k with a fine air, "who's afraid of her?"

Lindy's face took on an expression of intense amusement.

"Yo' is, for one, Marse Nick," she answered, with the familiarity of an
old servant. "I done seed yo' skedaddle when she comed."

"Tut," said Nick, grandly, "I run from no woman. Eh, Davy?" He pushed
past the protesting Lindy into the room and took my hand.

"Egad, you have been near the devil's precipice, my son. A three-bottle
man would have gone over." In his eyes was all the strange affection he
had had for me ever since ave had been boys at Temple Bow together.
"Davy, I reckon life wouldn't have been worth much if you'd gone."

I did not answer. I could only stare at him, mutely grateful for such an
affection. In all his wild life he had been true to me, and he had clung
to me stanchly in this, my greatest peril. Thankful that he was here, I
searched his handsome person with my eyes. He was dressed as usual, with
care and fashion, in linen breeches and a light gray coat and a filmy
ruffle at his neck. But I thought there had come a change into his face.
The reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it, yet the spirit and
daring remained, and with these all the sweetness that was once in his
smile. There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils.

"You have been sitting up with me," I said.

"Of course," he answered patting my shoulder. "Of course I have. What
did you think I would be doing?"

"What was the matter with me?" I asked.

"Nothing much," he said lightly, "a touch of the sun, and a great deal of
overwork in behalf of your friends. Now keep still, or I will be getting
peppered."

I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my mind. Then I
said:--

"I had yellow fever."

He started.

"It is no use to lie to you," he replied; "you're too shrewd."

I was silent again for a while.

"Nick," I said, "you had no right to stay here. You have--other
responsibilities now."

He laughed. It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, and
I felt the better for hearing it.

"If you begin to preach, parson, I'll go; I vow I'll have no more
sermonizing. Davy," he cried, "isn't she just the dearest, sweetest,
most beautiful person in the world?"

"Where is she?" I asked, temporizing. Nick was not a subtle person, and
I was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette.
"I hope she is not here."

"We made her go to Les Iles," said he.

"And you risked you