My father paused, and the hand he
held to mine trembled. Then he stepped across the threshold, and raising
the big polished knocker that hung on the panel, let it drop. The sound
reverberated through the house, and then stillness. And then, from
within, a shuffling sound, and an old negro came to the door. For an
instant he stood staring through the dusk, and broke into a cry.
"Marse Alec!" he said.
"Is your master at home?" said my father.
Without another word he led us through a deep hall, and out into a
gallery above the trees of a back garden, where a gentleman sat smoking a
long pipe. The old negro stopped in front of him.
"Marse John," said he, his voice shaking, "heah's Marse Alec done come
back."
The gentleman got to his feet with a start. His pipe fell to the floor,
and the ashes scattered on the boards and lay glowing there.
"Alec!" he cried, peering into my father's face, "Alec! You're not
dead."
"John," said my father, "can we talk here?"
"Good God!" said the gentleman, "you're just the same. To think of
it--to think of it! Breed, a light in the drawing-room."
There was no word spoken while the negro was gone, and the time seemed
very long. But at length he returned, a silver candlestick in each hand.
"Careful," cried the gentleman, petulantly, "you'll drop them.
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