upon it with a thought that they would keep her young mistress cool. All through the day she had restrained her feelings, because Jake told her that was the way to do.
"Seems ef I should bust," she said to herself more than once, and when at last the day was over, and both ole Miss and the little girl were asleep, she stole out to the newly made grave, and lying down upon it among the palmettoes she cried bitterly, "Oh, Miss Dory, Miss Dory, kin you har me? It's Mandy Ann, an' I'm so sorry you're dead, an' sorry I was so bad sometimes. I have tried to be better lately, sense I got growed. Now, hain't I, an' I hain't tole many lies, nor tached a thing sense I took that bill from him. Cuss him, wharever he is! Cuss him to-night, ef he's alive; an' ef his bed is soff' as wool, doan let him sleep for thinkin' of Miss Dory. Doan let him ever know peace of min' till he owns the 'ittle girl; though, dear Lawd, what should we do without her—me an' Jake?"
Mandy Ann was on her knees now, with her hands uplifted, as she prayed for cusses on the man who had wrought such harm to her mistress. When the prayer was finished she fell on her face again and sobbed, "Miss Dory, Miss Dory, I must go in now an' see to 'ittle chile, but I hates to leave you hyar alone in de san'. Does you know you's got on my ring? I gin it to you, an' ole granny Thomas 'gin in' when she seed it, an' said you mus' be good. I'se mighty glad I gin it to you. 'Twas all I had to give, an' it will tell 'em whar you've gone that you was good."
There was a dampness in the air that night, and Mandy Ann felt it as she rose from the grave, and brushed bits of palmetto from her dress and hair. But she did not mind it, and as she walked to the house she felt greatly comforted with the thought that she had cussed him, and that Miss Dory was wearing her ring as a sign that she was good, and that "ole granny Thomas had gin in."
CHAPTER VII
COL. CROMPTON
He was young to be a colonel, but the title was merely nominal and complimentary, and not given for any service to his country. When only twenty-one he had joined a company of militia—young bloods like himself—who drilled for exercise and pleasure rather than from any idea that they would ever be called into service. He was at first captain, then he rose to the rank of colonel, and when the company disbanded he kept the title, and was rather proud of it, as he was of everything pertaining to himself and the Cromptons generally. It was an old English family, tracing its ancestry back to the days of William the Conqueror, and boasting of two or three titles and a coat-of-arms. The American branch was not very prolific, and so far as he knew, the Colonel was the only remaining Crompton of that line in this country, except the son of a half-brother. This brother, who was now dead, had married against his father's wishes, and been cut off from the Crompton property, which, at the old man's death, all came to the Colonel. It was a fine estate, with a very grand house for the New England town by the sea in which it was situated. It was built by the elder Crompton, who was born in England, and had carried out his foreign ideas of architecture, and with its turrets and square towers it bore some resemblance to the handsome places he had seen at home. It was of stone, and stood upon a rise of ground, commanding a view of the sea two miles away, and the pretty village on the shore with a background of wooded hills stretching to the west. It was full of pictures and bric-à-brac, and statuary from all parts of the world, for the Colonel's father had travelled extensively, and brought home souvenirs from every country visited. Florida had furnished her quota, and stuffed parokeets and red birds, and a huge alligator skin adorned the walls of the wide hall, together with antlers and pieces of old armor, and other curios. A small fortune was yearly expended upon the grounds which were very large, and people wondered that the Colonel lavished so much upon what he seemed to care so little for, except to see that it was in perfect order, without a dried leaf, or twig, or weed to mar its beauty.
It had not always been thus with him. When he first came into possession of the place he was just through college, and had seemed very proud and fond of his fine estate, and had extended his hospitality freely to his acquaintances, keeping them, however, at a certain distance, for the Crompton pride was always in the ascendant, and he tolerated no familiarities, except such as he chose to allow. This genial social life lasted a few years, and then there came a change, following a part of a winter spent in South Carolina and Georgia with his intimate friend and college chum, Tom Hardy. Communication between the North and South was not as frequent and direct then as it is now, and but little was known of his doings. At first he wrote occasionally to Peter, his head servant, to whom he entrusted the care of the house; then his letters ceased and nothing was heard from him until suddenly, without warning, he came home, looking much older than when he went away, and with a look upon his face which did not leave it as the days went on.
"'Spect he had a high old time with that Tom Hardy, and is all tuckered out," Peter said, while the Colonel, thinking he must give some reason for his changed demeanor, said he had malaria, taken in some Southern swamp.
If there was any disease for which Peter had a special aversion it was malaria, which he fancied he knew how to treat, having had it once himself. Quinine, cholagogue, and whiskey were prescribed in large quantities, and Peter wondered why they failed to cure. He did not suspect that the quinine went into the fire, and the cholagogue down the drain-pipe from the washstand. The Colonel's malaria was not the kind to be cured by drugs, and there came a day when, after the receipt of a letter from Tom Hardy, he collapsed entirely, and Peter found him shivering in his room, his teeth chattering, and his fingers purple with cold.
"You have got it bad this time," Peter said, suggesting the doctor, and more quinine and cholagogue, and a dose of Warburg's Tincture.
The Colonel declined them all. What he needed was another blanket, and to be let alone. Peter brought the blanket and left him alone, while he faced this new trouble which bore no resemblance to malaria. He was just beginning to be more hopeful of the future, and had his plans all laid, and knew what he should do and say, and now this new complication had arisen and brushed his scheme aside. He had sown the wind and was reaping a cyclone, and he swore to himself, and hardened his heart against the innocent cause of his trouble, and thought once of suicide as he had on the St. John's the year before. He spent money, just the same, upon his handsome grounds; but it was only for the pride he had in keeping them up, and not for any pleasure he had in them. He never picked a flower, or sat on any of the seats under the trees, and, unless the day was very hot, was seldom seen upon his broad piazza, where every day Peter spread rugs and placed chairs because his master liked to see them there, if they were not used. His library was his favorite place, where he sat for hours reading, smoking, and thinking, no one knew of what, or tried to know, for he was not a man to be easily approached, or questioned as to his business. If he had malaria it clung to him year after year, while he grew more reserved and silent, and saw less and less of the people. Proud as Lucifer they called him, and yet, because he was a Crompton, and because of the money he gave so freely when it was asked for, he was not unpopular; and when the town began to grow in importance on account of its fine beach and safe bathing, and a movement was made to change its name from Troutburg to something less plebeian, Crompton was suggested, and met with general approval. No one was better pleased with the arrangement than the Colonel himself, although he did not smile when the news was brought to him. He seldom smiled at anything, but there was a kindling light in his eyes, and his voice shook a little as he thanked the committee who waited upon him. To be known as "Col. Crompton of Crompton" was exceedingly gratifying to his vanity, and seemed in a way to lift the malarious cloud from him for a time at least.
It was more than three years since Tom Hardy's letter had thrown him into a chill, and everything as yet was quiet. Nothing had come
