The day was hot and grew hotter as the sun rose higher in the heavens, and the stranger felt very uncomfortable, but it was not the heat which affected him as much as the terrible network of circumstances which he had woven for himself.  It was the harvest he was reaping as the result of one false step, when his brain was blurred and he was somebody besides the elegant gentleman whom people felt it an honor to know.  He was himself now, crushed inwardly, but carrying himself just as proudly as if no mental fire were consuming him, making him think seriously more than once of jumping into the river and ending it all.  He was very luxurious and fastidious in his tastes, and would have nothing unseemly in his home at the North, where he had only to say to his servants come and they came, and where, if he died on his rosewood bedstead with silken hangings, they would make him a grand funeral—­smother him with flowers, and perhaps photograph him as he lay in state.  Here, if he ended his life, in the river, with alligators and turtles, he would be fished up a sorry spectacle, and laid upon the deck with weeds and ferns clinging to him, and no one knowing who he was till they sent for Tom Hardy at that moment hurrying back to his home in Georgia, from which he had come at the earnest request of his friend.  He did not like the looks of himself bedraggled and wet, and dead, on the deck of the “Hatty,” with that curious crowd looking at him, Mandy Ann with the rest.  Strange that thoughts of Mandy Ann should flit through his mind as he decided against the cold bath in the St. John’s and to face it, whatever it was.  Occasionally some one spoke to him, and he always answered politely, and once offered his chair to a lady who seemed to be looking for one.  But she declined it, and he was again left alone.  Once he went to the other end of the boat for a little exercise and change, he said to himself, but really for a chance of seeing Mandy Ann, who of all the passengers interested him the most.  But Mandy Ann was not in sight, nor did he see her again till the boat was moving slowly up to the wharf at Enterprise, and with her braided tags of hair standing up like little horns, and her worldly goods tied up in a cotton handkerchief, she stood respectfully behind the waiting crowd, each eager to be the first to land.

The Brock House was full—­“not so much as a cot or a shelf for one more,” the clerk said to the stranger, who was last at the desk.  He had lingered behind the others to watch Mandy Ann, with a half-formed resolution to ask her to direct him to “ole Miss Harrises” if, as Ted had said, she was going there.  Mandy Ann did not seem to be in any hurry and sauntered leisurely up the lane a little beyond the Brock House, where she sat down and stretching out her bare feet began to suck an orange Ted had given her at parting, telling her that though she was “an onery nigger who belonged to a Cracker, she had rather far eyes and a mouth that couldn’t be beat for sass, adding