For the next two or three days he did not visit the Robinsons, but
gave himself up to past memories. On the third day he had--it must
be confessed not without some effort--brought himself into that
condition of patient sorrow which had been his habit. The episode
of the storm and the finding of the baby began to fade, as had
faded the visit of his relatives. It had been a dull, wet day and
he was sitting by his fire, when there came a tap at his door.
"Flora;" by which juvenescent name his aged Indian handmaid was
known, usually announced her presence with an imitation of a
curlew's cry: it could not be her. He fancied he heard the
trailing of a woman's dress against the boards, and started to his
feet, deathly pale, with a name upon his lips. But the door was
impatiently thrown open, and showed Bessy Robinson! And the baby!
With a feeling of relief he could not understand he offered her a
seat. She turned her frank eyes on him curiously.
"You look skeert!"
"I was startled. You know I see nobody here!"
"Thet's so.
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