Juba, setting candles upon a table in Haward's bedroom, chanced to spill
melted wax upon his master's hand, outstretched on the board. "Damn you!"
cried Haward, moved by sudden and uncontrollable irritation. "Look what
you are doing, sirrah!"

The negro gave a start of genuine surprise. Haward could punish,--Juba had
more than once felt the weight of his master's cane,--but justice had
always been meted out with an equable voice and a fine impassivity of
countenance. "Don't stand there staring at me!" now ordered the master as
irritably as before. "Go stir the fire, draw the curtains, shut out the
night! Ha, Angus, is that you?"

MacLean crossed the room to the fire upon the hearth, and stood with his
eyes upon the crackling logs. "You kindle too soon your winter fire," he
said. "These forests, flaming red and yellow, should warm the land."

"Winter is at hand. The air strikes cold to-night," answered Haward, and,
rising, began to pace the room, while MacLean watched him with compressed
lips and gloomy eyes. Finally he came to a stand before a card table, set
full in the ruddy light of the fire, and taking up the cards ran them
slowly through his fingers. "When the lotus was all plucked and Lethe
drained, then cards were born into the world," he said sententiously.
"Come, my friend, let us forget awhile."

They sat down, and Haward dealt.

"I came to the house landing before sunset," began the storekeeper slowly.
"I found you gone."