The whole party examined the new comer with the interest with which a set of loafers in a rainy day usually examine every newcomer.  He was very tall, with a dark, Spanish complexion, fine, expressive black eyes, and close-curling hair, also of a glossy blackness.  His well-formed aquiline nose, straight thin lips, and the admirable contour of his finely-formed limbs, impressed the whole company instantly with the idea of something uncommon.  He walked easily in among the company, and with a nod indicated to his waiter where to place his trunk, bowed to the company, and, with his hat in his hand, walked up leisurely to the bar, and gave in his name as Henry Butter, Oaklands, Shelby County.  Turning, with an indifferent air, he sauntered up to the advertisement, and read it over.

“Jim,” he said to his man, “seems to me we met a boy something like this, up at Beman’s, didn’t we?”

“Yes, Mas’r,” said Jim, “only I an’t sure about the hand.”

“Well, I didn’t look, of course,” said the stranger with a careless yawn.  Then walking up to the landlord, he desired him to furnish him with a private apartment, as he had some writing to do immediately.

The landlord was all obsequious, and a relay of about seven negroes, old and young, male and female, little and big, were soon whizzing about, like a covey of partridges, bustling, hurrying, treading on each other’s toes, and tumbling over each other, in their zeal to get Mas’r’s room ready, while he seated himself easily on a chair in the middle of the room, and entered into conversation with the man who sat next to him.

The manufacturer, Mr. Wilson, from the time of the entrance of the stranger, had regarded him with an air of disturbed and uneasy curiosity.  He seemed to himself to have met and been acquainted with him somewhere, but he could not recollect.  Every few moments, when the man spoke, or moved, or smiled, he would start and fix his eyes on him, and then suddenly withdraw them, as the bright, dark eyes met his with such unconcerned coolness.  At last, a sudden recollection seemed to flash upon him, for he stared at the stranger with such an air of blank amazement and alarm, that he walked up to him.

“Mr. Wilson, I think,” said he, in a tone of recognition, and extending his hand.  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t recollect you before.  I see you remember me,—­Mr. Butler, of Oaklands, Shelby County.”

“Ye—­yes—­yes, sir,” said Mr. Wilson, like one speaking in a dream.

Just then a negro boy entered, and announced that Mas’r’s room was ready.

“Jim, see to the trunks,” said the gentleman, negligently; then addressing himself to Mr. Wilson, he added—­“I should like to have a few moments’ conversation with you on business, in my room, if you please.”

Mr. Wilson followed him, as one who walks in his sleep; and they proceeded to a large upper chamber, where a new-made fire was crackling, and various servants flying about, putting finishing touches to the arrangements.