"Thank ye, Mahs'r," with a bow and scrape.

"What's the gal's name?"

"Lugena, sah."

"Yes, Vicey's gal--smart gal, too. Well, as I've about concluded to
keep you both--if you behave yourselves, that is, as well as you've
been doing--I don't know as there's any reason why you shouldn't
take up with her."

"Thank ye, Mahs'r," very humbly, but very joyfully.

The speakers were the black baby whom Desmit had christened Nimbus,
grown straight and strong, and just turning his first score on the
scale of life, and Colonel Desmit, grown a little older, a little
grayer, a little fuller, and a great deal richer--if only the small
cloud of war just rising on the horizon would blow over and leave
his possessions intact. He believed it would, but he was a wise
man and a cautious one, and he did not mean to be caught napping
if it did not.

Nimbus had come from Knapp-of-Reeds to a plantation twenty miles
away, upon a pass from Mr. Ware, on the errand his conversation
disclosed. He was a fine figure of a man despite his ebon hue,
and the master, looking at him, very naturally noted his straight,
strong back, square shoulders, full, round neck, and shapely,
well-balanced head. His face was rather heavy--grave, it would
have been called if he had been white--and his whole figure and
appearance showed an earnest and thoughtful temperament. He was as