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OVERSHADOWED.

A NOVEL.

BY SUTTON E. GRIGGS

AUTHOR OF "IMPERIUM IN IMPERIO."

NASHVILLE, TENN.:
The Orion Publishing Co.
1901.

COPYRIGHTED

Sutton E. Griggs
1901.

DEDICATION.
To the Memory of
ALBERTA,
Who, in the absence of this her oldest
brother, crossed over the dark stream, smiling
as she went, this volume is most
affectionately dedicated by
THE AUTHOR.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

The task assigned to the Negroes of the United States is unique in the history of mankind.

He whose grandfather was a savage and whose father was a slave has been bidden to participate in a highly complex civilization on terms of equality with the most cultured, aggressive and virile type of all times, the Anglo-Saxon.

The stupendous character of the task is apparent when it is called to mind that the civilization in which they are to work out their respective destinies is fitted to the nature of the Anglo-Saxon, because he evolved it; while, on the other hand, the nature of the Negro must be fitted to the civilization, thus necessitating the casting aside of all that he had evolved.

This attempt on the part of the infant child of modern civilization to keep pace with the hale and hearty parent thereof, has served to contribute its quota of tragedies to the countless myriads that have been enacted under the sun, since the Cosmic forces first broke forth out of night into light, and began their upward, sightless, or shall we rather say, full visioned tread in quest of the "music of the spheres" and the higher purposes of the GREAT BEYOND.

What part in the great final programme these Cosmic forces have assigned to the attempt of the Negro to journey by the side of the white man, none are yet able to say, the situation being still in process of unfoldment.

While we watch with becoming reverence and muse thereon, we catch up our lyre to sing to the memory of those slain in their name, if not by their order.

Very respectfully yours,
The Author.

CONTENTS.

[AUTHOR'S PREFACE.]
[PROEM.]
[CHAPTER I. A Girl Perplexed]
[CHAPTER II. The Cause Revealed but not Removed]
[CHAPTER III. Other Actors]
[CHAPTER IV. A Lady who did not know that she was a Lady]
[CHAPTER V. What a Kiss Did]
[CHAPTER VI. Up to Date Aristocracy in a Negro Church]
[CHAPTER VII. Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D. S.]
[CHAPTER VIII. He Narrowly Escapes]
[CHAPTER IX. The Pit is Dug]
[CHAPTER X. The Victims]
[CHAPTER XI. Murder]
[CHAPTER XII. The Visit of a Policeman]
[CHAPTER XIII. Backward, then Forward]
[CHAPTER XIV. As Least Expected]
[CHAPTER XV. An Awful Resolve]
[CHAPTER XVI. A Political Trick]
[CHAPTER XVII. Paving the Way]
[CHAPTER XVIII. John Wysong Confesses]
[CHAPTER XIX. Added Sorrows]
[CHAPTER XX. Speaker Lanier]
[CHAPTER XXI. The Hanging]
[CHAPTER XXII. Worse than Death]
[CHAPTER XXIII. Full of Joy]
[CHAPTER XXIV. Opposing the Wedding]
[CHAPTER XXV. Erma and an Assassin]
[CHAPTER XXVI. Name the Chapter After you Read It]
[CHAPTER XXVII. The Funeral]
[EPILOGUE.]

PROEM.

A farmer who is planting corn in a fertile field, halts beneath the shade of a huge oak to rest at noon.

Accidentally a grain of corn drops from his bag, finds lodgement in the soil, and in time begins to grow.

The grains that fell in the field will have their difficulties in reaching maturity.

There is the danger of too much water, of the drought, of the coming worms.

But the grain that came to life under the oak has its peculiar struggles.

It must contend for sustenance with the roots of the oak.

It must wrestle with the shade of the oak.

The life of this isolated grain of corn is one continuous tragedy.

Overshadowed is the story of this grain of corn, the Anglo-Saxon being the oak, and the Negro the plant struggling for existence.

To be true to life, the story must indeed be a sombre one.

So, Overshadowed is a tragedy—a story of sorrow and suffering.

Yet the gloom is enlivened by the presence of a heroic figure, a beautiful, noble girl, who stands unabashed in the presence of every ill.

Overshadowed does not point the way out of the dungeon which it describes, but it clearly indicates the task before the reformer when he comes.

If you have time and inclination for such a recital—the curtain rises and the play begins.

OVERSHADOWED.

CHAPTER I.

A GIRL, PERPLEXED.

To-and-fro, to-and-fro, with hurried, restless tread, Erma Wysong walked her parlor floor, forgetful of the young man who sat in a corner and gazed at her, with all of his powers of sight apparently doing double duty. Her hair, slightly coarse of thread, glistening as if in pride of its extreme blackness, was combed away from a brow that was exceedingly pretty and formed a part of a head that forewarned you to expect the possessor thereof to have an intellect of a very high order. A few unruly locks of her glossy hair had escaped from the grasp confining the others backward, and were hanging forward as if to peep into her tender brown eyes so full of soul; or, to tantalize a very prettily formed nose; or, to tempt a bite from a row of pearls even and gleamingly white; or, to nestle upon a cheek the tenderness and ruddiness of which were standing invitations for gentle pressure.

Erma, nearly tall, a happy medium between the plump and the lithe, the perfection of symmetry, her whole frame a series of divinely fashioned curves, paced to and fro, her beautiful face wearing a look of mental perplexity. First her right hand and then her left tossed back with a nervous jerk the straying locks.

Astral Herndon, a tall and exceedingly handsome young man, who was paying her a call, sat in an armchair in a corner of the small room, and, with body bent forward, was looking intently at Erma, as has been stated, his entire soul ablaze with curiosity to know what had so operated upon the mind of the erstwhile winsome, laughing, merry Erma, as to cause her to break off abruptly an ordinary conversation and begin her restless journeyings to-and-fro across her parlor floor, vouchsafing to him not a word of apology or explanation, and apparently oblivious of his presence. The transition from the lively gay to the deathly sad, was so quick, so queer, so utterly inconsistent with all that he had hitherto known of Erma—it was so far from anything warranted by the rather commonplace conversation in which they had been engaged, that he was very naturally in the depths of wonderland, staring with all his might. He saw her thin, red lips quiver, as if with deep emotion. He saw repressed by a would-be secret bite of the lips, an entire flood of tears, save a truant one, that would steal its way down anyhow. He saw a clasping, a griping of the hands as though the fair one was being hurried to the verge of despair. He could, as it were, trace in her actions the progress that her mind was making toward a precipice, reluctant to go and yet impelled by some irresistible force.

Astral Herndon sat watching her, his surprise and curiosity deepening into concern and anxiety. At length, when he could bear it no longer, he arose and said in a low, sweet voice that trembled with emotion, "Erma!" Something in his voice went straight to Erma's wandering soul, and, as though not of herself, she turned slowly around and mechanically lifted her gaze to meet the dark, glowing eyes of Astral Herndon. She felt her soul leave her with a rush and run to embrace a mate that was coming forth from the eyes before her, and she cried, "Oh! I see! Oh! I see! Oh! I see!" and unconsciously stretched out her arms toward Astral as if to receive him. Astral advanced toward Erma, but this movement on his part broke the spell and she shrank away from him and sat down.

Astral was now more mystified than ever. He vaguely felt that somehow he was intermingled with Erma's thoughts, but as to how it had come about, or as to what was the nature of her thoughts regarding him, he was in absolute ignorance. Erma, now fully conscious of how she had been acting, vainly sought to redeem herself by an endeavor to conduct an animated conversation, not offering, however, to Astral any explanation of her seeming rudeness to him. But after a heroic struggle to keep up the conversation, she blurted out, all of a sudden, "Mr. Herndon, do you not, can you not see that I am in the deepest sort of trouble? Why do you not get up and go home?" Saying this, she fell to sobbing violently, burying her face in her hands. Astral arose and got his hat and went on tiptoe to the door. Just before he went out, he cast a look of deepest love at the weeping girl. If he had only gone to her and lifted her to a resting place on his bosom—but the Unseen power that ordains that two souls shall journey through earth together, also chooses, it would seem, the hallowed spot; chooses the precious and never to be forgotten moment when soul is unveiled to soul; chooses the exact degree of the development that shall exist in each at the hour of the mating.

So, the Unseen sent Astral forth and not to Erma's side. As he stepped out upon the doorstep, the queen of the night wrapped his noble brow with her silver cords in wanton playfulness. The city clock was striking the hour of ten, rather dolefully, he thought. He slowly wended his way toward his home, stopping ever and anon to cast a look of love, mingled with perplexity, in the direction of Erma's residence. "Strange, sweet girl," he murmured softly to himself, "I thought that I knew her." Time and again he stopped, and, looking in her direction, repeated this monologue. At last he reached home, and throughout the sleepless night uttered the self-same words.

As for Erma, she sat in the exact attitude in which he left her. The hours of the night, aided by the light of the moon, groped their way through a sleeping world. At length the birds, ere they went forth in quest of their daily bread, held their morning praise service, as if to rebuke the prayerless man. From their little hearts and throats quivering with joyous emotions, they told the God of the sparrow how glad they were that they were yet allowed to flit about in his glorious world. The sun, remembering his many unfinished tasks of the previous day, and suspicious ever of the work of the night, came bolting upward and hurled his myriad pointed spear to strike down the morning mists that sulkily obscured his vision. The awakened world came rushing forth from the land of sleep and dream.

But Erma, beautiful morning glory, bruised over night and failing to respond to the greeting kiss of the returning Sun, began the performance of her duties, perplexed in mind, sad at heart, weary from much thinking, desponding of a solution of the problems that fretted her spirit.

CHAPTER II.

THE CAUSE REVEALED BUT NOT REMOVED.

The scene of the opening of our story was Richmond, Va., the far famed capital of the ill-fated Southern Confederacy. To all intents and purposes, Erma Wysong was an orphan. Her mother, a Negro woman, was now dead, having passed away two years since. Though her parents had been silent on the subject, Erma now knew from the color of her skin and the texture of her hair that her father must have been white. As to who he was or where he was, whether living or dead, she did not know, and had no means of ascertaining. A few years after Erma's birth her mother married a very worthy Negro man, who generously overlooked the previous sin of his wife, never once in all their wedded life alluding to it. Upon a foundation of repentance and forgiveness this Negro family, like unto many others, had its beginning. Unto this repentant wife and forgiving husband a son was born whom they named John. This son, now about eighteen years of age, is the only support left to Erma, her stepfather having gone to his grave shortly after the demise of his wife. So Erma was practically an orphan girl, alone in the world, relying for support and protection upon her brother John, who dearly loved his "Erm," as he called her. He was working at the machinist's trade in the Bilgal Iron Works of Richmond, Va., and was receiving two dollars and a half per day; and with this was supporting himself and sister and laying by money to lift the remainder of the mortgage encumbering their modest little home. Erma was a student of exceptional brightness when in school and had been graduated at an early age from the Richmond Colored High School, carrying off the highest honors of her class. After graduating from the high school at Richmond she went to the Tuskegee Industrial Institute at Tuskegee, Alabama, whence she was recalled by the death of her mother. You now have her history, briefly told, up to the time of the opening of our story.

Astral Herndon had been a schoolmate of hers in the Richmond public schools, graduating in the class immediately preceding her class. These two had from childhood, a fondness for the society of each other, though for a long time neither Astral nor Erma stopped to analyze this feeling. Astral was the first to awake to the real situation as it concerned himself, and in his shy, untutored way had sought to arouse in Erma emotions similar to his own; but she did not understand life as yet, (for a knowledge of love is a knowledge of life) and Astral remained the same "Astry" to her.

Astral finally decided that his constant association with Erma ever since childhood was a bar to his progress toward winning her love, and he had decided to go away and spend a number of years in school, free from Erma's notice. He had determined to obtain a thorough college education and return to woo as a comparative stranger, the heart of Erma. In the midst of an ordinary conversation he had mentioned to Erma his proposed going away, and the rude shock had awakened the sleeping love of her heart. Not knowing the meaning of that strange fire in her bosom, she leaped to her feet and began her restless journeying with which we found her engaged in our opening chapter. Her mind kept saying, "Astral, going away! He will be a college graduate! He will be a learned man! He will be far above me when he comes back! He may not come back at all! But what difference does it all make to me?" Over and over she revolved these thoughts in her mind, her perplexity growing deeper and deeper and her heart aching more and more. When Astral called her and she looked into his eyes, she stood revealed to herself; her love had broken its chrysalis. "But what of Astral! Does he love me?" she asked herself and shrank away from him instinctively. She did not wish for him to come to her again as the Astral of old. Her soul craving for solitude to contemplate its new found joy, and fearful of giving its precious secret away too soon, she dismissed Astral. When he was gone, Cupid went busily to work in her mind, weaving a web, every cord of which was a string from her heart—a web to catch and hold fast her soul's one mate. These things were certain: Astral was going away, would advance in studies, would occupy a more exalted station in life than she. It was her task to maintain an equality of station between them; how she was to do it was the great question, she being a moneyless orphan. But, having discovered the full extent that her very existence was wrapped up in Astral, she was determined to surmount all obstacles of whatever nature—determined to find a way to keep pace with him in training, to prepare ever for companionship with him, to hold herself through all the years of waiting, pure, noble, undefiled, a worthy queen for her glorious king—her Astral!

She knew that she would never openly seek his love; never knowingly reveal her passion; but Love ever feels that he has the right of way through the earth; that all things will move at his beck and call; and Erma firmly trusted this subtle might of Love to accompany Astral on his long journey, and doubted not but that it would bring him back to her.

Satisfied on that score, Erma undertook the task of self-improvement. Poor, poor girl! Could she have caught sight of the large, the cruel, the unfeeling thorns in her pathway; could she have felt for a brief instant but a small fraction of the mountain-like burden ordained for her shoulders; could she have but dipped her tongue into the bitter gall poured out for her; could she have but dreamed of the nameless sorrows that were to plow wide furrows in her storm-swept and tempest-driven soul, how she would have trembled and shivered and groaned at the awful prospect before her. Yet, being a woman and being in love, she would have gone forth just the same, foreseeing all. Wonder not that God refused to make woman out of dust.

If you can so master your feelings as to be a spectator to a fight between a poor, beautiful, motherless Negro maiden and an array of foes that would warrant Michael in sending for reinforcements before giving battle, we can safely ask you to follow our narrative.

CHAPTER III.

OTHER ACTORS.

Two giants, clad in the full panoply of war, have met and are battling with each other for a kingdom. The struggle, while fierce, fast and furious, is conducted with infinite wariness on the part of each combatant, for previous battles between these foemen, fought with varying successes in every clime of earth, have taught them to respect the skill and prowess of each other.

The domain for which these two giants are battling is the mind of a young white man of high social standing, a member of a family of great renown. The name of one giant is "Love of self," and of the other, "Love of others," or Egoism and Altruism, respectively. The battle has been raging for many months and is now entering upon its final stages.

The door of the young man's room is locked, the window shutters closed, the curtains drawn. He is sitting in a chair in a sprawling attitude, his chin resting upon his bosom, his hat pulled low over his brow, his eyes closed, his hands clasped behind his head, a pained expression upon his handsome face. One hand slowly descends to his vest pocket, from which he extracts a richly bejewelled watch.

"Only nine o'clock. The night is young yet. Three full hours more of this agony! Then I must act. Well, let me employ the intervening time in a full review of the case."

So saying, he began the following soliloquy:

"Beauty of face, of form, of mind, when found in woman, exact homage of all men. That woman, whose peculiar combination of the attributes of loveliness, pleases a man's inherent taste in a manner such as no other can—that woman, becomes his queen.

"I have met the queen of my heart, but I dare not breathe her name into mortal ear! I dare not! I dare not! It is not because I think her charms open to debate that I thus guard her name. No, no, no! None can gain-say those eyes, so full of soul; none that grace of carriage; none that beautiful form, granted by mother nature in a moment of unwonted happiness. But, she is only one-half Caucasian!

"That does not grate so harshly on my ear! I find it in my heart to ignore that fact altogether, so I do, so I do. If left to myself—now, let only God, my Creator, hear what I have to say—if left to myself, I would marry that girl and count myself highly favored of Heaven for the privilege.

"But society tells me I shall not marry her! On what do they base their objections? Not, I am sure, upon the emotions of this tumultuous heart of mine, for every heart throb is a cry of love. Why, then, may I not claim her for my own? 'For the benefit of the species,' they say, 'We must preserve our racial identity. There must be no mesalliance. Our own glory, the cause of civilization, the good of the world, demands that Anglo-Saxon blood be not contaminated with the blood of inferior races.' This is the social dictum. Do you see how that I, the individual, am left out of that programme? The individual, then, is to have no consideration, I suppose. I have only the one life, tragic in its brevity, beset with many ills at best; and yet the philosophers and ethical writers crowd about me and tell me in insistent tones that I am to surrender the best part of that life for the sake of the species.

"Well might Tennyson, in the night of his sorrow, sing:

'Are God and nature then at strife
That nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems
So careless of the single life.'

"Society, I yield to your mandates! I will not ask you to sanction, through legal forms, that which would be for my individual good, but would, you say, result in your injury. I will not marry the girl!"

Thus far society seems to have won. Altruism seems to have triumphed over Egoism. But not so; Egoism returns to the struggle. The young man resumes his soliloquy.

"Is society sincere in its demand? There are in the United States nearly two million people—mulattoes, begotten contrary to the written code. There must be an unwritten code that permits individuals to ignore the demands of society and mate according to choice. Shall I avail myself of the provisions of this unwritten code? Shall I, or shall I not? Shall I ask that pure girl to go counter to the requirements of all civilized communities and enter a union devoid of legal sanction? Shall I, or shall I not? Shall I, or shall I not?" Over and over the young man asks himself the question. At last he cries out, "These interminable codes and counter codes! To the deuce with them all! Erma shall be mine!" So saying, he sprang to his feet, Egoism in triumph, Altruism put to inglorious rout.

He glances at his watch, arranges his toilet, secures a mask with which he covers his face, steals forth from the home of his parents, as the hands on the clock are nearing the hour of midnight. Choosing dark and less frequented streets and alleyways, he proceeded on his journey, arriving, at length at a very handsome, two-story brick building. He looks about him with quick, hurried glances and then gives a slight knock, thrice repeated in rapid succession. He is evidently expected, as the door opens at once and he is ushered into a long, dark hallway. Thence he is led into a large parlor in the far end of which a gas jet is dimly burning, giving a weird, ghostly appearance to everything. The woman who had opened the door for him, bade him to be seated, she taking a seat at some distance from him.

The woman in question was a Negro, brown of skin, with a fat, round face, small eyes, very corpulent, and short of stature.

The young man begins:

"Mrs. Smith (Dolly Smith is her name): you have been highly recommended to me as a party fully capable of attending to delicate matters."

"Many thanks to my unknown sponsor," remarked Dolly Smith, her little eyes, accustomed to the dark, making a close scrutiny of the young man's features, he having removed his mask in the belief that the darkness of the room would suffice to conceal his identity.

The young man continued, "You will understand, of course, that our relations are confidential and whatever is done is to be without prejudice to the good name of any one concerned."

"Pardon the uncouthness of the remark, but please bear in mind that I am no butcher. Reputations that could not stand a whiff of the air of suspicion have been entrusted to my care, and neither my skill nor integrity in preserving them have ever been called into question. Remember, too, if you please, that I am a woman of standing in my own race, and it is of great personal interest to me to be discreet in all my doings," was Dolly Smith's spirited rejoinder.

"It pleases me much, Mrs. Smith, to hear you discourse thus. The affair which I wish for you to conduct for me, concerns a young woman of high standing in your race and I do not desire that any understanding which she and I may reach shall affect her status with her own people," added the young man.

"Have no fear on that score. A number of girls in this very city are even now leading the double life to which I presume you to be referring. Owing to the fact that the social life of the two races is distinct, you may be the lowest strata in the one and the very highest in the other, without so much as occasioning a suspicion. If there be no objection on your part, I should be pleased to have you state specifically what brings me the favor of your visit."

"Thank you for the hint to come to the point. I desire that you be of service to me in forming the acquaintance of one Erma Wysong."

A look of pain passed over the sensual features of Dolly Smith and her hands clutched her chair convulsively. Her lips breathed a soft exclamation, "My God." The darkness of the room prevented the young man's detecting these signs of excitement.

In a voice that trembled slightly with suppressed emotion Dolly Smith enquired, "How far have you proceeded in the matter yourself?"

The young man thought that he detected a faint note of anxiety in the question, but it was not sufficiently pronounced to make a distinct impression. He answered:

"Oh, I have not so much as spoken to the girl. In company with a number of other white people I attended the exercises of the High School on the evening of her graduation. On that occasion, dressed in a snowy white garment, her hair tastefully decorated with a few choice roses, she sang like a nightingale and read a graduating essay that revealed a mind of singular beauty, culture and strength, yet possessed of that distinct charm which man associates with woman. From that hour I have been her slave, though no one save myself has known it. The time that has elapsed since her graduation, I have spent in earnest combat against the powerful current that has been bearing me upon its bosom to an unknown port. You may judge the strength of my attachment."

This speech had a reassuring effect on Dolly. She thought within herself, "I will get his money and save Erma as well. If I have to choose between money and Erma, I pity poor Erma. The integrity of Negro girls stands but a poor chance for life in the presence of such wolves as myself. But heaven forfend that I be reduced to such a choice. For money I must have, money I must have; for my enemy nears his grave unscathed by my revenge." Such were the inward reflections of Dolly Smith.

To the young man, Dolly replied, "I suppose you know that the inveiglement of a girl of Erma's stamp requires time, patient and skillful handling, and often much expense," the last two words being pronounced with considerable emphasis.

"Mark Anthony surrendered a throne for voluptuous Cleopatra. Surely virtuous Erma is entitled to the small pittance of a few thousands if there be need."

Dolly Smith could scarcely refrain from bounding from her seat as a result of uncontrollable joy produced by the speech of the young man, whom she now set apart in her heart as her gold mine to be thoroughly exploited.

The young man arose and approached Dolly Smith, handing to her a one hundred dollar note, saying as he did so, "This is but an earnest of my good intentions toward you. Do me faithful service and you shall be happy. You shall know me as Elbridge Noral. Address me at P. O. Box 40. I trust that you will have pleasant news for me soon."

"Rely upon me to do my best, Mr. Noral."

Mr. Noral, as we shall call him until better informed, now left the parlor, followed by Dolly. She opens the street door and Mr. Noral goes forth from the house where he has formed the first unholy alliance of his life. When the door was closed on his retreating form, Dolly Smith threw the one hundred dollar note upon the floor and danced around it a gay, voluptuous dance.

"There, there, I am forgetting myself!" So saying she darted into a secret closet in the side of the hallway, quickly stuffed herself into a large pair of pants, put on a vest and a coat, seized a large hat and plunged into the street to follow Noral. The arrangements of the streets in that neighborhood furnished but one outlet from Dolly's house, for some distance, so Dolly had no trouble in pursuing him. Though very corpulent, Dolly was strong and active and by alternately walking and trotting, puffing and blowing, she soon came in sight of Noral, whom she followed at a safe distance, he and she both keeping as much as possible in the dark. Noral took such a course as led him by Erma Wysong's little home. Here he paused and gazed long and lovingly at the little cottage in which Erma lay dreaming of Astral. Dolly was an interested spectator of this night scene which Noral supposed to be enacted only in the sight of the silent stars, sympathizing angels, and an Allwise Creator. Even the callous heart of Dolly Smith was momentarily touched, and she muttered to herself:

"Poor fellow! It is indeed a tragedy of the soul that that young fellow is denied all honorable approach to that girl and must resort to me, vile woman. Ha! Ha! Dolly Smith, the trusted emissary of a love in its original form as pure as any that ever took root in the human heart! Tut, tut, a few more ennobling reflections and I would be a good woman, which thing is manifestly an impossibility."

Noral moved on, reached the fashionable part of the city and, to Dolly's utter amazement, entered the home of occupants well known to her. She recalled the features of her visitor and said:

"I might have known it! I might have known it! Have I struck the right trail at last? If I have, oh, Satan, prince of Evil, I crave your help." Knitting her brows she shook her clinched fist in rage at the house into which the young man had gone. Having done this to her satisfaction, she started home at a rapid pace arriving there in an exhausted condition. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered from her exhaustion to permit it, she danced a wild, joyous sort of dance, uttering a succession of savage like shrieks of delight.

Sleep, the tender nurse in the employ of nature, soon folded Dolly Smith in her arms and lulled her to rest as soothingly as she did the innocent girl Erma, who now became the storm center of the elements. Let us not find fault with nature because she will not become a party to these human strifes of ours. She but follows the behests of the great Unknown, whose ways are past finding out.

CHAPTER IV.

A LADY WHO DID NOT KNOW THAT SHE WAS A LADY.

"Ellen! Ellen! Oh, Ellen! Ellen Sanders!" Ellen Sanders, a belle in Negro society, had just sat down to partake of a 10:30 A. M. breakfast when she heard this call. She arose hastily and rushed to the diningroom door that opened into the yard, and saw Margaret Marston, another Negro society belle, leaning over the fence that separated her home from that of Ellen. Margaret was holding a newspaper in one hand, one arm being thrown over the paling to hold her up, as she was standing with her feet upon the lower railing to which the palings were nailed. The look of her eye, the appearance of her face, the shaking newspaper, and her almost hysterical shrieks for Ellen, all betokened a high degree of excitement.

"Pray, Margaret! what on earth can be the matter? Why, you frightened me nearly to death, girl. What on earth is it?"

"Ellen, do just come here. There is something in this paper that is just too awful for anything."

"Let me see it," said Ellen, running to where Margaret stood. "Is somebody dead?" she asked in anxious tones.

"Worse than that," said Margaret.

"I don't see anything, Margaret," said Ellen, scanning the paper with the haste born of eagerness and excitement.

"Look up there at the top of the column headed, 'Situations wanted,' at the very first advertisement. Oh Ellen, it is just dreadful," said Margaret, as though her heart was about to break.

Ellen read the piece pointed out to her. The paper fell from her hand, and without saying a word, she staggered backwards until she reached the porch to the dining room from which she had come. She dropped down upon the floor of the porch in a sitting posture, as though what she had read had robbed her of all strength, and had shattered her nervous system. Finally, drawing a long breath, she said:

"Well, well, well, did you ever! But I always did tell you that Erma Wysong would come to some bad end. And just think! you used to like her so well, too."

"Yes, I did, Ellen. But I am done now. Just think! she was the head of our class when we were graduated at the High School, and thus she brings disgrace upon our entire class. Ah, me! It is just too dreadful to think about. It has actually made me sick. I really fear that I shall have to go to bed from the shock," remarked Margaret.

"I don't feel like eating another mouthful of breakfast," said Ellen. "But it may be that it is not our Erma," she continued.

"Yes, but it is! Don't you see that the advertisement refers you to her street, number and all," replied Margaret.

"Well, all that I can say is, she is disgraced forever; and as for my part, I don't purpose to ever speak to her again!"

"Speak to her! Of course not! If we recognize her, that will make us as bad as she is—'particeps criminis', the Latins would say. I just wish I could see her so that I could pass her and turn away my head without speaking. I could go five miles out of my way, just to catch her eye and then look away from her in disdain," said Margaret.

"Have you told your mamma?" queried Ellen.

"No," said Margaret. "Give me the paper. I had forgotten that."

Ellen arose, walked to the paper, picked it up from the ground and handed it over the fence. Margaret took it and hurried around the house to the place where her mother was. As fast as she goes, let us precede her there, and find out what we can of Mrs. Marston. It is now about eleven o'clock in the day, and Mrs. Mollie Marston, Margaret's mother, is standing before a washtub, with huge piles of dirty clothes all about her. A piece of white cloth is tied about her head; her sleeves are pushed beyond her elbows, and she is wearily rubbing away at the clothes, a settled look of pain being upon her fast wrinkling face. She is now fifty-five years of age, and her whole life—both the part that lies in the time of slavery and the part that has come afterwards—her whole life has been one long day of toil, with no prospect of a sunset and an hour of rest before the coming of the eternal sleep. By "taking in washing" from wealthy white people, she had aided her husband in his attempts to own a little home. When Margaret was old enough to go to school, she had sent her, and had managed to keep her there, well clad and supplied with books, only by the hardest sort of toil. Before day dawned on a Monday morning, and while night yet frowned his blackest on Saturday night, she was found either at the washtub or ironing board, striving to make her "pints meet." She had denied herself all ornamentation and pleasures of whatever sort involving the expenditure of money. The barest necessities of life were all that she allowed herself. Thus we find her at work when Margaret rushes around and says, "Mamma, mamma, let me read something to you in the morning paper." Mrs. Marston straightened up as though the effort gave her pain; she had been bending over the tub in one position so long. With a smile of admiration on her face, she turned toward Margaret and prepared to listen. Margaret, knowing her mother's pride in her accomplishments, cleared her throat in order to read in her most pleasing and effective voice the statement that had so horrified her and her classmate:

"SITUATIONS WANTED—Female Help.

"A young Negro woman, Erma Wysong, desires a position as cook, washerwoman, nurse or housemaid in a white family. The best of references. Address 202 Sylvanus Street."

"Now, mamma, did you ever think THAT of Erma Wysong? After her poor mamma and papa, both of whom are now dead, worked so hard to educate her, she is going to throw that education away in the washtub, in the kitchen, or rolling some white woman's baby about. If her dead mother only knew how Erma was about to disgrace her education, she could not rest easy in her grave. Of course there is no other kind of work open for her to do just now, but if she had only held herself up for two or three years, she might have gotten a school to teach when some of the other teachers died or got married. But as it is, she has just gone and ruined herself forever. Well, mamma, I promise you faithfully that while you are alive, and after you are dead, I'll starve before I bring disgrace upon the education which you and papa have worked so hard to give me. I'll never throw my education away by bending over a washtub or by moving about in a white man's kitchen. No, indeed! Depend upon that, mamma, you dear, kind mamma," said Margaret, with many an emphatic toss of her head. She gave her mamma a resounding kiss, and leaving the much overburdened woman in the midst of huge piles of clothes, she went to renew her gossip with Ellen.

"What does your mamma think of it, Margaret," asked Ellen.

"Oh, mamma was just so struck that she could not say a word. It is just dreadful. Why, it will have a tendency to stop parents from educating their children, if they are to act like that," remarked Margaret.

"Yes," joined in Ellen, "and it might make some of our weak-minded parents think that we educated girls ought to cook and wash clothes and scrub floors at home."

"That would be too horrid. Why, we would then be no higher in life than our slave time mothers who did such work. White girls occupying the social station in their race that we do in our race would suffer themselves to be carried out of their homes dead before they would perform such menial tasks. And, Ellen, we must hold up our race just as they do their race. Why, just think, if we educated girls go to work, it can be truthfully said that our race has no first-class society."

"Margaret, the more I think of what Erma has done, the worse I feel. Let us go out and tell all the other educated girls about it before any of them chance to meet Erma and speak to her as cordially as ever. She is the first Negro girl that has disgraced her education by offering to go to work, and we must all pounce down upon her so fast and hard that she will be the last; all of our set must snub her right and left. It may bring her to her senses, too."

"That is a capital idea, Ellen! Let us get ready at once."

So saying, they went to their respective rooms, dressed themselves in the finest articles of wear in their wardrobes, and sallied forth to spread everywhere the news of the disgrace, as they termed it, of their classmate.

As Mrs. Marston said nothing to Margaret let us not follow these girls in their crusade, but rather let us linger to catch a glimpse of her simple but honest mind and heart. As soon as Margaret had gone the dear old woman, prematurely aged by excessively hard toiling, stopped work, took up her pipe and sat down to smoke, as was her wont whenever she had a knotty problem to solve. Erma Wysong's case was troubling her exceedingly, for she had been a favorite girl with her. On her way from school, Erma would always stop in to see "Dear Aunt Mollie" and have a gay chat. Thus, she had learned to love her. As Erma grew older, her modest, lady-like bearing the more deeply impressed Mrs. Marston, who sought in every way to cement the tie of friendship between her daughter and Erma, knowing that continued association with her was a decided gain for Margaret. In all of Erma's life Mrs. Marston had never known her to be guilty of a wrong, or indiscreet, act, and we put it mildly when we say that she was shocked over the news just imparted to her concerning Erma. As the advertisement was just out, she felt sure that she could find Erma yet at home, and might after all succeed in preventing her from taking the contemplated step, so fatal to her standing in 's'iety.' With such thoughts coursing through her mind she took the white rag from her head, pulled down her sleeves, put on a stiff white apron and a broad brimmed straw hat and went forth to save Erma.

Heroic soul! Perhaps no monument will ever be reared to those noble Negro women who, emerging from slavery, were at once enslaved again by their children and bore their heavy burdens uncomplainingly, in a vain attempt to build up upon their poor bruised shoulders an aristocracy such as they had left behind, their educated children to be the aristocrats. Their like will hardly be seen on earth again!

Mrs. Marston, on reaching Erma's home found her singing gaily and moving about the room dusting and setting things aright. Erma received her so joyfully that she felt a lump rise in her throat each time she attempted to state the purpose of her visit. At length she said, "Miss Erm, whut erbout all dis awfil news gwine 'round 'bout you?"

Erma's smile died away suddenly, her breath came quick and fast and she began to tremble all over. She said in tones that showed great anxiety, "I have not heard any bad news about myself, Mrs. Marston. What can it be?"

"Thar now! I had my doubts 'bout it frum de fust. Wy de pore chile doan no nuthin 'bout it," poured forth Mrs. Marston.

Erma felt a chill creeping over her frame, she was so full of fear as to the nature of the charge against her. Some children that have not been burned dread the fire. If the charge involved anything sinful she knew beforehand that she was innocent; but it was a terror to her pure soul to have to even contemplate the passing within the limits of the shadow of wrong. She awaited Mrs. Marston's further utterances with a nervous twitching of her thin, beautiful lips.

"Wal, Miss Erm—I mus 'call you Miss, es you is now er young 'oman; but I knowed you wen you wuz er tiny gal—I allus lubbed you powerfil much, yes, powerfil much, Miss Erm. Yer mammy which is dead, wucked hard ter git you an edification an den dide, pore soul. 'Do I ain't been tellin' whut wuz runnin' in my min', I hez been stud'in' 'bout you fir de longis', puzzlin' my pore noddle ter try ter help you. But I hez been hard prest myself. You see, Miss Erm, Margie is a 'siety young 'oman now, and hez de doctors and lieyers and skule teachers ter cum ter call on her; and it wucks me powerfil hard ter dress her fit ter go in 'siety and look es good es eny udder 'siety gal, white er black. Den, pianners is all de rage now, and me and my old man has got her one ub dem. Den she has ter go off fir vakashun ub summers lack de white 'siety belles. All dese tings, Miss Erm, makes it powerfil hard fir me ter make buckle and tongue meet. You see her daddy and me am bof gittin' ole and kain't wuck lack we uster. My back is kinder stiff an' weak an' I had ter quit washin' fir Mrs. Mayo las' week caus' I hed too much ter do fir my present strenf. Ef it wuzn't fir all dis I wuz tinking powerfil hard ub 'doptin you fir my own gal ter hab wid me. My Margie ain't so steddy as she mout be, and you would be sich good soshasun fir her. But more'n one 'siety gal on my hans just now 'ud be more'n I could stan' up ter. Howsomever, I hes lubbed you jes' de same an' I is powerfil glad, powerfil glad it ain't so whut I hearn read." Thus spoke Mrs. Marston, about as much to herself as to Erma, her head bent forward, her eyes cast down and her hand to her cheek, as if lost in deep meditation.

In trembling tones, Erma said, "But, Mrs. Marston, you have not told me what was being said against me."

"Ain't I? Laws a mussy on my furgitful soul. 'Skuse me. I hes bin stud'in' so powerfil hard. Wal, Miss Erm, dey tole me—min' you, I ain't said whut dey—dey tole me you wus gwine ter hire out ter white folks ter scrub an' wash an' i'ne an' nuss babies an' do all sich disgracefil tings for an edicated 'siety lady."

"Is that the crime that is alleged against me?" asked Erma, drawing a good long breath after her prolonged suspense.

"I doan' know 'bout bein' 'leged agin' you, whutsomever dat mout be. But dey is sayin' dat whut I hez tole you is so, and dey is sayin' it powerfil strong. An' dat is 'zactly whut brung me here fir ter see you."

With a joyful laugh, Erma sprang over to Mrs. Marston and well nigh smothered her with an avalanche of kisses. Sitting on one of Mrs. Marston's knees, with an arm thrown fondly about her neck, Erma spoke as follows:

"My dear Aunt Mollie, because our race has borrowed the white man's language, manner of dress, religion, ideas of home, philosophy of life, we have apparently decided that everything that the white man does is good for us to imitate. We do not stop to think that the white race has deep, ingrained faults as a race; and thus we proceed to imitate faults and virtues alike, indiscriminately and instinctively. We unhesitatingly adopt even those erroneous traits in the white man's character that have oppressed us. Now, Aunt Mollie, one of the most baneful evils that slavery has left us is the idea that physical labor is a badge of disgrace, and that a condition of luxurious idleness is the most exalted, the most honorable, the ideal existence. The Southern white people are the parents of the idea that physical labor is disgraceful, and, being such an imitative people, we have accepted without question, their standard of what is honorable. Aunt Mollie, the insidious influence of that idea is what makes the rising generation of Negro youths so idle and so averse to physical labor. They are imitating the wealthy young white man, who cites the fact that he does not have to work as proof positive that he is a gentleman. The young Negro decides that he can and must be a gentleman like the young white man. This idea that work is disgraceful is destined to ruin thousands of Negro girls who are going to try to play 'lady' and abstain from employment. No, no, Aunt Mollie, labor is not in the least degree degrading, even if the white people do seem to think so. Believe me, Aunty, there is no disgrace connected with the doing of any work that is honest. Work, hard, hard work, has not stained your soul, dear Aunt Mollie. You are as much a true woman as any queen, as much a lady as that woman who has never deigned to stoop to tie her own shoe."

Mrs. Marston shook her head as though Erma's way of looking at things was beyond her comprehension.

But Erma continued, coming nearer home in her argument:

"If Margaret were to take her place by your side day by day and do what you do it would not corrupt her soul any more than it has corrupted yours. And so long as the soul is pure God loves you, and who dares despise what God loves? God loves an honest heart, even when the frame that contains it is bending over the washtub. It would be so grand, Aunt Mollie, if you could get Margaret out of that false notion of life, borrowed from white people in the South. She would be so much help to your overburdened frame. I could scarcely repress my tears as you told me how you, an aged, feeble woman labored so hard for that young, strong and vigorous girl to sustain her in a false notion of life. Yes, yes, Mrs. Marston, I am going to hire out. There is a little mortgage on our home that must be paid. Then, too, I wish to earn money enough to enable me to finish my education. These ends being honorable and desirable, I am willing to perform any task that is honorable, though menial to attain them. Now, Aunt Mollie, I have an engagement at four o'clock and must leave you. Pray for me, for I shall be most viciously assailed by my own people who feel that the stand they take against me has a parallel in the white race where the common laborer is shut out from social recognition by the well-to-do element. And you know how hard a Negro will throw a stone at another if he feels that he has the sanction of the white people. Nevertheless, I shall strive in my humble way to prove that labor is not inimical to ladyhood."

"Pray for you! God bless yer pew soul! Dat I will, Erm, dat I will," said Aunt Mollie, brushing away with her horny hands the tears from her eyes. She continued, "Disgrace or no disgrace, dere is powerfil few lack you, Erm, powerfil few. Ef you eber needs a home, come to your Aunt Mollie Marston's. Good day. So long, chile, God bless you."

Mrs. Marston walked homeward, musing over Erma's sayings. "Wal, I hez notused dat dem northun wimmin es cums doun here doos wuck. I 'specks dese Suverners hes got us blevin' wrong ter tink dat a washtub spiles yer ladyship. Mebbe arter all I hez been a lady and didunt know it all dis whiul. Been cheated outen my standing in life foolin' arter dese Suverners! I declar' it begins ter peer ter me dat Erm is right, 'do I 'fess I didunt ketch on ter all de pints in her argifikashun. One pint she made 'prest me powerfil much. It mout not hurt Margie so much ef she would help her ole mammy er bit. It is gitting hard fir me ter liff and tote dem big tubs like I hez ter do, fir dey shuah air heavy. I uster help my mammy ter liff hern. Margie mout do a little ub de cookin' and i'nin' and let her pore mammy rest some. I hez been wuckin' so hard all my days and I hez nebber had no rest. But I ain't here fir much longer. Frum de way my rheumatis feels, Jesus will be callin' me soon." Thinking thus, she went back to her work. As she labored, the sweet face and tender brown eyes of Erma were peeping up through the soapsuds and the sight thereof made her happy and her task the lighter. Strange to say, and perhaps not strange after all, her mind did not once go out to her own daughter, who, in company with Ellen Sanders, was stirring up the entire city against an orphan girl whose only offense was that she had decided to obey the Bible injunction to labor six days in the week.

CHAPTER V.

WHAT A KISS DID.

We are within the folds of night, and Elbridge Noral is once more a visitor at the home of Dolly Smith. We have the same dimly lighted room and the same parties to the conversation.

"Mrs. Smith," began Noral very excitedly, "I come to ask you in the name of heaven to prevent a catastrophe and to unravel a puzzle that racks my brain. I wish for you to prevent Erma Wysong from becoming a servant girl; and I further beg of you to tell me why she seeks to become one."

"Explain, Mr. Noral, wherein becoming a servant girl is such a catastrophe. Is not work honorable?" asked Dolly, in evident astonishment.

"Yes, yes, but ah! the atmosphere surrounding the Negro service girl! She is away from her own people, not allowed social contact with the family of her employer, and usually resides in solitude in a little house in the back yard, with alleyways as the only approach. Such a state of affairs puts a premium on male companionship, which may be ever so frequent, or at improper hours, without the fear of any adverse comment thereon, and, in fact, without its being known. This condition of things, as might reasonably be expected, generates a great deal of immorality. While there are service girls of sterling worth, a bad odor attaches to the calling. If Erma goes into service in such fashion, the very atmosphere will breed insults for her. White youths will feel that she has no further claims to respectability, and will proceed to deal with her accordingly. So much for the catastrophe. The puzzling thing to me is as to why Erma should contemplate such a course." These remarks were delivered by Noral with unwonted energy.

"Well, Mr. Noral, Erma simply needs money, I presume, to supply her natural wants and satisfy reasonable and legitimate desire. Such stations as her talents peculiarly fit her for are denied to her because she is a Negro girl. There is no honorable course open to her save the one that she has pursued. Away goes the puzzle. As to the catastrophe, Mr. Noral, opinions may differ, according to the view point. I fancy that I see in her determination to enter service the surest means to the accomplishment of your purpose."

Noral's face betokened a wrathful storm; his voice gave sign of its coming.

"Mrs. Smith, do I understand you to intimate that I am such a sensual degenerate that I am willing to see Erma degraded by others as a sort of preparation for me?"

"Be calm, Mr. Noral. My meaning was far from that, as you will soon discover. My plan of action is as follows: Now that Erma is determined to enter service, you select a place where you may become a frequent visitor and can contrive to see Erma without exciting her suspicions as to your ultimate purposes. Erma is one of the purest girls in the world, and you must first establish yourself in her good graces as a necessary prelude to my part of the work. If you can inspire regard, I will give the necessary downward turn."

"A capital idea, Dolly, a capital idea! Now, let me see where Erma might go."

"How about Mrs. Turner who lives adjoining you?"

"What!" said Noral, rising to his feet hurriedly. "Where do I live? Who told you where I lived?" he said, retreating from Dolly as he spoke, and adjusting his mask to his face. Dolly saw at once that she had committed a monstrous error, and was much perplexed, for a moment, as to how to extricate herself.

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Noral, I have known who you were from the very first."

"Known me from the first! Have you had spies tracking me, you she devil?"

"She devil, heh! she devil!" hissed Dolly Smith in a tone that was full of venom. Her head shaking with violent emotion, she walked up to Noral and said: "She devil, did you say? But who made me a she devil? Who destroyed my soul? Who first started me on the damnable mission of polluting the entire stream of the virtue of my race? Who did this? Will you tell me? say, will you tell me? Oh, you don't know, do you? Well, you shall know, James Benson Lawson! Yes, you shall know!"

Lawson's anger disappeared in his surprise at the torrent of invective that Dolly Smith poured upon him. He answered not a word, but stood with folded arms, looking at Dolly Smith. He discovered that he had a tigress to deal with, and that at the bottom of the heart of this cold-blooded, callous schemer there were fires as hot as those of the reputed lower regions, and it did not take much fanning to cause them to blaze up. Then, too, her remarks seemed to have been intended for him individually, and were not mere ravings against the world at large. The more he thought, the more puzzled he was. Dolly Smith, after this violent outburst, grew very calm, and inwardly chided herself for having allowed her temper to perhaps frighten away from her hook a fish on whose capture all the soul that she had was set. She summoned all of her adroitness and cunning in an endeavor to regain lost ground. Pushing open the folding doors, and disappearing in the adjoining room, she returned shortly, bearing in her hand a photograph. She brought it to Lawson and said, "Here is the spy that tracked you. Go look at it." Lawson took it to the gaslight and, turning on the light, examined the picture.

"You see that it is a picture of your father. As Governor of this State, he was more popular with the colored people than any other governor before or since his time. True, he is a Democrat, but the colored people love him, and his picture is in almost every Negro home. As soon as I saw you the other night, though the room was dark, I recognized the likeness. I knew where you lived, as the papers have been printing pictures of the old Lawson Mansion as it has been repaired to receive your father, just returned from his post as minister to Germany. Now, that is the sort of spying I have done. Don't mistrust me, Mr. Lawson. Your honor is safe in my hands. I hold some of the most terrible secrets of your most noted families in this city, and they are as safe with me as though they were in the grave, locked in the bosom of the dead."

Dolly Smith eyed Lawson keenly as she talked, trying to discern the impression that her words were making. She saw that she had not succeeded in reaching the main current of his thoughts and she planned another effort.

"The vigor of my remarks a while ago naturally astonished you. Well, I was once a pure girl and not wholly uneducated. Nor was I homely, either. This corpulence has come from drinking excessively. Well, a white woman encompassed my fall. She taught me to drink. She was such a great white lady, I thought that if she could drink I could do so as well. I got drunk in public and was forever disgraced. She got drunk frequently, but the newspapers always said that she fainted or was attacked with nervous prostration. Her wealth allows her to maintain her social standing, among her people, while I am an outcast among mine. She started me in this business. I hate her, though I confess I get a great deal of fun, excitement and money out of my profession. I know I am a she devil, but when one calls me that, I get angry from thinking of that woman. All of this occurred when I lived in another city. My previous history is unknown here."

Lawson was profoundly interested in Dolly Smith's recital. He had not dreamed that a woman so depraved ever allowed her mind to wander back to the days of purity. In fact, he did not conceive of her ever having had such days. Thus, with these adroitly constructed fabrications, she lulled Lawson's suspicions to sleep.

"Dolly Smith, I beg your pardon. Don't you know, I always supposed people of your type were born destitute of moral nature. But I begin to believe that humanity at its worst is not as bad as it seems."

Dolly Smith now saw that she had recaptured him.

"All right, Dolly, quarrelling aside, let's get down to business. Let me see; where were we," says Noral.

"My idea is that some way ought to be found to have Erma Wysong in the employ of Mrs. Turner, your next door neighbor. She has no male member in her family," put in Dolly.

"Yes, but she has a servant," replied Lawson.

"And you have money. The servant went there for money, and will come away for money. Pay her a few months' wages in advance. Ask her to get Erma Wysong and take her to Mrs. Turner's to fill her place, and the work is done," said Dolly.

"Oh, you are a daisy," said Lawson, and in his excess of joy at the prospective success of his scheme, he seized Dolly Smith about the waist and kissed her. That kiss awakened every demon in Dolly's nature. It took her mind back to the days when the blue of her sky was interwoven with the blackest of clouds, and the lightnings of trouble flashed forth therefrom, ripping open her every vein, and spilling beyond recall all the blood of her life. And she pledged in her soul, shaking like a decayed and tottering building in the grasp of the wind, to crush James Benson Lawson in her fall.

CHAPTER VI.

UP TO DATE ARISTOCRACY IN A NEGRO CHURCH.

Erma Wysong was now happily located at Mrs. Turner's, little dreaming, innocent soul, of the motives and midnight plottings that had brought her there. Ignorant of all this, she was giving God thanks for having secured for her such an ideal place of service. In this happy, joyous, light-hearted frame of mind, she clads herself in her most lovely apparel on the Sabbath and goes forth to church. While she is on her way there, let us acquaint ourselves with the preparations made to receive her.

The fact that Erma Wysong, a graduate of the High School, had entered service, shocked the Negro population of the city. Educated members of the race, the school teachers, the doctors, the lawyers and the recent girl graduates were simply enraged. Ellen Sanders and Margaret Marston had canvassed the whole city and had persuaded the entire circle of educated colored persons in the city to come out to Erma's church to aid them in giving her such a snubbing as had never as yet been administered to a mortal. This was their ambition's end just now, the complete snubbing, crushing of Erma for "throwing away her education in a most shameful and disgraceful way by going to work." Their plan was to have the educated and professional people to sit together in that section of the church where Erma usually sat; and she was to be thus forced out of her seat and out of their midst. If by any means she got a seat near them they were to get up in a body and move to another part of the church. So, on Sunday morning this group was out early and in full force. As the hour of the service drew on they grew restless from thinking over the stinging rebuke that they were about to administer to Erma. Ellen Sanders had turned her head and shoulders completely around from facing the pulpit and her large flashing eyes were keeping guard on the door so that she might see Erma when she first appeared in the doorway.

"There she is," said Ellen, flopping herself around, assuming an attitude apparently as stiff and immovable as a granite cliff.

All turned to look and then snatched their eyes away in disdain. Erma came forward unsuspectingly, a sweet smile upon her lovely face. Her glistening black hair nestled in lovely coils on her queenly head. Her brown eyes, resting complacently beneath lovely eyebrows, sparkled with a quiet glow and a tenderness known only to the innocent and happy at heart. Her dress was a flawless fit and brought out all the graces of her divinely moulded form. This pure, blushing, aspiring, orphan girl went up the aisle of her church and stopped opposite her accustomed seat, expecting the occupants to make room for her. Instead of doing this, they got closer together.

Erma, astonished, looked about her, and the angry, scornful looks cast at her caused a stinging sensation in her face as though it had been stuck by so many sharp needles. In her confusion she mechanically tried to enter seat after seat, but was barricaded out. Finding it to be their intention to prevent her from sitting anywhere in that section of the church, she went forward to the "Amen corner," and finding a vacant seat there, she sat down.

The fact that Erma Wysong, a servant, had taken an "Amen corner" seat in the Leigh Street Church stirred the group to fever heat. Ellen gave a faint shriek of horror—one about the size to express righteous indignation in a Christian church on the Sabbath day. A Negro doctor got up and went to two of the ushers and said, "Sirs, I appeal to you! The dignity of this church is outraged! Look yonder where that servant girl sits! The idea! This is the most aristocratic Negro church in this city and yet you allow that girl to sit there!"

"We didn't know that she was going to sit there," said an usher, obsequiously.

"Well, now you know it, sir! Do you think that the white folks would allow a white servant girl to sit on the front pew in their church? We shall never amount to anything as a race until we learn to do as white people," said the indignant doctor.

"Well, what would you say do, doctor?" inquired the same obsequious usher.

"What do! what do! Why, what would white people do? Put her out! Put her out!" exclaimed the doctor.

The ushers nearly tumbled over each other to get to Erma to do what they supposed white people would do to a white servant girl under similar circumstances. Between these two ushers, Erma was escorted out of the church, her face burning with shame. They did not turn her loose until she was full on the sidewalk, when they left her, returning to worship the God of the Nazarene carpenter lad.

Erma looked up and down the street in a lost sort of way. A single pair of tears came into her eyes and a sob was forced out of her throat by her throbbing heart. Thoughts of her lonely, unprotected condition in the world crowded upon her; visions of her departed mother floated before her eyes; the thought of being ejected from God's house in seeming disgrace came down upon her with terrific force and the poor girl sobbed bitterly, burying her face in her handkerchief. She felt an arm steal around her neck and heard a voice murmur, "Pore chile, pore chile." It was the arm and voice of Aunt Mollie Marston, who had followed Erma out of the church.

She said, "I hearn dat niggah doctah tell em ter put you out kase white folks would hab dun it. Now, I 'grees wid you fully, Miss Erm. We is lettin dese white folks teach us too much. Our church hez dun away wid dem good ole soul-stirrin' himes in which my soul jes' 'peared ter float right up ter God, and now we hez got a choir whut sings de himes which gibs de feelin's of white people's souls which ain't allus lack ourn. An' our elder is done quit preachin' an' gwine ter readin' de Gospil ter us, an' de Speerit hes firsaken him. An' dey hez been tellin' us ter do lack white folks an' let our feelin's stay damned up, wen it do feel so good ter let um out. An' chile, bless yer soul, dey doa'n' let me shout at church fir fear white folks would laugh at 'um, an' fir fear dey would lose de name ub ''Ristocrats.' But, bless yer soul, hunny, I shouts at home."

So saying, Aunt Mollie drew her arm tighter about Erma's waist, and these two religious outcasts went marching home, Erma crying and Aunt Mollie singing all the while,

"De ole time relijun,
De ole time relijun,
De ole time relijun
Am good ernuff fir me."

CHAPTER VII.

REV. JOSIAH NERVE, D. D. S.

Erma Wysong was sitting in her own home on the following evening (her employers, Mrs. Turner and daughter, having left the city for a vacation of a few days duration), lost in a reverie, musing over her experience on the Sunday just gone, when she heard a sort of hesitating knock at her door. She went to the door, opened it, and found standing before her a very dark man, low of stature, of medium size, dressed in a "Prince Albert" coat and vest that had "seen better days." His bow legs were incased in a pair of linen breeches that desired to pass for white, and were very much wrinkled. A broad grin, that showed nearly all of his teeth and well nigh shut up his small eyes, was upon his face. He opened his eyes slowly to take a full look at Erma, and the grin depreciated in value about fifty per cent (if its value depended upon its size). Satisfied with the result of his inspection, the grin, like the cat, came back, and the eyes again took up their abode in the "partial eclipse." After grinning at Erma a length of time sufficient, as he thought, to impress her with his geniality, he was ready to announce himself.

"Huh," he grunted; "you-don't-know-me, do-you?" said he in the deep guttural, rolling tone so generally affected by a certain class of Negro preachers.

"Oh, yes," replied Erma, "I have heard you preach on several occasions."

"Huh," he grunted again. With a yet broader grin than his greeting one, he asked, in that tone which was never known to forsake him (his wife states that he even snores in that tone), "What-is-my-name?"

"Really, I have forgotten that."

"Huh," he grunted, "my-name-is-Rev.-Josiah-Nerve,-D.-D.-S." His grin increased in anticipation of the effect the information just imparted was to produce.

"Will you not come in, Rev. Mr. Nerve?"

"Huh," said Rev. Josiah Nerve, still grinning broadly and walking in, lifting his feet in his walk a little higher than do ordinary mortals.

"Take a seat, please."

He sat down, taking infinite pains, with all due deliberation, to arrange his coat tails so that he would not rumple them as his predecessor in the ownership of them had already evidently done overmuch. Holding his hat in his hand, he sat staring at Erma, alternately lessening his grin so as to look, and his look so as to grin, as his grin ordinarily closed his eyes nearly, and as a full look materially reduced his grin. His white teeth and red gums managed to keep in sight, however, during the fiercest of the fight between the grin and the look. Having allowed sufficient time for his amiability to become thoroughly apparent through these facial gymnastics, he began:

"Miss-Wysong,-I-have-come-to-sympathize-with-you, huh."

"Thank you, Rev. Mr. Nerve. On account of what am I to be favored with your sympathy?"

"Huh,-on-account-of-what-them-blue-vein, educated-niggers-did-to-you-yesterday."

"Let me understand you, please."

"Huh. In-that-church-out-of-which-you were-put-yesterday,-all-of-the- mulattoes, whose-skins-are-such-that-their-blue-blood shows,-have- decided-to-form-an-aristocracy. If you-are-yellow-and-don't-work-any- with-your hands,-you-are-all-right. That-is-condition number-one. If- you-are-black-and-don't-work any-with-your-hands-and-are-smarter-than-the whole-lot-of-them-blue-veiners-put-together, you-will-be-accepted-until- they-get-something on-you. That-is-condition-number-two. You were-light- enough-for-them,-but-you-worked with-your-hands. I-did-not-work-with-my hands,-but-I-was-not-smart-enough. So,-being-black,-they-put-me-out."

"Put you out?" queried Erma.

"Huh,-yes,-miss. Before-you-was-born,-I was-pastor-of-that-church. That-blue-veined crowd-dumped-me,-huh."

"I fear that you are prejudiced against them and judge them harshly," interposed Erma. "Surely a people who have been so sorely oppressed on account of their color would not dream of drawing the color line among themselves."

"Huh,-huh,-miss,-you-don't-know. The color-line-is-drawn-tighter-within- the-race than-ever-it-was-on-the-outside,-and-the-original-bony-fidy (bona fide)-members-of-the-race don't-draw-the-line. It-is-the-first- time-that-I ever-knew-of-a-people-who-slipped-into-a-race through-a-back- door-sitting-on-the-front-piazza and-hollowing-to-the-honest-born-chaps- to-stay in-the-kitchen. Well,-it-is-like-a-prison,-I-suppose. The-rascal- who-gets-in-there-for-committing-the-worst-crime-is-the-leader-and-hero of-the-prison.

"I am sure that you are sour over some unpleasant experiences with certain light-skinned people, and it has so warped your judgment that you pass a severe sentence upon the entire class, which is manifestly unjust. Pardon me, but I would much prefer the discussion of some other topic."

"Huh,-excuse-me-then. Huh,-both-of-us having-been-put-out-by-that-blue- vein-crowd, I-had-a-fellow-feeling. Miss-Wysong,-I-want your-aid-in-a- little-matter."

"I shall be pleased to serve you in any way that I can."

"Huh,-thank-you,-miss. My-congregation-is made-up-of-all-the-shouting- sisters-from-all the-other-churches,-who-have-been-driven-away by- manuscripts,-which-things-they-hate-worse than-the-Apostle-Peter-hated- the-rooster-that crowed-and-told-on-him. I-preach-to-them-in-the good- old-time-way. I-have-never-quit-spreading a-good-supply-of-the-gravy-of- feeling-on-the gospel-biscuits-which-I-hand-down-every-Sabbath. Because- I-won't-grieve-the-Spirit-by setting-him-aside-for-a-manuscript,-the- other preachers-are-mad-at-me,-and-won't-let-me-get D.-D.,-which-my- people-want-me-to-have."

"Pardon me, but I understood you to say that you were the Rev. Josiah Nerve, D.-D.-S."

"Huh,-you-don't-understand;-D.-D.-S.-is-not D.-D.,-as-I-shall-presently- make-plain. My-people kept-on-growling-about-my-not-having-a-title. Of- course,-I-had-no-learning. I-can-only-talk straight-by-calling-one-word- at-a-time,-as-you must-have-noticed-already,-and-even-at-that-it is-as- much-as-I-can-do-to-keep-my-tongue-from twisting-back-to-the-old-time- nigger-dialect which-I-spoke-for-thirty-years,-with-much-more pleasure- than-I-do-this. My-people-kept-on growling,-and-asking-me-if-there-was- nothing they-could-do. One-day-when-a-number-of-us preachers-were- visiting-the-High-School,-the teacher-asked-a-little-girl-to-conjugate- the-verb to-be-in-Latin,-showing-off-before-us. She-began-like-this: "Sum,-es,-est." I-am-good-at catching-on,-but-to-be-sure,-I-stood- around-the street-corner,-near-this-little-girl's-home-and waited- until-she-came-from-school,-when-I asked-her-what-did-sum-mean. She- said-it-was the-Latin-verb-to be. I-then-called-my-church together,-and-told-them-that-there-was-a-title that-they-could-confer- upon-me. By-a-unanimous vote,-my-church-conferred-upon-me-the-degree of- D.-D.-S. That-is-D.D., -to-be. Now-I-often think-how-true- that-Scripture-is-which-says, "A little-child-shall-lead-them.""

Erma could not repress a smile of amusement at the novel and ingenious way in which the Rev. Josiah Nerve came in possession of the coveted title.

"Huh," continued the parson, "I-have-a-fine plan-for-getting-my-full- honors. You-can-help me. I-want-to-have-the-'S.'-dropped."

"I am sure you do not expect me to give you the degree?"

"Huh,-no-no. But-you-can-teach-me-English grammar,-geography,-and-the- alphabets-of-the Greek,-Latin-and-Hebrew-languages. With these-things,-I- can-wear-my-degree-with-dignity when-it-comes. I-have-got-my-plan-laid- to-bring it. You-see,-I-know-what-it-takes-to-scoop-a D.D.-from-the-very- best-nigger-colleges. I-know one-preacher-who-got-his-degree-by-buying-a barrel-of-salt-herrings-for-a-nigger-college,-and sat-on-the-barrel-in- the-front-yard,-threatening to-take-the-barrel-of-herrings-home-in-case- the trustees-did-not-give-him-the-degree. My-plans are-more-dignified- than-that. I've-got-them laid-and-I-want-you-to-help-me-to-be-prepared for-my-coming-honor."

"Rev. Mr. Nerve, I am very sorry to be compelled to tell you that your ambitions are in the wrong direction. The mere attaching to yourself the degree will not make you the equal of the white preachers whom you are seeking to imitate. For one, I very much question the wisdom of the system of degreeing preachers, though practiced by all of the leading white institutions of learning. Oh! Mr. Nerve, as I have had occasion to remark before, we must learn to quit accepting customs as good and grand, simply because the white people have adopted them. They are but human and can err, even in a body as a race. Aside from my convictions as to the uselessness of a title in your case, my time is so much taken up with other duties that I would not have the time to instruct you. But let me impress this one fact upon you. Your ambition should sink deeper than merely to appear and be esteemed wise and learned. Degrees, mere outside appendages, would do you no good."

"Huh, miss,-you-are-young-yet. Our-race has-been-so-severely-criticised- that-it-has-developed-the-faculty-of-appearing. Our-folks will-forgive- you-for-not-being-up-to-white-folks,-but-a-man-that-can't-put-up-a-bold- front has-no-forgiveness. The-word-now-is, 'Be-what you-please,-but- don't-let-the-white-folks-know it.' You-just-look-about-you-and-see-if- the-criticisms-of-the-white-people,-often-unjust,-are-not-developing-the- faculty-of-deception-and-white-washing,-just-like-the-child-that-is- whipped-the-most-for-its-faults-learns-to-hide-them-far quicker-than-to- correct-them. No,-no,-Miss Wysong,-a-covering-will-do-for-me. Niggers can't-pull-off-the-covering-and-look-at-my-filthy rags-of-knowledge- because-they-don't-know enough;-and-white-people-can't,-because-I ain't- going-to-let-them-get-close-enough-to peep-under-my-covering. I-agree- with-you that-it-is-bad-that-our-people-want-everything just-like-white- people. That-is-what-makes me-have-to-hustle-to-get-D.-D. And-if-I-don't get-it-somehow-before-too-long,-my-people-will dump-me-just-like-them- blue-veiners-did."

"Oh! the blue veiners, then, are not the only colored people desiring to be like white people. The most of your people are pure blacks and they are trying to be like white people, too, I understand."

"Huh, of-course. That-is-what-makes-the blue-veiners-so-proud. They-see- that-they-are near-and-nearing-the-place-where-the-blacks are-almost- dying-to-get-to. Nowadays-you never-hear-of-two-coal-black-persons- marrying each-other. The-black-man-is-pushing-the black-woman-aside-to- grab-the-yellow-woman; and-the-black-woman is-pushing-the-black-man aside- to-grab-the-yellow-man. I-know-a-number-of-black-mothers-with-black- daughters that-have-sworn-they-will-poison-their-daughters-if-they- attempt-to-marry-black-men. Besides-don't-black-women-with-short-hair-rob horses'-tails,-billy-goats-and-graveyards-to-get hair-like-that-of-white- folks. I-wish-a-sensible girl-like-you-would-join-my-church-and-stop white-folks-ideas-from-cropping-in-faster-than we-fellows-can-keep-up- with-them. They-have got-me-out-now-hunting-for-a-D.-D.,-just-like white- folks,-when-neither-me-nor-them-know any-more-about-what-D.-D.-means- than-Sam Smith's-old-mule."

"Seriously, Rev. Mr. Nerve, might I join your church? I feel that I owe my race an apology for having somewhat deserted them. Because their language was broken and their customs crude and queer, I, together with other members of my race, have not mingled with them as much as we should have done. I assure you that my failure to do so was not due to pride nor to color prejudice. It was due simply to a lack of similarity of tastes, ideals, habits, customs, manner of speech, etc. I think that a great amount of what you class as color prejudice may be reduced to that, after all."

"Huh,-huh,-huh,-Miss-Wysong,-you-are-all right. I-have-been-watching- you-for-years. You-always-speak-to-us-blacks-politely-and never-snub-us. But-don't-you-tell-me-about them-other-blue-veiners. I-knows-um,-I-know them-thar-now,-see-how-my-tongue-gits,-my tongue-gets-to-slippin',-to- slipping-some-times. It-is-nothin'-but-plum-nigger-foolishness-to keep- me-cramped-down-to-all-this-grammar talk-I-am-doing. If-my-people-did- not-insist upon-me-using-language-just-like-white-people I-would-go- back-to-the-plain-nigger-dialect just-suited-to-a-big-mouth-and-stiff- tongue-like mine."

"You have failed to answer my question, Rev. Mr. Nerve. May I join your church?"

"Huh,-bless-God,-yes. My-people-are-black, yet,-as-I-have-made-plain,- they-like-yellow folks. You-are-not-exactly-yellow;-you-are-a pretty- brown-skin,-a-mighty-pretty-brown-skin. I-really-think-what-makes-blue- veiners-so-aristocratic-is-that-we-blacks-like-them,-the-white folks- like-them,-and-they-like-themselves;-leaving-nobody-to-like-us-blacks. If-we-ever-turn-to liking-black-faces-it-will-only-be-after-the whites- turn-that-way. The-whites-regulate-all of-our-tastes-even-to-telling-us- who-are-our greatest-men-among-us. We-just-won't-acknowledge-a-man-is- great-until-the-whites-have done-so. Our-slave-mammies-had-no-thought from-morning-till-night,-year-in-and-year-out, except-the-thought-of- pleasing-master-and mistress. I-guess-that-is-how-doing-everything to-please-white-people-became-ingrained-in-our nature. You-will-know- more-about-this-when you-get-to-be-a-married-woman-like-I-am,-huh, huh.

"Good-day,-Miss-Wysong,-good-day,-I-see you-are-restless-and-tired-of- an-old-man's-gab. Remember-that-I-have-not-promised-you-that-I would-not- be-a-D.-D. My-plans-are-all-laid. Remember-you-are-to-join-my-church. Good day. I-did-not-promise-that-I-would-not-be-no D.-D.,-huh,-huh-huh."

Bowing and grinning and grunting, Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D. S., backed out of the door and out of the gate, and, hat in hand, went strutting proudly down the street, not forgetting that in walking, his feet should come up a little higher from the ground than do the feet of plain every day human beings. Poor deluded soul, contented to grasp with a death clutch at the shadow of Anglo-Saxon civilization. His brethren are many. In due time the whole city came out to view the first step of Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D. S., toward becoming Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D.

CHAPTER VIII.

HE NARROWLY ESCAPED.

Fire! fire!! fire!!! Lurid flames leaping in their mad fury through the roof of a huge frame church building situated on Laurel Street had attracted the attention of a Negro woman who had a basket of clothes on her head. Putting the basket of clothes down on the sidewalk and expanding her chest, she had thrown her shoulders back and was screaming as fast and as loudly as she could; for it was the edifice of the church of which she was a member that was afire. She was a poor, unlettered woman, but next to God, she loved her church. Having to labor incessantly from before daylight Monday morning until late Saturday night, and having neither a nice dwelling nor costly dresses, about her only pleasure was going to church on Sunday. She felt that here she heard directly from God out of that mysterious book on the stand, doubly dear to her, being shrouded in mystery and containing glowing promises of coming joys. Imagine then the horror, excitement, pathos, despair, astonishment that this Negro woman threw into her screams on that midday. No one who heard those screams ever forgot them. Soon the street was thronged with excited spectators. As fast as the colored "sisters" came in sight of the burning building they would break forth into loud piercing screams.

"Good Laws a mussy, de Lawd am lettin' de house ub God burn up," said one, her hands akimbo on her hips, her eyes bleared, her very soul lost in amazement at such a sight.

"My Lawd, judgment muss shuah dun cum. You had better pray, sinners!" shouted another over and over again in a loud voice.

The "sister" who had first screamed ran to the front door and threw herself violently against it. It gave way and she dashed down the aisle. She thought she saw a long tail coat disappearing out of a rear window. She had no time to think of that, however. Her mind was intent on getting the pulpit Bible. She snatched this from the altar and started for the door. A burning rafter fell, barely missing her head and striking her on the shoulder, dislocating her arm. The Bible was knocked out of her hands. One of the firemen who had now arrived on the scene, hearing that a woman was in the burning building ran in, in order to rescue her. He caught her by the dislocated arm and was pulling her along, giving her excruciating pain. She said to the fireman, "Lemme go. Git de Bible. Save de Wurd ub God. Save de Wurd."

"The Wurd be blanked," said the irate fireman. "Come along or you will burn up, old woman." The oath from the lips of the fireman erased every thought of the fire from her mind. She forgot the Bible. Her excitement was all gone. She was wondering to herself how a human being could speak so slightly about the Bible.

"Dese white folks is er sight. I kain't see how dey ken eber 'speck to git ter hebun. Dat feller done 'saulted my rebrunce fur de Bible. Dey is enuf ter spile eny body's 'ligion. Ef niggers stay heah in dis country wid dese cole hearted white folks we woan hab no 'ligion 'tall." Such were her inward musings, and that too, without a knowledge of the higher critics. The fire had no more interest for that "sister." She was thinking of that other and hotter fire sure, as she thought, to get the irreverent fireman who could "cuss a Bible in a burnin' church."

The crowd swelled, the "sisters" screamed, the fire raged, the firemen worked valiantly but all to no avail. The flames, glad at being turned loose in the world once more, refused to release their grasp and insisted on licking up into their million insatiable little mouths every piece of timber. Just before the walls crumbled Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D. S., came dashing into the crowd. The "sisters" all gathered around the parson for he was their "parster." He put his handkerchief to his eyes as though the sight was too sad to behold. With his face buried in his handkerchief, his lips were moving, giving voice to the sentiments of his heart. "Thank God! Thank God! or the devil even!!"

The excitement over, the crowd dwindled down, leaving the ashes to the parson and the "sisters," the brethren being at their work.

"Elder Nerve, look at de bottom ub yer pants' leg." The parson looked down and saw a large rent made in his pants and a wide-spread stain.

"Dat surely is kerosene oil," said another "sister."

Parson Nerve now exhibited an unwonted degree of confusion. The "sisters" attributed it, however, to the embarrassment of the parson at having his spick and span attire disarranged by a snag and an oil stain.

"Whar did you git it?" said another "sister," stooping to look at it.

"Huh, ah,-I-could-not-say,-ay,-Sister Jones," said the parson, again on his dignity.

"Whar wuz you wen our house got kotched er fire, Elder?" The parson's dignity suffered a considerable collapse again. "Huh!-Ah! Huh,-huh,-let- me-see. Why,-sister,-I-am-so troubled-about-our-house-of-worship-that my-memory-is-sort-of-affected-that-quick. Huh!-ah!-huh! Don't-think- about-me,-sisters, think-of-your-church! What-are-we-to-do-about that?" Much to Parson Nerve's relief the "sisters" turned to the discussion of that theme, the greatest on earth to them. They began thus early to lay plans for their future.

Parson Nerve soon found a way of absenting himself from the group and repaired to his study where he secluded himself. "Ha!-ha! ha!" laughed he in his deep resounding voice. "I-have-got-them-on-the-hip-now. I've-got them,-ha!-ha!-ha! I-have-been-a-sly-slick-duck, sure. There- are-now-forty-four-fine-brick churches-owned-by-Negroes-in-this-city. They are-very-fine,-but-mine-shall-be-finer,-finer,-finer, ha!-ha!-ha! I-have-been-a-slick-duck. The other-preachers-thought-I-couldn't-build,- but-I was-waiting-until-the-last-of-them-built,-so-I could-beat-them-all. Oh!-I-knew-I-would-get old-Spalding. I-will-show-him-what-Old-Man Nerve-can-do. Won't-he-rave-when-he-sees-my church-going-up-finer-than- his? He-beats-the balance,-but-I'll-beat-him. Not-only-will-I-beat the- niggers, but-I-shall-also-beat-the-white-folks. I-shall-then-have-the- finest-church-house-in-the city,-white-or-colored. Ninety-thousand-dollars will-be-the-cost. Then,-Good-God! Then-I'll get-my-D.-D. Not-a-nigger- college-in-the-world will-refuse-me-D.-D.,-when-I-finish-a-building that- costs-that-much. Oh,-I-knew-I-would-get old-Spalding. He-is-only-a-B.-D. But-I-will-be a-D.-D.,-Rev.-Josiah-Nerve,-D.-D. No-more-'S.' Well,-I- deserve-it. Few-men-would-have-had the-grace-to-wait-until-all-the-other- chaps-were done. And,-then,-think-of-the-risk-I-ran-in-getting-that-old- house-out-of-the-way. Let-me-look at-that-statute-again."

Going to his desk the parson opened a code of criminal laws and turned to the desired place. "Arson-from-two-to-twenty-years-in-the penitentiary,-two-to-twenty,-two-to-twenty. Now,-who-on-earth-would-say- that-a-man who-would-run-such-a-risk-for-a-house-for God-ought-not-to- have-D.-D.,-D.-D.,-D.-D., Rev.-Josiah-Nerve,-D.-D.

"Come in," said Parson Nerve, in response to a knock at his study door.

A policeman stepped into the parson's study. The parson dropped into a chair quickly and hid his torn pants' leg behind the other, that grin of his entirely gone for once. The policeman failed to observe the parson's hiding one leg behind the other. He began, "Parson, somebody burned your church house down. We know that you and your people are much grieved about it and would like to apprehend the scoundrel. I came to tell you that we are on his track." The parson looked at the policeman but could not speak. He saw a gulf opening its yawning jaws to receive him and he could not even hollow. He stole a glance at the open code.

"Yes," continued the policeman, "we shall get him before night. They are measuring his tracks now from the rear window of the church out of which some one caught a glimpse of him jumping. A bloodhound from a near by city will be brought over on the five train and he will certainly run him down." The policeman looked over to Rev. Josiah Nerve to hear him express sentiments of gratification at the vigilance of the police and the bright prospect of the early capture of the criminal. The Rev. Mr. Nerve looked at the policeman stupidly, frozen with fear.

"See here!" said the policeman, drawing a bit of torn cloth from his vest pocket and holding it up to view. "This is a piece of his pants' leg. When he is found this will identify him beyond question. We found this hanging to a nail in a fence by which he must have run in making his escape." Rev. Josiah Nerve neither spoke nor moved. He pressed the torn pants' leg harder against its protector.

The policeman, anxious to secure some expression of elation from Rev. Josiah Nerve, and disappointed that he had not thus far secured such, said, "From the way the people are talking, if the scamp is caught he will be lynched. The white people like you and your church. Yours is the only congregation in town that has not joined the craze to have churches finer than those of the white people. Thus they think well of you and are sorry for your misfortune. I am a policeman sworn to uphold the majesty of the law, but I will join a mob to help lynch the scoundrel that burned your church down. Well, I see you are too grieved to discuss the matter. Good day, parson," said the policeman, rising to go.

Rev. Josiah Nerve felt a little strength return and he managed to say to the policeman, in a husky tone, "Good day," and sotto voce, "Good by." The policeman walked away musing to himself, "Surely niggers must have an immense amount of religion or of something. Now, that darkey preacher is so grieved about that plaguy barn, that he can't talk."

While the policeman was thus musing as he walked along, Rev. Josiah Nerve was packing a valise. In the middle of that afternoon, some farmers not far distant from the city, saw a man wearing a long tail coat, which was slapping at the wind, his hat in one hand and a valise in the other, making for the woods at a rapid rate. Rev. Josiah Nerve, D. D. S., was not heard from in Richmond again. Perhaps he at last succeeded in dropping the despised "S," and lost his identity in the numerous throng of the veneered.

The tragic, not the humorous in the experiences of Rev. Josiah Nerve, appealed to Erma. Had she even then a premonition that she, too, had been singled out by the wheels of the Juggernaut; that she, too, was to be the epitome of all that was tragic in the attempts of the Negro and Anglo-Saxon to journey side by side on the terms elected?

CHAPTER IX.

THE PIT IS DUG.

Night again, and at the home of Dolly Smith. Dolly Smith and James B. Lawson, alias Elbridge Noral, feel that they know each other now, and the gas jet is turned full on. The room is supplied with furniture of a most costly and gorgeous sort. Lawson, fresh from a home of magnificence, is dazzled by the splendor of Dolly Smith's parlor.

"Dolly, you are certainly finely fitted up, finely! I must say that I have not seen better."

"It ought to be fine, Mr. Lawson. It is the price that was paid for the virtue of my race. How are matters progressing with you and Erma now?"

"Slowly, Dolly, slowly."

"Have you gotten an opportunity to speak to her yet?"

"Oh, yes! I see her and converse with her nearly every day."

"Do you call that progressing slowly?"

"Yes, and dangerously slow. You see, my excuse for calling at Mrs. Turner's is to see Franzetta Turner, her daughter, while my reason is to catch a glimpse of Erma. Now, if I keep on going to see Miss Turner as regularly as I have been, why, I will just have to propose marriage to her. There will be no way for me to back out. And I did not bargain for all that. So, you see, I am interested in matters coming to a crisis for a twofold reason. First, my soul is lost to Erma Wysong, and will never be found until I have her love and devotion. Secondly, I am not overanxious to fall into the clutches of Old Maid Franzetta."

"How did you happen to get so many conversations with Erma? Explain the situation to me fully, so that I may know the next step for you to take," Dolly Smith said. She now concentrated her soul in her sight and ears. The realization of her life's purpose depended upon the depth of the passion of the man before her. As Lawson's evil genius would have it, he chose this woman of all other people on earth to whom to tell the story of his love.

Lawson ran his hands through his gold colored locks of hair, bowed his head as if in meditation, and began his recital, more as a man musing to himself than as one talking to an auditor. Therefore he held nothing back.

"Well, Dolly, it was this way. A few days after Erma Wysong went to Mrs. Turner's, I called over there, ostensibly to see Miss Franzetta Turner, but in reality to catch a glimpse of Erma. I spoke to Miss Turner in the midst of our conversation as follows:

"'Miss Turner, my barber tells me that your servant girl is a belle in Negro society, and has occasioned about as much ado among her people by becoming a servant girl as your entering a factory to work would do among us.'

"'Is that true, Mr. Lawson? If she is a belle, she is a worthy one. I would give a million for her form. It is symmetry itself.'

"'You underrate your own charms, and overrate those of your servant,' is the unpardonable lie that escaped from my lips, after sticking to my throat for a century, it seemed.

"'Oh, don't attempt to flatter me by any such outrageous comparisons, Mr. Lawson. For beauty, I am not to be mentioned in the same breath with that girl.' This expression was so true that, upon my word, I could not dispute with my tongue that which my heart acknowledged with every throb. I sat in silence, eager for more words of praise of Erma. 'And, strange to say,' she continued, 'the girl is so charming in mind and manner. She has a smile that somehow reveals all the sweetness there is in her soul.' I cursed my soul for that luck that had robbed me of one of those smiles. 'She has so many ways of arranging that glossy, black hair. Every way she changes it makes her appear more beautiful. Of course, the thread of her hair is a little coarse.' I could have slapped Miss Franzetta for even intimating that coarse hair, such as Erma had, was a defect. 'And the girl plays superbly.' I could stand it no longer. I should have been destroyed by the process of spontaneous combustion if I had not said, 'Invite her in and let her play.'

"Miss Turner looked at me inquiringly, to see if I really intended that she should call the Negro girl to entertain us. Intend it! Of course I intended it. Was not that why the girl and I both were there? I repeated my request, hiding my emotion, of course. The greatest currents of the human heart, whether good or bad, seek subterranean passages. Miss Turner rose to call Erma, and, wretch that I am, I actually muttered a prayer of thanks to God. Erma followed Miss Turner into the room, and smiling such a smile as actually lighted that whole room, she made me forget everything else. I arose to be introduced. Erma looked just as much at home and as unembarrassed as though she had been accustomed to such scenes all her days.

"'Mr. Lawson, let me present to you Miss Erma Wysong.'

"'The son of the popular Ex-Governor of our State?' asked Erma of Miss Turner.

"'It is he,' was the reply.

"Erma then came toward me and gave me her hand. Her touch thrilled me, and I actually could not return her greeting, 'I am pleased to know you, Mr. Lawson.'

"'Mr. Lawson wishes you to play some for us, Erma.'

"Erma looked at me, and I nodded slowly, as I did not care for her to lift those tender brown eyes away from me too soon. Seeing that it was my wish, Erma went at once to the piano. Erma did not play. No! such music as she gave was not playing. She just dropped bits of her heart and soul on that keyboard, and the keys cried out in sympathetic tones, and we sat and listened in awe. Since that time I have wondered why people can say play music. Music is too serious a matter to be called play.

"Dolly, that girl has a load of some sort on her heart! Lover-like, I took it to be the cry of a bird for its mate, and I said all through the piece, 'Here am I.' When she was through, she politely bowed and left the room—without a word. I did so much wish it had been Miss Franzetta to go out. After that day I had Miss Franzetta to call Erma in as often as I could without arousing suspicion. Often Miss Franzetta would have occasion to leave the room on some errand or other, and then Erma would have to talk to me. I would just sit and listen to her talk and gaze into the depths of her soulful eyes.

"Now, Dolly, that is as far as I have ever gotten. It seems to me that all unholy thoughts die in her presence. There is something in the very atmosphere around her that has the effect of destroying the very germs of evil. I have been told that white men have no hesitancy about making improper approaches to just any colored woman, as there is no way for insults to be avenged. For, if a Negro murdered a white man of standing for any such cause as insulting a Negro woman, he would be lynched. Notwithstanding this immunity of the white man from punishment and the protection of the mob spirit accorded him, I would like to see the white man with the smallest instinct of the gentleman who could wrongfully approach that girl. You won't find the man this side of the lower regions that can look into those tender, brown eyes, and feel the loving warmth of the pure soul that they bring forth, and then part his lips in an attempt to besmirch such innocence. The way for a woman to keep pure is to be pure. It is an atmosphere that man knows not how to enter.

"By heavens, Dolly, I can't, I can't. I just can't say the word. And yet, love for that girl is consuming my soul. If I could only get a word of love! If she would only kiss me once! If she would but stroke my hair tenderly—but—ah, Dolly, I am a lost man!"

Lawson buried his face in his hands, and his frame shook with the violence of his emotions. Dolly Smith stood over him and looked the tigress that she was, about to spring upon her prey. She repressed all these feelings of exultation, and taking a seat, said, "Cheer up, Mr. Lawson. I have discovered a sure plan of action."

Lawson remained in the same despondent attitude, saying, "Dolly, I can't carry out the plan after you propose it."

"You won't have to carry it out," replied Dolly.