“’Specs I don’t need sech poor comfort, Mass Louis.  I takes my comfort wid de Lord.”

Pompey’s voice was low and sweet.  Evadne felt her heart glow.

“But come now, Pomp,” persisted Louis, “that’s all nonsense.  You must have some reason for not smoking.  Everybody does.  Come, I insist on your telling me.”

Pompey was silent for a moment. “‘The pure in heart shall see God,’” he said slowly.  “I ’low, Mass Louis, de King’s chillen’s got ter be pure in body too."’

“You insolent scoundrel!  How dare you?” and Louis dashed the glowing end of his cigar in the negro’s face.

For a moment Pompey stood absolutely still,—­the cigar which had left its mark upon his cheek lying smouldering at his feet,—­then he turned quietly and walked away.

Louis strode out of the coach-house.  Evadne followed him, her eyes blazing.  “You are a coward!” she cried passionately.  “You would not have dared to do that to a man who could hit you back.  You forced him to tell you and then struck him for doing it!  If this is your culture and refinement, I despise it!  I am going to be a Christian, like Pompey.  That is grand!”

“Well done, coz!” and Louis affected a laugh.  “There’s not much of the ‘meek and lowly’ in evidence just now at any rate.”

He looked after her as she walked away, her indignant tones still lingered in his ears.  “By Jove! there’s something to her though she is so quiet!  I must cultivate the child.”

Seen through Evadne’s clear eyes his action looked despicable and his better nature suggested an apology, but he swept the suggestion aside with a muttered “Pshaw! he’s only a nigger,” and turned carelessly on his heel.

“You are Dyce!” cried Evadne impulsively when she reached the cottage in whose open doorway a pleasant-faced colored woman was standing.  “Pompey has told me about you.  I think your husband is one of the grandest men I know.”

“Thank you, Missy.  Walk right in, I’se proper glad ter see Mass Lennux’s chile.”

“Why, how did you know me?” asked Evadne wonderingly.

The woman laughed softly.  “Laws, honey, you’se de livin’ image of yer Pa.”

She excused herself after a few moments and Evadne laid her head against the cushions of a comfortable old rocking chair and rested.  She wondered sometimes where her old strength had gone.  She had never felt tired in Barbadoes.  The tiny room was full of a homely comfort which did her heart good.  There were books lying on the table and flowers in the window, a handsome cat purred in front of the fireplace, and on a bracket in one corner an asthmatic clock ticked off the hours with wheezy vigor.  In an adjoining room Evadne could see a bed with its gay patchwork quilt of Dyce’s making, and in the little kitchen beyond she heard her singing as she trod to and fro.  A couple of dainty muslin dresses were draped over chairs, for Dyce was the finest clear starcher in Marlborough, and her kitchen was all too small to hold the products of her skill.  She entered the room again bearing a tray covered with a snowy napkin on which were quaint blue plates of delicious bread and butter, pumpkin pie, golden browned as only Dyce could bake it, and a cup of fragrant coffee.