Mr. Heth started to quote something about your daughter's being your
daughter, but when Cally added, "You know I'd lots rather go with you,
papa," he changed his mind, and went off to his nap instead.

Mamma similarly departed. Cally, not feeling nappy, sat in the library
and wrote to her lover the last letter but one she would write before
seeing him in New York. Her eager pen flew: but so did the minutes also,
or did the impetuous Avery anticipate the moment of his engagement? His
tender ring broke unexpectedly across her betrothal thoughts, and Cally
returned to earth with a start ... Good _heavens!_ Four o'clock
already!--and she with twenty minutes' getting ready to do!

She caught up the pages of the unfinished letter, and skipped for the
stairs. In the hall there was unbroken quiet, with no sound of a servant
coming. Cally paused, listening, and then remembered that it was Sunday
afternoon, when even the best Africans are so very likely to have "just
stepped out." Why wait? The girl went and opened the door herself, a
smile of greeting in her eye, a lively apology for her obvious
unreadiness upon her lip.

However, it was not, after all, the amorous Mr. Avery who confronted
her. The vestibule held only an ill-dressed young girl, in a gaudy red
hat, the sort of looking person who should at most have rung the
basement bell, if that: and she herself seemed to realize this by the
guilty little start and tremble she gave when the stately door swung
open upon her. The young mistress of the house eyed her doubtfully.

"Good afternoon."

"G-good evenin', ma'am!..."