long on the way, but had reached its destination at last, and was soiled and worn, and very second-class in its appearance, Peter decided, as he took it from the office and studied it carefully.  No such missive had, to his knowledge, ever before found its way into the aristocratic precincts of Crompton Place.  If it had he had not seen it, and he wondered who could have sent this one.  He found his master taking his breakfast, and, holding the letter between his thumb and fingers, as if there were contamination in its touch, he handed it to him.

“Fairly turned speckled when he looked at it,” Peter thought, as he left the room.  “Wish I had seen where it was mailed.”

An hour later, Jane, the housemaid, came to him and said, “The Colonel wants you.”

Peter found him in his bedroom, packing a satchel with a shaking hand and a face more speckled than it had been when he read the letter.

“Peter,” he said, “fold up these shirts for me, and put in some collars and socks.  I am going on a little trip, and may be gone two weeks, maybe more.  Hold your tongue.”

When he wished Peter to be particularly reticent, he told him to hold his tongue.  Peter understood, and held it, and finished packing the satchel, ordered the carriage for the eleven o’clock train, and saw his master off, without knowing where he was going, except that his ticket was for New York.

“That smelly letter has something to do with it, of course,” he said.  “I wish I knew where it was from.”

He was arranging the papers on the library table, when he stopped suddenly with an exclamation of surprise, for there, under his hand, lay the smelly letter, which the Colonel had forgotten to put away.

“Phew!  I thought I got a whiff of something bad,” he said, and read again the superscription, with a growing contempt for the writer.  “Nobody will know if I read it, and I shall hold my tongue, as usual,” he thought, his curiosity at last overcoming his sense of honor.

Opening the envelope, he took out the piece of foolscap, on which was neither date nor name of place.

“Kurnal Krompton,” it began.  “Yer fren’ in Palatky done gone to Europe.  He tole me yer name ‘fore he went, an’ so I rite meself to tell you Miss Dory’s ded, an’ ole Miss, too.  She done dide a week ago, an’ Miss Dory las’ July.  What shal I do wid de chile?  I shood of rit when Miss Dory dide, but Mandy Ann an’ me—­you ’members Mandy Ann—­sed how you’d be comin’ to fotch her rite away, an’ we cuddent bar to part wid her whilst ole Miss lived.  But now she’s done ded de chile doan or’to be brung up wid Crackers an’ niggers, an’ den dar’s de place belonged to ole Miss, an’ dar’s Mandy Ann.  She doan’ or’ter be sole to nobody.  I’d buy her an’ set her free ef I had de money, but I hain’t.  She’s a rale purty chile—­de little girl.  You mite buy Mandy Ann an’ take her for lil chile’s nuss.  Jake Harris.”

“Jerusalem!” Peter exclaimed.  “Here’s a go.  Who is Miss Dory?  Some trollop, of course—­and she is dead, and old Miss, too.  Who is old Miss? and who is Mandy Ann the Colonel is to buy?  I’d laugh, rank Abolitionist as he is!  And what will he do with a child?  Crackers and niggers?  What is a Cracker?”