Miss Diana smiled.  “Well, Unavella.” she said.

“You decide ter leave yer hum, with all there is to it, an’ me inter the bargain, an’ go ter board with folks what don’t know yer likins nor understan’ yer feelin’s, an’ the end on it’ll be that you’ll jest wilt away wuss than a mornin’ glory.  I never did think folks sarved the Lord by dyin’ afore their time comes.

“I decide to hev you keep yer hum, an’ the things in it, an’ me too.  The hull on it is, Miss Di-an, I won’t be left!” and Unavella buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.

“You dear Unavella!” Miss Diana laid her soft hand upon the toil-roughened ones.  “If you only knew how I dread the thought of leaving you!  But what else is there for me to do?”

“Gentlemen boarders,” was the terse reply.

“Gentlemen boarders!” echoed Miss Diana in bewilderment.

“Yes.  You catch ’em, an’ I’ll cook’em.  We’ll begin with two ter see how they eat, an ef we find it don’t cost too much ter fatten ’em up, we’ll go inter the bizness reglar;” after making which cannibalistic proposition Unavella looked to her mistress for approval.

“Why, Unavella,” said Miss Diana, after the first shock of surprise was over, “I never even dreamed of such a thing!  It might be possible, if you are willing to undertake it, it is very good of you.  But we will not make any plans, Unavella, until I talk it over with the Lord.  If his smile rests upon it, your kindly thought for me will succeed; if not, it would be sure to fail.  I must have his approval first of all.”

She rose as she spoke and bade her a gentle good-night, and Unavella walked slowly back to her kitchen again.  “Ef the angul Gabriel,” she soliloquized, “starts in ter searchin’ the earth this night fer the Lord’s chosen ones, there ain’t no fear but what he’ll cum ter this house, the fust thing.”

Up-stairs Miss Diana was whispering softly, as she looked up at the stars with a trustful smile.  “Oh, my Father, if it is thy will that I should do this thing, thou wilt send me the right ones.”

CHAPTER XXI.

John Randolph did some hard thinking during the weeks which followed Richard Trueman’s death.  It was no light task which he had so cheerfully imposed upon himself.  The boy was constitutionally delicate and fretted so constantly after his father that his health began to suffer, and it grew to be a very pale face which welcomed John with a smile when he returned from the office.  The style of living was bad for him.  He was alone all day, except for an occasional visit from the good-natured German woman who kept their rooms, and, although he was a voracious reader, the doctor had forbidden all thought of study for a year, even had there been a school near enough for him to attend, where John would have been willing to send him.  He ought to be where the air was pure and the surroundings cheerful.  John would have preferred to put up with the discomfort of his present quarters and lay by the addition to his salary towards the more speedy realization of his day-dream, but John Randolph had never found much time to think of himself; there were always so many other people in the world to be attended to.