Then comes this last entry: 

“Two nights since died Scipio, son of old Shooba’s last Wife, the which did send for me, Urgently entreating of my Presence.  ’T was ever a Simple-minded Creature & found a faithful Servant, wherefore I did go to him.

“He was greatly in Dread of Dying, for that he was in mortal Terrour of old Shooba, fearing to Meet that Evil Being outside of the Flesh.  Had been with Shooba when the wretched Creature passed away, a harden’d Heathen among Convert’d & Profess’d Christians.  Said he was a Snake Soul.

“The man was craz’d with Fear, dreading Shooba to be even then in the Room.  And indeed the Tale he whisper’d me was enough to Craze a Christian Man, & hath all but crack’d mine own Witts.  If ’t were not for the Paper he slip’t into my Palm, I should sett it down for a Phantazy, one of old Shooba’s evil Spells.  Most merciful God, how came he by that Paper if the Tale be untrue?

“Greatly am I upsett by this Improbable & Frightful Thing.  Sure this requires Prayer & Fasting, lest I be Delud’d.”

Between the pages following this last entry was a piece of yellowed paper, the paper that had been lost from the Author’s coat pocket, in the locked closet of his room.

After a while I managed to work the slit of a drawer open, and to this hiding-place I returned Freeman’s diary, and with it the faintly scented bit of paper that The Author mourned.

* * * * *

The failure of her matrimonial plans for me did not occasion Miss Alicia Gaines overmuch grief.  She seemed to have dismissed the whole matter from her mind.  Restored to her old time gaiety, she sang like a thrush as she worked.  She bubbled over with the sheer joy of living, until the very sight of her gladdened one.  And she simply couldn’t make her feet behave!  She danced with the broom one morning, to the great amusement of our scholarly old Englishman.

“I’m supposed to be somewhat of an old stick myself:  why not try me, instead of the broom?” he suggested slyly.  Instantly she took him at his word, and danced him up and down the hall until he was breathless.

“This,” panted the scholar, “is a fair sample of what the Irish do to the English.”

“We do lead you a pretty dance, don’t we, dear John Bull?” dimpled Alicia.

“You do, you engaging baggage!” he admitted.  “But,” he added, in a tone of satisfaction, “we manage to keep step, my dear!  Oh, yes, we manage to keep step!” And he trotted off, chuckling.

“There are times,” said The Author to me, darkly, “when the terrifying tirelessness of youth gives me a vertigo.  Come away, Miss Smith.  Leave that kitten to chase her own shadow up the wall.”

“Cross-patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin—­yarns!”

chanted Alicia.

“Go away, you pink-and-white delusion!” said The Author, severely.  “You have made Scholarship and Wisdom put on cap and bells and prance like a morris-dancer.  Isn’t that mischief enough for one day?”