"Like a common laborer!" Celeste repeated, sadly. "Go on, tell me everything, Michael."
At some length the old servant recounted his experiences from the moment of his meeting with Mason in New York till he had joined Charles in the South.
"And the girl you speak of—the planter's daughter. You say she is—"
"The most beautiful and refined young lady I ever met, madam. I cannot tell you how well she impressed me. You could see by a look at her that she was of fine stock. She was very nice to me. I saw her father, too, but I did not meet him—a fine figure of a gentleman. A little run down in appearance, madam, but a courtly gentleman at bottom. The house was a fine old place. You could not blame a young man like Mr. Charles for wanting to settle there, after all the roving he had had to get away from—You understand what I mean, madam?"
Celeste nodded breathlessly. "You must tell me, Michael," she urged, "if, in your opinion, Charles is in love with the young lady."
Michael hesitated; he fumbled the rim of his hat; he blinked under her steady stare.
"Answer me, Michael," Celeste insisted. "Surely he would not object to my knowing it if he is. You see, I am anxious to hear that he has found such happiness."
"I may as well tell you that he made no secret of it, madam, but I regret to say that it has not brought him full contentment."
"Then she cares for some one else," Celeste said, regretfully.
"On the contrary, madam, I am sure that the feeling is mutual. I could see it in the way she looked at him, and in the way she treated me merely because I was a friend of his, as he told her in my presence."