to-day. Monsieur Pambe, you know, is a witch gentleman; he———”
The words of the young girl were interrupted by a startling thing.
Like the wraith of some burned-out shooting star, a black streak came crashing through the window-pane and upon the table, where it shivered into fragments a dozen pieces of crystal and china ware, and then glanced between the heads of the guests to the wall, imprinting therein a deep, round indentation, at which, to-day, the visitor to Bellemeade marvels as he gazes upon it and listens to this tale as it is told.
The women screamed in many keys, and the men sprang to their feet, and would have laid their hands upon their swords had not the verities of chronology forbidden.
The planter was the first to act; he sprang to the intruding missile, and held it up to view.
“By Jupiter!” he cried. “A meteoric shower of hosiery! Has communication at last been established with Mars?”
“I should say—ahem!—Venus,” ventured a young gentleman visitor, looking hopefully for approbation toward the unresponsive young-lady visitors.
The planter held at arm’s length the unceremonious visitor—a long dangling black stocking. “It’s loaded,” he announced.
As he spoke he reversed the stocking, holding it by the toe, and down from it dropped a roundish stone, wrapped about by a piece of yellowish paper. “Now for
