What are dreams? A random sequence of scenes, trivial or tragic, viatic or static, fantastic or familiar, featuring more or less plausible events patched up with grotesque details, and recasting dead people in new settings. I dream while awake; I dream that I am awake. I see my mother, sitting on the edge of my childhood bed; she hands me an emerald stick of peppermint candy (or, what I think is peppermint candy), and asks whether or not I'm feeling better. I've been sick with a fever for two days now. I tell her I can't get the planter's son out of my head. She says, It's quite normal at your age to fall in love for the first time.

Hanging above her head on the wall there's her portrait, a rather good oil by a family friend, showing her wearing a diadem she had worn for a production of the Nutcracker ten years ago, romantically brimmed, with a great drooping plume of black-banded silver; and I, poisoned by opium, experience an odd sense of mystery at her words, as if the commentators of my destiny had gone into a huddle.

My mother is no longer sitting next to me but standing a little way off with her back to me at an open window.

"You can almost see Notre-Dame from this window," she says pensively. "Presently Baby will show you all the rooms in the house. Jonathan?" (She pronounces it a Latin way, making it sound rather like Yonathan.')"

I feel nauseous. I consider this: maybe the life I think I'm living is a paranoid delusion inherited from my mother. Not a hope.

"Do you hear me? His excellency wants you to come see him tonight."

I woke up, almost dropping the broom from my hands, looked back at Theodosia and stood motionless for a time, as though thunderstruck.

"Whatever for?"

"How should I know? Go ask him yourself. When he came out today, at two o-clock, he went straight to me and asked to see you."

Our eyes met and tangled.

"You should rest," she added unexpectedly. "You've been cleaning so hard today you smell like ammonia."

The gleaming, dazzling party of last night left the house a sorry mess, so all morning and all afternoon of the next day were spent cleaning up. Bits of colorful confetti covered every surface of the parlor, along with empty bottles, feathers, and candy wrappers. Gazing out at the bleak expanse of trash extending over the room like a trodden welter of snow, I saw the impracticability of refusing the offer. So, presided over by Theodosia's gaze, I found myself walking slowly away, repeating over and over that it was futile to worry. My mind was in a vast clamor and confusion.

Asleep but not conscious of it, I went upstairs and took a peek at the corridor. The master bedroom door was left ajar. I could hear water running in the bathroom– he was showering. Did he take a shower to perk himself up because his system wouldn't hold up otherwise? Or did he shower to forget, to wash away all traces of last night's smut and degradation? Oh, to proclaim your vices by shaking your head at them and wash the whole thing down the drain! How I wished I could do the same thing one day– only the shower in my quarters didn't have hot water. His room was so dark that I could barely see within. It had two large windows, against which the crown of a large oak tree malevolently pressed, encroaching day by day, as though it had confused itself with a jungle. In addition to this, we, or rather Hamilton, kept the windows closed and concealed by curtains most of the time. Standing outside, I strained my eyes to make the outline of the bathrobe laying on the edge of the bed. I felt bad for it– the bathrobe– for its long terry cloth belt and its velveteen sleeves, forced to come in direct contact with his naked body. His shoes I also pitied, them having to withstand the caress of his lips and to cradle his grotesque feet afterward. In great heaps and piles on the floor also lay his dirty laundry, his undergarments and socks, yet to be washed and dried and folded, and put carefully away in his closet, by me. I felt sick. I had touched his clothes so many times before, without realizing that in doing so I was being molested by him. The encounter in his study, and the hours that followed, constituted the highest ridge of his revolting plot: my sudden, dangerous, ineffably radiant coming of age.

Vaguely impelled by the feeling that as long as I was tidying up the house I was, at least, doing something — keeping up a semblance of consecutive action which would inevitably degenerate into a desperate vacuum of terror, I opted for cleaning the dressing room. It didn't need to be cleaned, because it didn't exist to please the eye. Its sole purpose was to store Hamilton's things, countless things that belonged to him, including myself. There was nothing to be seen. Still I mopped the floors, cleaned the stained-glass window and wiped the tin sheet which was there to replace a mirror. I had always wondered what had become of the actual mirror. Hamilton wouldn't throw away anything not quite worn out or broken– for even broken things he tended to hoard and keep to himself. I sat in the chair in front of the looking glass, thinking, staring at my reflection for so long that after a while I began seeing things behind my back. That's how tired I was: as when you'd driven all night, into the dawn, and as the sun would begin to come up you would see things at the sides of your eyes – pink cows on the hillside, mysterious men hiding in the weeds along the road. I felt as if I've been awake for days and running hard, my chest was burning. Across the corridor, I could still hear water running in the bathroom; hours seemed to have gone by since he had gone to take a shower. No, not the shower, but the flushing of the broken toilet – emptying itself when it was just about to overflow, only to refill and be emptied, again and again, like a veritable Niagara. I decided to take a nap under my favorite rack, and by the time I awoke, the soft belt of a bathrobe caressing my face, the glow of the afternoon had entered its most oppressive phase – dawn.

In the kitchen Theodosia welcomed me with a gaze as discreetly attentive as those museum guards who watch the only tourist in a dim old palace.

"You're late for supper. I've already put everything away."

I sat down. The heatless gouts of setting sun moved fast across the table and seemed to continue their journey through the tunnel of my own frame.

"I'm sorry. What can I have?"

"I could make you an egg or two. How would you like them?"

"Boiled."

Ten minutes elapsed, and on the tray in front of me appeared two eggs, one brown, one white. I cracked the brown shell and fingered the soft yolk for a bit. Could I still salvage it and perhaps incubate it?

"Boy, quit playing with your food. It's ungodly."

I looked up at Theodosia, who now sat opposite from me at the table.

"There ain't much godly about me to begin with," I responded, begrudgingly wiping my fingers on the edge of the tablecloth. "Nothing godly about this house."

"Whose fault do you think it is?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Hamilton's?"

"The fault is on all of us," Theodosia said with a harsh smile. "You say Hamilton's mind is unhinged; your own mind is unhinged, so is mine, and Lee's. We ought'nt bow to Hamilton, but we ought to bow down to all the suffering of humanity, for we sinned against it. All sinners must go on the same road – hellwards."

"I never took you for a religious fanatic."

"My mother, may her soul rest in Paradise, always told me there were only two parties mentioned in the Bible, the Publicans and the Sinners. No black man wanted to join a party made up entirely of sinners, so they hastened to join the Republicans. Their new masters even elected some of them to high places. They were fresh from cotton patch and canebrake, few of them could read or write. But it was within their power to vote taxes and write laws. And they wrote them. Enslaving convicts was the very best law that came from the wisdom of my people. For the first time in the history of this country, white man and black man was equal. In the eyes of the law, everyone starts with nothing except the virtue of their souls and kindness of their hearts. And some people have neither kindness nor virtue or, having them, scruple to use them. So they go under and they should go under. It's natural law and the world is better off with them in chains and cuffs."

"I should think you'd understand and sympathize with people forced into the same position as you."

Theodosia chuckled.

"​​I'm damned if I sympathize. If someone deserves to be sent hellwards, it's me."

I looked intently at her. Her lackluster gray eyes were brimming with some emotion I couldn't quite identify.

"What was it? Murder?"

"Why yes," she answered briefly, as she stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. "M' husband."

Reader, put up some memorial here; for instance, a yellow signpost. Let that particle of time leave a mark in space as well. There I was, sitting and staring—and then suddenly choking with unexpected and irrepressible laughter.

"You murdered your husband? And you dare accuse me of being a murderer? You are a hypocrite."

"I am a murderer. And I ain't sorry none that I shot him. He was laying with another woman. If you are comparing me with yourself, you conceited child, have some shame. If there's one thing I hate worse than an unfaithful man, it's fools like you who not only resist divine retribution, but also prevent others from receiving it. I hate folks who can't mind their own business. I have been humbly atoning for my sin since. I'd rather burn myself than have some abolitionist gaggle swoop in and take my atonement away from me."

I was smarting with anger and with disappointment as well. I hated to see this woman of character so unwontedly passive. And then her remorse, the poignant sweetness of atonement, groveling honesty, the hopelessness of a candid confession...

"If we are in hell, then Hamilton must be the very devil torturing us," I said quietly. "He must be."

Theodosia paused. Then, tonelessly, in a transparent voice, the voice of raw egg white:

"Oh, no. He's a sinner as well. Fact is, he's the worst sinner of us all. But he's not like you and I, thank God! He wouldn't soil his hands as we did. He's scrupulous and proud. He knows that he's in hell, though, and that makes it harder for him. He suffers deeply."

I looked down at my plate, onto which the liquid yolk was leaking from the cracked shell; bleeding out like the sacred heart of Jesus. I think that this is what God must look like: an egg.

The stark and unexpected miracle of dawn faded out with the lingering death of the last lamplighters in the village below. I spent the rest of the evening in unspeakable turmoil, pacing back and forth in the dressing room, thinking. I was terrified of what Hamilton might do to me. After all, I had promised to return, but never did. Now he wanted to see me alone, at night. Was it going to be a talk, a clearing of the air between us— why didn't I come back? Why did I lie to him? The corridor clock ticked insistently amid an auroral silence broken only by the creaking of the floorboards underneath my feet. Each tick urged my exasperation. He could kill me, or he could violate me. Neither option seemed better than the other, but there was no turning back now, iacta alea est, Caesar had said, the die is cast.

When the clock struck eight, I was ready before it, ahead of time. By touch I made my way through the dark corridor and came to rest against the door of the study, the thud of blood in my ears. Then I knocked softly, a terrified knock, expecting at any moment to be seized by a pair of cold hands. I was told to enter. A lighted cigar outlined unintelligible gestures in the shade, reflecting dimly in the lenses of Hamilton's glasses. There was fire in the room and my cheeks quickly flushed, though not because of the heat.

"John."

"Your Excellency."

Hamilton was sitting in his chair, facing the door. I bowed to him, fully convinced that it was in my best interest to try and flatter his vanity. He stood up, smiled, and affably asked me to take a seat on the sofa. He produced on me the impression of some sort of reptile, some huge blind spider. He was enjoying his taunts at me. He was playing with me like a cat with a mouse, supposing that I was altogether in his power. It seemed to me (as I understood it) that he took a certain pleasure, found a certain sensual gratification in this shamelessness; my fear was a treat to him. I sat down, trembling all over.

"Will you have tea?" Hamilton asked, but with an air, of course, which would prompt a polite refusal. I shook my head and stared at my hands. They shook too. "Are you ill?"

I raised my eyes and looked him in the face, and then there came across me as in a flash the memory of everything that had happened, the confessions and the touch that I was even now feeling, and the impulsive promise to come back—and now, to find myself full of this, looking around at things—this sofa, this door... Immediately I was going to say something offensive, I wanted to hit him even, but in a second I stopped myself.

"Not really. Just tired."

Hamilton nodded.

"I'm tired, too. The party was something else."

A moment of silence. Lighted up by the fire Hamilton's face seemed thin and irregular, and the deep darkness of his eye sockets made him look withered, like a wounded man or one who has undergone some terrible physical suffering.

"Well, how does it feel to come back to social life? Tell me."

"I don't know."

"Is that alright?"

He took off his glasses, like an automaton, wiped them leisurely, and put them back on his nose.

"I don't know," I repeated, simpering painfully. "I don't think I got the chance; I had the honor to remain your garçon. Although, perhaps I'm not really a garçon. Quelque chose comme un laquais, n'est-ce pas?"

I went red like a catfish. Hamilton could not help laughing.

"Why on earth are you speaking French to me? Your pronunciation is terrible."

This remark confounded me. I had a foreboding from the very beginning that this was all premeditated, that there was some motive behind it, that I was in such a position that whatever happened I was bound to be humiliated in some way or another.

"Sorry. I start speaking French when I get nervous. My mother mostly spoke French."

"Why are you nervous?"

I decided to stop beating around the bush.

"It is only this morning that I have been able to realize a little how distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come back. I'm sorry that I didn't follow your orders, and that I ran away. I just– I don't understand what I have done to deserve such special attention from you. I simply don't understand it... and... and... it weighs upon me, honest, because I don't understand it."

"What are you talking about? I don't remember seeing you yesterday."

"Huh?"

"I spoke to you only once, in the morning." Hamilton said in visible confusion. "I remember everything even to the slightest detail: I came here in the evening, around nine o'clock... To grab some papers, I think. But I drank a bit too much and fell asleep on this very sofa."

A sudden realization struck me like a thunderbolt. He didn't remember. I tried to hold myself absolutely rigid, despite the relentless pulses of relief beating against my ribcage.

"Wait, what were you talking about exactly?" he asked, perhaps noticing the sudden change in my complexion.

Can all that be a simple alcohol delusion? Can all that be really so irrevocably over?

I began to explain, expressing my version of the story in the most abrupt manner, while Hamilton lay back and rolled his head about as he listened with an expression of concern and fake shame on his face. I told him about the journalist (Mr. S-y), that he treated me like a person, even though I was not qualified to answer for myself and was not even worthwhile speaking to. Naturally, I said, I felt insulted at this. Yet, comprehending as I did, differences of years, of social status, and so forth (here I could scarcely help smiling bitterly), I was not going to bring about further scenes by giving an interview. All that I felt was that I had a right to "offer him a meeting with His Excellency, who was at the time intoxicated and unavailable".

I have reasonably avoided all obscene details.

"Pesky author," said Hamilton. "Mais tu as de l'esprit pour comprendre! Sais-tu, mon garçon, I cannot stand our free press..."

I flinched– this familiar "my boy" seemed to cut the ground from my feet. The most refined and delicate tie united the words "boy" and "waiter".

"What happened next?" he asked.

I was suddenly confused and did not know what to say.

"Well– Nothing."

Hamilton scrutinized me, cold and silent, and his scrutiny lasted a long time.

"Nothing?"

I pinched a fold in my skirt.

"When I came here to see you, you told me that you were too tired and asked me to bring you some champagne. I went downstairs and got distracted by some dame, Martha her name was, and forgot to come back. Graciously forgive me."

I was mortified; had he really forgotten? What if he was simply testing me?

Hamilton was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a nod and said:

"No need to apologize. For that matter, I must apologize, not you."

"For what?"

"For drinking. I am not a drunk, but when I drink, I drink like a pig. I'm seriously sorry you had to deal with me."

I nodded and looked away.

"Excuse my speaking so plainly," he continued. "But I know how inconsiderate you are, and that you, perhaps, don't like me very much..."

I was going to say something, but he raised his finger and cut me off.

"Though I am not your friend, nor wish to be, at least I have a right to require that you shall not compromise me."

"I have no one to compromise you with," I replied calmly.

"Well, I don't know, John. S-y is a frequent guest around my house. I do not wish for mon garçon to start spreading rumors about me."

I shuddered and plainly felt the color drain from my face (although I was pale enough already).

"I promise,'' I said dully, "I won't tell anyone that you drink."

Hamilton nodded.

"You must not be offended at what I say. What I have said I have said merely as a warning. To do so is no more than my right."

There was something in this remark that had positively offended me.

"Don't worry," I said, not holding back a bitter smile this time. "I am so conscious of being only a nonentity in your eyes that I won't dare spread rumors. Your Excellency."

Oh , I thought, you have no idea.

He glanced at me and, seeing that I was in an irritable, sarcastic mood, attempted to change the subject.

"Anyhow, I summoned you for a reason" he stood up and reached for the bookshelf. And after the first contact, so light, so mute, between his fingers and the spine of one of the books, nothing seemed changed in one sense, all was lost in another.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"About what?"

Hamilton waved his hand toward the bookshelf.

"Marx, Rousseau, Fourier, are only fit for chickens and not for human society. You know, I've come to the conviction that most makers of social systems understand nothing of natural science and human nature. Only the antique philosophers knew how society ought to function in practice."

He took one of the books from the shelf and handed it to me.

"Here, take a look."

I accepted the book. It was a full and able piece by Plato. "The Republic". I turned it over in my hands, flipped through it for a decent interval.

"Mr. Hamilton," I began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, "I don't understand, why am I here? This morning you expressed a desire that I should come to you. I have come and if you need anything from me, take it, don't hesitate and spare the... Talking."

The conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and I could not help feeling that as from master to a slave this state of things was highly improper.

"Why are you so anxious?" Hamilton asked. "Don't worry about yesterday: If you were to bring me another glass, I would probably drink myself to death."

But then he froze. Here it is, I thought. He contemplated for a minute.

"John," he said at last with an air of incredible seriousness. "Are you scared of me beating you?"

I did not expect this. Fear sent a chill over me and came back as pain in my back. Hamilton's face changed. He opened his mouth, then shut it, evidently wishing to say something, but lowered his eyes to gain time. I saw from his expression that he wanted at last to tell me something of great importance which he had till now refrained from telling.

"I don't know why you think that way," began Hamilton in a voice not his own. "But I will never do that again."

He shook his head, broke off and suddenly turned to me with such sincere, yet suppressed sadness, that I made haste to look away. For an instant I saw a completely different man, and it was so sudden, so painful. People are seldom sorry for those who need and crave pity–they reserve it for those who, by other means, make them exercise the abstract function of sympathy. Now I regret not making him apologize.

"I did not think of that at all," I said. "And I feel as though I really don't care."

I had no idea what to say next.

"So, what's with all those books?"

Hamilton sighed in relief.

"Yes... About the books. You see, I have a habit of reading at night. Suburban life is beyond boring, I've got nothing else to do. So I would lay on the sofa, read and imagine that perhaps I am Plato, or Dante, or maybe even Stoddart, on a good day. At once I feel easier, and my thoughts become clear. Indeed it is very beneficial for the mind."

I nodded with no Idea of what he was talking about.

"So, I decided that you could keep me company. You have told me that your favorite genre is political philosophy, haven't you?"

I stared at the book, then at him.

"Doesn't mister Jefferson write about how slaves should not be allowed to read?" I asked plainly.

"It means absolutely nothing. And I can't understand how such a trivial circumstance can worry you so much... What Mr. Jefferson doesn't know will not hurt him. Listen," Hamilton went around the sofa and sat next to me. I felt paralyzed. The strong "narcissus ombre" made me almost dizzy. "You strike me as a well educated man, and I could use the company. I'm beyond bored, wasting my days away in this house."

The idea occurred to me at the moment that I had not read any political literature for ten years at least, because I couldn't stand it.

"Alright."

And again I had not the heart to disillusion him, and to tell him plainly that I lied about my fascination with political literature, that I could hardly look him in the eyes and that I did not agree with Stoddart, and that his scent made me want to vomit. And so by my silence I confirmed, as it were, the lie. Oh, I knew very well that he was simply lying to me, solely in order to have a plausible excuse to call upon me, and to get into touch with me. But I was powerless. I accepted his offer and chose Aristotle's "Politics". The rest of the evening I stared into the book, aware that Hamilton was watching me from across the coffee table. It was impossible to read.

Hamilton's business with me turned out, to my surprise, to be really only concerned with Reading. Reading—that means a great arrangement of the desk and the lights, a great sharpening of pencils, and 'Please don't play with the pages,' and 'Let me read you the opening sentence', and a tremendous consumption of tea or coffee. Then you're reading. Then yawns—then bed (bunk) and a great tossing about because you're all full of caffeine and can't sleep. Twenty four hours later the whole performance over again. And that's all. After that evening he invited me for the second reading; then for the third. I didn't know what to think. I had presumed and calculated that he would try to tempt me in various ways to corrupt me; after all, he had bad intentions and was ill. The worst part of it was that I was afraid; I had no idea why, but I was simply afraid of him. And although I had accepted my new privilege– that is, the permission to read, I acted demure and tried not to talk much. I spent those two evenings reading Aristotle's treatises, and, so as not to seem like a fool, praised them.

"I used to love history when I was a child,' he said once, as he poured me a cup. 'I loved to identify myself with famous men. Especially with famous generals — Washington or Napoleon. Con leche? I hope you speak Spanish?'

I lifted my eyes from the voluminous book.

" Solo un poquito . Reluctantly but quite fluently,' I replied. "Yes, lots of cream and three lumps of sugar. My mother spoke spanish."

"I share your extravagant tastes. Dostoevsky liked it with raspberry syrup. What happened to your mother?'

"Pah," I uttered. "I never liked his prose. My mother was a loony. She drove off of a cliff when I was ten."

"This is why women shouldn't be allowed to drive. Aqui ," he handed me three cubes of sugar. "But you oughtn't speak that way about Dostoevsky. He wrote about the realities of life. Even your mother's death, don't you feel here a kind of Dostoevskian tragedy?"

"Anyone can write about life," I said. "His books are sad stuff, dull and dreary. If only I had a tick or two, what a novel I'd whip off! Not from real life. I think I have a good enough imagination."

"And there's your big mistake," Hamilton said, now making tea for himself. "Writing has nothing to do with imagination; that's a crazy, useless word, anyway; you lack judgment—the judgment to decide at once when you know your imagination will play you wrong, given half a chance."

"Well, I'll be darned!" I exclaimed, and immediately went pale. It was certainly very impolite. "I'm sorry."

Hamilton, apparently thinking my outburst very funny, emitted a barking laugh.

"This is precisely what I mean. But who knows, maybe one day you will write something valuable."

I shrugged my shoulders and hid my burning face behind the book (hi, Hamilton—wherever you are, drunk or hungover, Hamitlon, my love, hi!).

***

I see the rest of the week as if through a fog. I remember some things with unusual clarity, and other things as if I had seen them in a dream. I remember almost nothing about that whole week after Hamilton invited me for the first reading. Anxiety weightened upon me the most: my worries about the party subsided, and other worries took their place. I could not stop thinking about my meeting with the journalist. I was completely sure that in some shoddy newspaper there had already been printed an intriguing article about me. I wondered endlessly if my father would still read about me.

"John! John!"

I came to my senses and looked at Theodosia. She sat opposite from me at the kitchen table and watched me as I peeled potatoes for dinner.

"What?"

"Ain't you feeling it?"

Turns out I had cut my finger and didn't even notice. I put the knife down.

"What's the matter with you? You haven' t been able to sleep again?"

"I got distracted. There's a bird singing outside. I sort of like birds."

A thin stream of blood trickled down my finger. I wiped it on my apron.

"But how is it you don't seem yourself? You look and you listen, but you don't seem to understand."

Theodosia did not conceal from me that she was worried. It is true indeed that I have changed since our first meeting. I was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation; I noticed nothing and no one. I lost my habit of arguing. Theodosia saw it and her manner with me changed: she had now been looking at me with not so much hatred but rather condescending pity."

"I'm perfectly fine."

I almost grabbed the knife, but Theodosia stopped me.

"Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?"

She stood up and moved the rest of the potatoes away from me.

"I don't need no soup with blood. Go to the pantry and bandage your hand."

I didn't understand what she meant, but I did not bother to clarify either. Her severity and gravity were what was wanted; they seemed more authoritative, even. At least I left the kitchen quite consoled.

To my surprise the door of the pantry was locked. I stood for a time, confused. "Why would someone lock the door? Should I go ask for the key?"

I tried the doorknob, just in case.

"Who's there?"

"It's... It's me."

There was no answer.

"I need some bandages. Miss Smith, is everything alright?"

"Give me a second," Vella cried faintly.

I looked from left to right with my eyes only; it would have taken nervous forces out of my control to break Hamilton's order. I shrank from a painful supposition as from something heinous—from a kind of moral pollution.

The door opened slowly and noiselessly. Vella stood in the doorway, pale as though she had just had some terrible illness. This pallor showed vividly her black eyes that examined me intently and persistently. With her left hand she held a piece of cloth and with it covered her stomach. Her frizzy hair was poking in different directions.

"Bandages?" she asked at last in a hardly audible voice, as though there was something wrong with her throat.

My heart went cold.

"It doesn't matter. Miss Smith, what's the matter? Are you ill?"

But the girl did not answer my rapid and erratic questions. She bent on me a long, tired gaze. Three weeks of separation, of silence had effaced nothing from my heart. And perhaps every day during those three weeks I had dreamed of speaking with her, with that beloved being who had once pitied me. I had always considered her immeasurably above me (I still do) in spite of my perfectly sober understanding of her misconceptions. And now this girl was in my presence again... There was so much that was terrible and at the same time so much happiness in this event that I could not, perhaps would not— come back to my senses. But the light-hearted and naïve energy I had known so well in the past was replaced now by a sullen irritability and disillusionment which was not yet habitual to her, and which definitely weighed upon her. But the chief thing was that she was ill, that I could see clearly. Despite my fear of Hamilton and his orders I suddenly felt an overwhelming desire of any sort of connection with her.

"Miss Smith," said I. "Would you talk to me, please?"

Vella shook her head, took a step back and turned away.

"Sorry, mister" she began in a weak and quivering voice, in which, however, there was a note that pierced my heart; "I really want to speak with you. But who knows... Perhaps Mr. Hamilton is right, maybe there is a reason. But don't let us say any more about that. You need the bandages."

"I implore you..."

"Enough, enough! Well, now it's quite enough," she said, hardly able to control herself. "Well, now all has been said, hasn't it! Hasn't it? It's not allowed."

The poor girl's emotion was so violent that she could not say more; she covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly."

"Oh, Mr. Laurens! To think, to think how you were beaten, good God! How was it I did not foresee this, how was it I did not foresee this, how could I have been so stupid? But... Mr. Hamilton told me. He told me everything."

"Don't cry; I don't want you to cry," I said. "For God's sake, don't cry, it's not your fault."

"No!" cried Vella in distress. "Oh, how you are suffering! I knew that Jefferson was going to beat you. Now you need the b-bandages, and it's all because of me!"

She was drowned in tears and shaking with sobs, as she hid her face, swollen with weeping, on my shoulder. I froze, not knowing what to do or say. At that moment we heard footsteps. We both started; she almost cried out; I made a movement as though to walk away. But we were mistaken, it wasn't him.

"What on earth are you two doing?"

I looked back. It was Theodosia.

"I think Miss Smith is not feeling well."

"Get away from her!" Theodosia said hotly, looking sternly at us from the doorway. "What on earth did you tell her?"

"I– Nothing! But what's the matter with you? Are you out of your mind? She..."

"I'm in my mind, but you are a slanderer! Smith," she turned to Vella. "Babe, are you hurt?"

"No-o-o!" Vella gasped for air. "But Mr. Laurens is!"

Theodosia's eyes fastened upon me.

"What have you told her?"

"Nothing..."

"Lies! Why else would she have a fit?"'

"I don't know!" I cried impudently. "She was already like this when I came, she cried... She thinks that Jefferson beat me."

"Ah, that's your line now, is it!" hissed Theodosia. "You are trying to prove that His Excellency is the one to blame. Ain't you the one who goes to him every evening?"

I turned cold.

"Well, suppose I go to him—damn him!—what business is that of yours?"

Theodosia was silent. Her face became dark and despondent.

"You poor bird."

And on the seventh day Hamilton showed me his collection of snuffboxes.