a fresh importation. He possibly remembered much of Africa, but he
accepted without demur and with admiring and submissive meekness stories
of the great sights that Cæsar protested he had seen there,--Vauxhall
Gardens and Temple Bar (which last Cæsar thought in his simplicity was
a bar for the refreshment of the inner man) and a certain resort
indisputably for that purpose called White's Chocolate House,--all
represented as pleasantly and salubriously situated in the interior of
Guinea. But after all, if a story is well told, why carp at slight
anachorisms?

Richard Mivane's attention had been diverted from the thread of his own
reminiscences by the fact that the little flax-wheel of Peninnah
Penelope Anne had ceased to whirl, and the low musical monody of its
whir that was wont to bear a pleasant accompaniment to the burden of his
thoughts was suddenly silent. He lifted his eyes and saw that she was
gazing dreamily into the flare of the great fire, the spinning-wheel
still, the end of the thread motionless in her hand. The burnished waves
of her golden brown hair were pushed a bit awry, and her face was so wan
and thoughtful that even her dress of crimson wool did not lessen its
pallor. The voices of the three children on the floor grated on the old
man's mood as they were busied in defending a settler's fort, insecurely
constructed of stones and sticks, and altogether roofless, garrisoned by
a number of pebbles, while a poke full of wily Indian kernels of corn
swarmed to the attack.

"Why is my pretty pet so idle?" he asked, for while the wheel should
whirl he could dream.

She made no answer, only turned her troubled, soft hazel eyes upon him.