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ments of his slavery. Henry took the shreds of paper from the box and stared at them, and then he laughed unsteadily and put his head down on his hands.

“Now you are no longer a servant, but my son,” the planter said. “Now you are my son, whom I have taught strange knowledges———and I shall teach you more, far more. We will live here always and talk together in the evenings.”

Henry raised his head.

“Oh! but I cannot, cannot stay. I must be off a-buccaneering.”

“You———you cannot stay? But, Henry, I have planned our life. You would not leave me here alone.”

“Sir,” said Henry, “I must be off a-buccaneering. Why, in all my years it has been the one aim. I must go, sir.”

“But, Henry, dear Henry, you shall have half my plantation, and all of it when I am dead———if only you will stay with me.”

“That may not be,” young Henry cried. “I must be off to make me a name. It is not given that I live a planter. Sir, there are plannings in my head that have grown perfect with pondering. And nothing may be allowed to interfere with them.”

James Flower slumped forward in his chair.

“It will be very lonely here without you. I don't quite know what I shall do without you.”

Henry's mind carried him back to that old time, with Robert smiling into the fire and saying these