bower! Oh, thou sometime Guyon!” and began to laugh.

It was late afternoon, and the slant sunshine streaming in at door and window striped wall and floor with gold. Floor and wall were no longer logs gnarled and stained: upon the one lay a carpet of delicate ferns and aromatic leaves, and glossy vines, purple-berried, tapestried the other. Flowers — purple and red and yellow — were everywhere. As we entered, a figure started up from the hearth.

“St. George!” exclaimed Rolfe. “You have never married a blackamoor?”

“It is the negress, Angela,” I said. “I bought her from William Pierce the other day. Mistress Percy wished a waiting damsel.”

The creature, one