ing went wrong. Look here, dis
was de way ob it. When me an' Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had
fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure 'nuff, an' you may b'liebe he look
'stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn't half so 'stonished as me at de
way dey hoed on. What d'ee t'ink dey dooed, Sooz'n?"

"Dun know. S'pose dey run into each oder's arms, an' hab a dance
round--like me an' you."

"Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn't hab bin suprised at dat at all. No,
arter de fust look o' suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an' Miss
Manuela looked orkerder!"

"It had bin in my mind," continued Quashy, "arter I had bring 'em
togidder, to turn about, an' enter into conbersation wid my hoss--what's
pritty well used to my talk by dis time--but when I see how t'ings went,
I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an' saw'd."

"You wasn't innercent _dat_ time, Quashy."

"I di'n't say I was, Sooz'n, but I cou'n't help it. Well, Massa
Lawrence, who's too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss
Manuela wid a leetle smile, an' holds out his hand. She shakes it quite
gently-like, zif dey was on'y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob
course I di'n't hear rightly all dey said--"

"Ha! wantin' to keep up a _leetle_ innercence?"

"Jest so, Sooz'n, but I couldn't help hearin' a good deal--somet'ing
like dis:--

"Says Massa Lawrence, says he, `Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.' `Ditto to
you, sir,' says Manuela--"

"No, she didn't say dat," interrupted Susan, with decision.

"Well, no, p'r'aps not 'zactly dat, Sooz'n, but suffin wid de same
meanin'. You know it i'n't possible for me to speak like dem. An' dey
bof seemed to hab got deir go-to