you are hard up for money—­never mind how I found out; a boarding house is no place to keep such matters secret—­and I want you to let me help you out of the pinch.  I’ve been there often enough myself.  I’ve been getting a fair salary all the season, and I’ve saved some money.  You’re welcome to a couple hundred—­or even more—­until you get—­”

“Stop!” commanded the major, with his arm outstretched.  “It seems that my book didn’t lie, after all.  You think your money salve will heal all the hurts of honour.  Under no circumstances would I accept a loan from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before I would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the circumstances we have discussed.  I beg to repeat my request relative to your quitting the apartment.”

Hargraves took his departure without another word.  He also left the house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper table, nearer the vicinity of the down-town theatre, where “A Magnolia Flower” was booked for a week’s run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia.  There was no one in Washington to whom the major’s scruples allowed him to apply for a loan.  Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was doubtful whether that relative’s constricted affairs would permit him to furnish help.  The major was forced to make an apologetic address to Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to “delinquent rentals” and “delayed remittances” in a rather confused strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old coloured man who wanted to see Major Talbot.  The major asked that he be sent up to his study.  Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot.  He was quite decently dressed in a baggy suit of black.  His big, coarse shoes shone with a metallic lustre suggestive of stove polish.  His bushy wool was gray—­almost white.  After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the age of a Negro.  This one might have seen as many years as had Major Talbot.

“I be bound you don’t know me, Mars’ Pendleton,” were his first words.

The major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.  It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

“I don’t believe I do,” he said kindly—­“unless you will assist my memory.”

“Don’t you ‘member Cindy’s Mose, Mars’ Pendleton, what ’migrated ’mediately after de war?”

“Wait a moment,” said the major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers.  He loved to recall everything connected with those beloved days.  “Cindy’s Mose,” he reflected.  “You worked among the horses—­breaking the colts.  Yes, I remember now.  After the surrender, you took the name of—­don’t prompt me—­Mitchell, and went to the West—­to Nebraska.”