'Why, Lorez, have you given him that!' exclaimed Silver as he drew out
a scarlet ribbon, old and frayed, but brilliant still. 'We think it
must have belonged to her young master,' she continued in a low tone.
'It is her most precious treasure, and long ago she used to talk about
him, and about her old home in the South.'

The old woman came forward after a while, smiling and nodding like an
animated mummy, and taking the red ribbon threw it around the young
man's neck, knotting it under the chin. Then she nodded with treble
radiance and made signs; of satisfaction.

'Yes, it is becoming,' said Silver, considering the effect
thoughtfully, her small head with its veil of hair bent to one side,
like a flower swayed by the wind.

The flesh-pots of Egypt returned to Jarvis Waring's mind: he
remembered certain articles of apparel left behind in civilization,
and murmured against the wilderness. Under the pretence of examining
the vases, he took an early opportunity of, looking into the round
mirror. 'I am hideous,' he said to himself, uneasily.

'Decidedly so,' echoed the Spirit in a cheerful voice. But he was not;
only a strong dark young man of twenty-eight, browned by exposure,
clad in a gray flannel shirt and the rough attire of a hunter.

The fire on the hearth sparkled gayly. Silver had brought one of her
little white gowns, half finished, and sat sewing in its light, while
the old negress came and went about her household tasks.