There was a short, very black, and somewhat bowlegged negro man on the place, named Israel Bonaparte, who lived in a little cabin by himself, and was noted for his unsocial disposition, and his taciturnity.  To him Mr Brandon went one day, and said:  “Israel, I want you to go to work on the fence rows on my side of the road to Howlett’s.  Grub up the bushes, clear out the vines and weeds, and see that the rails and posts are all in order.  That will be a job that I expect will last you until the roads begin to get heavy.  And, by the way, Israel, while you are at work, I want you to keep a lookout for any visitors that may turn into our road, especially if they happen to be ladies.  Now that Miss Rob is away, I am very particular about knowing, beforehand, when ladies are coming to visit me; and when you see any wagon or carriage turn in, I want you to make a short cut across the fields, and let me know it, and I will give you a quarter of a dollar every time you do so.”  This was a very pleasant job of work for the meditative Israel.  He was not very fond of grubbing, but he earned the greater part of his ten dollars a month and rations, by sitting on the fence, smoking a corn-cob pipe, and attending to the second division of the work which his employer had set him to do.

Lawrence Croft was in New York at this time, a very busy man, arranging his affairs in that city, so that they would not need his personal attention for some time to come; he sub-let, for the remainder of his lease, the suite of bachelor apartments he had occupied, and he stored his furniture and books.  One might have imagined that he was taking in all possible sails; close reefing the others; battening down the hatches; and preparing to run before a storm; and yet his demeanor did not indicate that he expected any violent commotion of the elements.  On the contrary, his friends and acquaintances thought him particularly blithe and gay.  He told them he was going to be married.

“To that Virginia lady, I suppose,” said one.  “I remember her very well; and consider you fortunate.”

“I don’t think you ever met her,” said Mr Croft.  “She is a Miss Peyton, from King Thomas County.”

“Ah!” remarked his interlocutor.  Lawrence walked to the window of the club-room, and stood there, slowly puffing his cigar.  Had anybody met this one? he thought.  He knew she had seen but little company during her father’s life, but was it likely that any of his acquaintances had had business at Candy’s Information Shop?  As this idea came into his mind, there seemed to be something unpleasant in the taste of his cigar, and he threw it into the fire.  A few turns, however, up and down the now almost deserted rooms, restored his tone; he lighted another cigar, and now there came up before him a vision of the girl who, from loyalty to her dead father, preferred to sit all day behind Candy’s money desk rather than go to a relative who had not been his friend.  And then he saw the young girl who took up so courageously the cause of one of her own blood—­the boy cousin of her childhood; and with a lover’s pride, Lawrence thought of the dash, the spirit, and the bravery with which she had done it.