Chapter 38

It was a few weeks later. Old Ralph Dudley and Viney had been buried. Ben Dudley had ridden in from Mink Run, had hitched his horse in the back yard as usual, and was seated on the top step of the piazza beside Graciella. His elbows rested on his knees, and his chin upon his hand. Graciella had unconsciously imitated his drooping attitude. Both were enshrouded in the deepest gloom, and had been sunk, for several minutes, in a silence equally profound. Graciella was the first to speak.

"Well, then," she said with a deep sigh, "there is absolutely nothing left?"

"Not a thing," he groaned hopelessly, "except my horse and my clothes, and a few odds and ends which belong to me. Fetters will have the land--there's not enough to pay the mortgages against it, and I'm in debt for the funeral expenses."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Gracious knows--I wish I did! I came over to consult the family. I have no trade, no profession, no land and no money. I can get a job at braking on the railroad--or may be at clerking in a store. I'd have asked the colonel for something in the mill--but that chance is gone."

"Gone," echoed Graciella, gloomily. "I see my fate! I shall marry you, because I can't help loving you, and couldn't live without you; and I shall never get to New York, but be, all my life, a poor man's wife--a poor white man's wife."

"No, Graciella, we might be poor, but not poor-white! Our blood will still be of the best."

"It will be all the same. Blood without money may count for one generation, but it won't hold out for two."

They relapsed into a gloom so profound, so rayless, that they might almost be said to have reveled in it. It was lightened, or at least a diversion was created by Miss Laura's opening the garden gate and coming up the walk. Ben rose as she approached, and Graciella looked up.

"I have been to the post-office," said Miss Laura. "Here is a letter for you, Ben, addressed in my care. It has the New York postmark."

"Thank you, Miss Laura."

Eagerly Ben's hand tore the envelope and drew out the enclosure. Swiftly his eyes devoured the lines; they were typewritten and easy to follow.

"Glory!" he shouted, "glory hallelujah! Listen!"

He read the letter aloud, while Graciella leaned against his shoulder and feasted her eyes upon the words. The letter was from Colonel French:

"My dear Ben:

I was very much impressed with the model of a cotton gin and press which I saw you exhibit one day at Mrs. Treadwells'. You have a fine genius for mechanics, and the model embodies, I think, a clever idea, which is worth working up. If your uncle's death has left you free to dispose of your time, I should like to have you come on to New