MAMMY

Two little snub noses were flattening themselves against the nursery

window pane, while the four eager eyes watched the soft flakes

whirling through the air and silently descending upon the whitening

earth.

"Sposen we was to steal out," whispered the boy, "an' hide, so Mammy

couldn't never find us no more."

An excited chuckle interrupted the further development of this

deliciously lawless scheme; but, though the little sister caught the

infection, she prudently turned from the tempting prospect, saying,

"No, Sed, I's 'fraid you might git the croups an' die."

The other occupants of the room were a little roly-poly cherub of a

girl, seated in a tiny chair, holding in her arms a rag baby, which

she rocked and dangled in servile imitation of her mammy, who, with

bumpings peculiar to the nursery chair, was rocking to sleep a still

younger babe. A fair little maiden, curled up comfortably upon a

cushion, the firelight glistening upon her yellow locks, bent over a

book, from which she read, in high-pitched, childish voice, to her

mammy, the story of "Ellen Lynn." Mammy was very proud that her

nursling could read, and would cast admiring looks upon the child as

she bent over her book, with finger pointing to each word. Both were

absorbed in the story, and every picture was examined with scrupulous

care.

Another occupant of the nursery was "Chany," the under nursemaid.

Gawky, sleek, and black, she sat flat upon the floor, her large,

well-shod feet turned to the fire, a picture of lazy, vacant content.

"Ch-Ch-Chany," stuttered Mammy, "look in de top drawer an' git a

hankcher and blow dat chile's nose. Go on wid yo book, honey; Mammy

ain't goin' 'sturb you no mo."

"Mr. Lynn left the sleigh, and turning from the island"--piped little

Caroline. Then there came another prolonged snuffle from Sedley.

"You Ch-Ch-Chany, why'n't you git dat hankcher?" caused that languid

maiden to bestir herself. Having fumbled in the drawer for the

handkerchief, she approached the window, but no sooner did the little

boy become aware of her intention than, with a rebellious shake of his

curly head, he buried his nose in his little chapped fists, and,

regardless of Sibyl's advice, that he had better be good, he firmly

stood his ground, determined to resist Chany to the death.

"He ain't gwine let me tetch him," said Chany, feebly dabbing at him

with the handkerchief.

"Do, pray, gal, don't be so no-'count," Mammy answered. Then Chany,

stung by the imputation, made another helpless dive; a scuffle ensued,

in which she was utterly routed, and the victorious Sedley threw

himself upon Mammy's lap.

"Gi' me de hankcher," said Mammy, with an air of withering contempt.

"There, now, you done woke up your little brother," she said, when,

the nose being blown, she again returned to trying to jolt baby Joe to

sleep. "He jest had drapped off into a doze."

"Oh, chilluns, le's pop some corn!" Chany now exclaimed. "Here's a

whole sight of it," she went on, as she searched a basket, which she

had unearthed from the closet.

"Oh! pop corn!" shouted Sedley and Sibyl, running, and each seizing an

ear.

"Oh! pop torn!" echoed the cherub, throwing down her rag baby. So the

shovel was run into the ashes, and Chany and the three little ones set

to work to shell the corn.

Quiet was again restored, and Caroline, who, all through the hubbub,

had kept her finger faithfully upon "island," continued her reading.

Mammy now substituted a sideways movement of the knees for the more

vigorous bumping of the chair, and baby Joe--lying luxuriously upon

her wide lap--gazed dreamily into the glowing coals upon the hearth,

until gradually the white lids drooped over the blue eyes, and he

slept. The nursery was very quiet now. The corn-poppers were intent

upon their work, and Mammy, soothed by the unwonted stillness,

listened drowsily to the little reader until fresh interest was

excited by the following words.

"The men were now still more alarmed," read Caroline. "Farmer Lynn

said that he would go with them and see what had become of Mr. Lynn

and Annie. The whole party accordingly went back to the river. After

searching about for some time, one of the men espied something black

on the surface of the snow, at a great distance down the river. They

all proceeded to the spot, and were dreadfully shocked on arriving

there to find that the black spot was a part of Mr. Lynn's arm and

that his body was beneath, frozen, and buried up in the snow."

When Mammy heard these words, she threw up her arms, and exclaimed,

"Lord, have mercy 'pon my soul! What! Mr. Lynn hisself?"

To her imagination Mr. Lynn was a most real person. The book was now

brought to her and she, with little Caroline, looked with deep and

mournful interest at the picture of the empty sleigh.

"It certainly is a awful country to live in; seem like it ain't fitten

for a dog, much less white folks. To think o' Mr. Lynn hisself bein'

froze to death. Well! well! well! It certainly was onexpected."

The children's story books furnished Mammy with many thoughts. Among

them was a set of German nursery tales, full of quaint colored

pictures, in which she took especial pleasure. Seated by the nursery

fire, the baby asleep in his crib and the others out at play, she

would turn the leaves feeling that each picture was a living portrait.

Slovenly Peter, Rocking Phillip, and Greedy Jacob were her favorites.

Once when shown a pretzel, she exclaimed, "Ef it ain't the very thing

what Jacob had in his hand when he busted," and, taking the pretzel in

her hand, she contemplated it with a thoughtful and sentimental air.

The nursery door was now burst open, and in rushed Harry, bringing

with him a blast of fresh cold air; black Ned came too, and both

brought upon their feet enough snow to cover the carpet with moist

tracks.

"You Ne-Ne-Ned, ain't you got no mo' manners than to be a-tracking up

de house dis way? Go 'long out and clean your feet;" but the hubbub

was too great for Mammy's words to be heeded; pig-tails were being

brandished aloft, and the children all clustered round Harry and Ned,

asking questions and clamoring for pig-tails.

"Look!" said Harry. "Here's somefin better'n pig-tails," and he drew

from his pocket the mangled remains of a dozen or more snow-birds.

A scramble now ensued, and Sibyl--having secured as many as she

wanted--retired to a corner, and silently fell to plucking them, while

Sedley, who was as vainglorious as a Comanche, capered about on his

short legs, and boasted of imaginary exploits with trap and dead-fall.

Caroline looked on, half pleased and half disgusted, keeping herself

clear of contact.

"Miss Calline she too proud to tetch pig-tails," grinned Chany.

"'F cose she is," Mammy answered, bridling. She was very vain of Miss

Caroline's daintiness.

The baby was now laid in his crib. Chany was dispatched for salt and

pepper; the shovel was again run into the ashes, pig-tails were placed

delicately upon the coals, and the nursery, pervaded with the various

odors of wet shoes, burnt corn, fried grease, etc., was given up to

disorder and cooking, into which Mammy threw herself with as much zest

as did the children. The pig-tails were broiled to a turn, and the

small birds were frizzling away upon the shovel, when Sedley, taking

advantage of his opportunity, made a rush for the door, opened it, and

was outside, with mouth and hands full of snow. Before Mammy's

vigilant eye had noted his escape, he was flying back in triumph, with

a big ball in his fist, when she met him and, with dexterous grasp,

wrenched it from him.

"Di-di-did anybody ever see your match!" she exclaimed as she hurled

the ball into the fire. "I clar I's got a good mind to take you right

straight to your ma."

But Sedley knew the value of such threats and soon wiggled himself

out of her grasp.

"Da now, go 'long an' 'have yourself," she said, with admiring

fondness, as he laughed and capered away from her.

"Honey, what is you a-doin'?" she now inquired of Sibyl, who, with hot

cheeks, was bending over a pile of coals. "Cookin' a bird? Let me do

it,--you's a-burnin' your little face clean to a cracklin'."

"No, Mammy, I'm cookin' my bird for grandma," the child answered,

rejecting all help, "an' I'm goin' to do it all by myself."

"Wh', baby honey, your gran'ma ain't comin' before Christmas eve, an'

dat's a week off. Your bird ain't goin' keep all dat time, but ne'

mine, I'll make Ned ketch you another one."

* * * * *

Upon Christmas Eve, the children might have been seen at the big gate,

straining their eyes down the road, each hoping to be the first to see

their grandmother's carriage. Visions of waxen dolls, sugar-plums,

and other vague delights imparted a double zest to her arrival,--to

say nothing of Uncle Robin (the driver) who, in the estimation of the

little boys, was of far greater importance than was their grandmother.

To them he was an oracle of wisdom, and their delight was to follow

him about the stable lot or to sit in the sunshine and hang upon his

words; for his imagination was fertile, and the boys would listen with

wonder to the tales of his prowess and skill with horses. Something

was now observed to be moving far down the road, which soon proved to

be the carriage. Yes, there were "Phoenix" and "Peacock," which no

one but Uncle Robin could handle, and there sat Uncle Robin upon the

box, and there was grandma inside, smiling and waving her

handkerchief, and there, too, sat Aunt Polly, grandma's maid.

The carriage stopped, and Uncle Robin, bowing and smiling, descended

and opened the door, and they all scrambled in and were hugged and

kissed, and Polly admired their beauty and exclaimed at their growth.

Then the door was clapped to again, but not before Harry had managed

to slip out and clamber to the box beside Uncle Robin, who, having

driven through the gate, handed him the reins, with a caution to keep

his eye upon Peacock. In the estimation of the boy, this sleek and

overfed Peacock seemed little less than a raging lion whom only Uncle

Robin could quell.

"He'll run in a minute, if he gits a chance," said the guileful Uncle

Robin. So Harry clutched the reins and drove proudly past the lot, in

full view of some of the men, turned in at the yard gate, and drew up

before the door.

Grandma could not wait for the hanging of the Christmas stockings, but

insisted upon opening her trunk at once, and displaying her gifts to

the children's delighted eyes. The wax babies exceeded their wildest

hopes. The house was made horrible with horns and drums. Mammy laughed

and showed her dimples and courtesied over her own gorgeous present,

and all felt that Christmas had really come.

For several days, indeed, throughout the holidays, Harry felt that he

had left childhood far behind him, and, as he strutted about the

stable yard, he now and then expectorated, in imitation of Uncle

Robin, as though he had a quid in his mouth.

Aunt Polly, though far inferior to Uncle Robin in the children's

estimation, was yet a person of distinction, and no naughtiness was

ever displayed when she was by to witness it.

Mammy usually enjoyed a gossip with Aunt Polly over the nursery fire.

But, sometimes feelings of coolness would arise. Polly belonged to the

family of the mother of the children, while Mammy came from that of

the father, and between the two a slight rivalry had always existed as

to the superiority of her own white children.

"'T is a pity Miss Calline's back's so round," said Polly one night as

the children were being undressed.

Now, if there was a feature in which Mammy took a pride, it was in the

straightness of the children's limbs and the flatness of their backs,

above all the limbs and backs in the other branches of the family;

so, firing up at once, she replied that she would like to see a

flatter back than "this here one," laying her hand upon Caroline's.

"Miss Emmaline's is a sight flatter," Polly stoutly maintained. "She's

got as pretty shape as ever I see,--all our people's got good shapes

from old Missis down. I reckon this chile's got her back from her pa's

fambly." When Polly said this, Mammy felt that the gauntlet had been

flung down, and, at once, with an eloquence all her own, so defended

the "shapes" of her "fambly" that Polly was fairly beaten in the war

of words, and was forced to admit, with many apologies, that Miss

Caroline's back was as flat as Miss Emmaline's.

Mammy accepted the apology with some hauteur, and it was several days

before entire cordiality was reestablished; in fact, in all her after

life, Mammy would, when in certain moods, hark back to "dat time when

dat long-mouthed Polly had de imperdence to say dat our folks' backs

weren't as straight as hern."

Full of peaceful content were the lives of both whites and blacks.

Merrily the Christmas went by, to be followed by others as merry, and

the winters and summers came and went, turning childhood into maturity

and maturity into old age. Mammy's glory reached its zenith when, at

"Miss Calline's" grand wedding, she herself rustled about in all the

grandeur of a new black silk and Polly was forever squelched. The

whole world seemed full of prosperity, abundance, and careless

happiness, when suddenly, like a thunderbolt, the war came.

The plantation home was abandoned very carelessly, and with light

hearts the family drove away, expecting nothing but to return with the

frosts of winter. They refugeed to a farmhouse upon the outskirts of a

little up-country village.

Sedley, though still a beardless youth, shouldered his musket, and

took his place in the ranks. Sibyl and her mother, in the little rude

farmhouse, thought not of their lost splendor, but cheerfully looked

for the good days sure to come when, the war over, the dear ones would

come back, and the old times. Every Southern woman knows how it was

when the great battles were fought and a trembling, white-lipped group

of women and aged men would stand huddled together to hear what the

midnight dispatches might have in store for them.

In the little upland village the refugees were closely knit together

by hopes and fears in common. When sorrow fell upon one household the

little community all mourned. But if the wires brought glad words that

all at the front were unharmed, there would come a period of happy

reaction; the little society would be wildly gay, especially if one or

more young heroes from the front had come home with a slight

wound,--just enough to make a demigod of him.

Such was Sedley's happy fate one never-to-be-forgotten summer, when

every girl in the village fell madly in love with his blue eyes and

his gray coat and his mustache and his lovely voice, as he strummed

the guitar in the moonlight,--and most of all with his merry laugh.

Did time permit, I might tell of such odd costumes, such make-ups of

homespun and lace, fine old silks and calicoes, in which the Dixie

girls danced so merrily.

It was just upon the heels of one of these happy seasons that a rumor

was whispered that the army was about to fall back and that the

offices and stores would be removed in consequence. At first the rumor

was rejected,--no good Confederate would listen to such treason; but

finally the croakers were proved to be right. The government stores

were hastily removed. The office-holders took a sad farewell of those

whom they left behind them, and the little town was abandoned to its

fate, outside the Confederate lines.

Sibyl and her mother were among the tearful group who watched the

little band of departing friends, as it passed out of the town, waved

a last adieu, and strained their dimmed eyes for a last sight of the

Confederate gray, ere they went sadly back to their homes.

When Sibyl and her mother reached home, they found Mammy already at

work. She had ripped open a feather bed, and amid its downy depths

she was burying whatever she could lay her hands upon. Clothing,

jewelry, even a china ornament or two,--all went in. It was a day or

two after that Rita complained of a great knot in her bed, which had

bruised her back and prevented her sleeping. Mammy heard her, but,

waiting until they were alone, said in a half whisper, "Honey, I knows

what dat knot is, 't ain't nothin' but your brother's cavalry boots

that I hid in the bed. I reckon the feathers has got shuck down. Don't

say nothin', an' I'll turn your bed over, and then you won't feel 'em.

An', honey, do pray be kereful how you talks before Jim. I ain't got

no 'pinion o' Jim, an' it'll never do in de world to let him speck

where the things is hid."

No one knew how soon the Yankees might come, and all were busily

engaged in concealing whatever they had of value. People may smile now

at some of the recollections of that day, but they were earnest enough

then, and as much importance was attached to the concealment of a ham

or a pound of black sugar as to that of a casket of diamonds.

Clothing and provisions were hidden in various strange and

out-of-the-way places, and, when night came, Mammy and her mistress

were glad to rest their tired bodies, although too much excited to

sleep. At last, however, a deep sleep fell upon them, from which they

were awakened by the distant roar of cannon. The village, though no

longer a depot for Confederate stores, was not to be given up without

a struggle. It now became a sort of debatable ground, and cannonading,

more or less distant, told the anxious listeners of almost daily

skirmishes.

Awakened by the cannon's roar, Sibyl opened the window and listened. A

pale glory to the eastward, a low rustle of leaves, a drowsy chirp

from tiny nests, all merging into one inarticulate murmur of awakening

nature, told that night was over. Sibyl and her mother hastily dressed

themselves, called Rita from her fearless young sleep, roused up the

baby, as they still called little Joe; then asked themselves why they

did it. There was nothing to do but to sit on the porch or to wander

aimlessly, listening with beating hearts to the faint and more faint

boom of the artillery. And the roses glowed in the May sunshine, and

the honeysuckle wafted its perfume in at the open windows, and the

bees droned among the flowers, and all was so peaceful, but for the

incessant dull roar of the battle.

The Confederates were finally driven back, the Federals entered the

town, and then the bummers came streaming through the country, leaving

desolation behind them. Cattle, poultry, everything eatable was driven

off or carried away in the great army wagons that came crashing along,

regardless of all obstacles in their cruel course. Cut off from all

news from the army, Sibyl and her mother dragged wearily through the

long, sad summer, and the two children grew gaunt for want of

nourishing food.

It was a morning in the early autumn that Sibyl, sitting at work by an

open window, became suddenly conscious of an unusual presence near

her, and, looking up, beheld a man gazing fixedly upon her. A party of

Federals had that very morning visited the house upon a pretended

search for concealed weapons, and the girl, with nerves still

vibrating with terror, uttered a little shriek, and, starting up, was

about to close the window, when the figure leaped over the low sill, a

pair of strong arms encircled her, kisses fell upon her lips, and, ere

the shriek of terror could find voice, she recognized, under the rough

countryman's hat, the laughing eyes of her brother Sedley.

Such meetings can be better imagined than described; seconds had

become minutes ere Sibyl or her mother could begin to realize their

joy, which, in its first intensity, was almost pain. Then came the

breathless questionings as to the well-being of the other dear ones,

then the deep sigh of thankfulness from the long-burdened hearts.

At the sound of a strange voice. Mammy, peeping in at the open door,

had fallen prostrate with joy, and, while hugging her boy to her

faithful bosom, had called upon her Maker to testify that upon this

very morning the scissors had stuck up twice.

"An' I knowed when dey done dat, dat somebody was a-comin'."

Then Dinah, the cook, came in, courtesying and laughing and loyal as

though no emancipating army had set foot in Dixie.

When the joyful tidings had reached the children, Rita's thin legs

might have been seen flying through the high grass. The more practical

Joe toiled behind, bending under the burden of (their treasure trove)

a big pumpkin, a basket of persimmons, and a few stalks of sorghum,

for, like the Scriptural colts of the wild ass, they passed their time

in searching after every green thing.

In the magnetism of the bright presence of the young soldier, all the

sad forebodings seemed to vanish into thin air. While listening to his

brave words of hope, they forgot that the sunny hours of this most

happy day were hastening by. Already the shadows lay long upon the

grass, and there remained yet so much to be said and so little time

wherein to say it! By set of sun Sedley must be on his way to rejoin

his command. His brief and daring visit had been achieved by his

assuming a disguise before venturing inside the enemy's lines.

"How did you ever manage it?" asked the mother. "I tremble when I

think of it."

"Oh," he answered, "it was easy enough. I came in with a fellow who

was driving cattle into town."

"Oh, Sed!" his sister whispered; "you ran an awful risk; how will you

manage to get back without being discovered?"

"There'll be no trouble about that," he answered. "Don't you and

mother go and worry yourselves about me. I'll be all right, so cheer

up and don't look so doleful."

Urged on by fear, they now almost hurried him away, and Mammy, while

filling his haversack with provisions, entreated him to be careful.

"De ain't no tellin' what dem Yankees would do ef dey once clapt hands

on you."

Sedley might guess shrewdly enough what his fate would be in such

case, but he replied, with his old boyish laugh, that it was his trade

to outrun the Yankees.

"Never fear, Mammy," he said at parting. "Trust me to beat 'em at

that game."

Then the sad good-byes were said, and manfully he strode down the

little path, turning only once to wave a last good-by to the sorrowful

group on the broad front porch, who watched till he passed out of

sight.

The night was spent in anxious watching, but confidence returned with

the morning, and all again settled back to their employments and

amusements. Sybil wandered into the parlor, and, sitting down to the

piano, sang in a low, sweet voice some of the pathetic war melodies.

The "colts of the wild ass seeking after every green thing" had sought

the sorghum patch, and Mammy had taken a basket into the garden for a

final gathering of sage leaves. The day was dreamy, as only an October

day of the South can be. The tempered sunlight, streaming softly

through the filmy autumnal mist, threw a veil of loveliness over the

homeliest objects; the old gray fences, the russet fields, the lonely

pastures, where from beneath the grass roots the tiny crickets

chanted their low, sweet dirge the long day through, the cawing of the

crows from a distant tree-top, all told in notes of most harmonious

pathos that "the fashion of this world passeth away."

As Mammy, with back stiffened from stooping, raised herself for a

moment's rest, she saw Jim lounge into the backyard and speak to

Dinah. Mammy had but little use for Jim in general, but now she felt

anxious to know what had been going on in the village, and for that

reason she left her basket among the sage and went near to hear what

he was saying. As she drew near, Dinah suddenly threw up her hands,

and, starting from the hencoop on which she had been leaning, came

towards her, stuttering and stammering in a manner so excited as to be

unintelligible.

"What's dat you say? For Gods sake, ooman, say what yere got to say,

an' be done wid it!" said Mammy, too frightened to be patient. Jim

then drew near to her and, glancing cautiously towards the not very

distant piazza, upon which his mistress happened at the moment to be

standing, he whispered, "Dey's done ketched him."

"K-k-ketched who?" stammered Mammy fiercely.

"Mas' Sedley, dat's who," Jim answered doggedly.

"How you know? I don't b'lieve a word on it."

"Anyhow, dey's done done it."

"Ho' come you know so much 'bout it?"

"'Cause I seen 'em when dey done it."

"Y-y-you have de face to stan' da an' tell me dat you seen 'em

a-troublin' dat chile an' you not lif' a han' to help him?"

"How I gwine help him? G'long, you don't know what you talkin' 'bout."

"Whar'bouts did dey come across him?" Mammy inquired.

"Right down yonder at de mill," Jim answered, nodding his head in the

direction.

"Good Lord," exclaimed Mammy, "dey must 'a' ketched him directly after

he went away!"

This conversation was carried on in such low murmurings that even a

listener at a short distance could not have distinguished what was

said; the three were very intent, but did not omit occasional cautious

glances in the direction of the house.

"Dat's so," Jim replied; "an' den dey shet him up in de mill house,

and den I never seed no mo', 'cause I was skeered an' runned away."

Then, after an uneasy pause, he added, "I come 'long dat-a-way soon

dis mornin'," and here he murmured so low into Mammy's ear that Dinah,

though she stretched her neck, could not catch the word, which turned

Mammy's brown face to ashen gray. She stood for a minute like one

turned to stone, then staggered to her own doorstep. Sitting down, she

buried her head in her apron, and so sat motionless for half an hour,

while Jim and Dinah continued their guarded murmurings by the hencoop.

At the end of half an hour she rose, took a bunch of keys from her

pocket, went into her house and, closing the door behind her, unlocked

her chest. Drawing from it a little workbox, which had, in years gone

by, been one of Caroline's cherished Christmas gifts, she opened it.

From beneath her Sunday pocket handkerchief, and a few other articles

of special value, she produced another and smaller box which she

opened, and, taking from it a gold coin, looked at it tenderly.

"Po' little fellow! God bless him! he give me this that fus' time he

come home from school. I never 'spected to part with it, but ef it's

de Lord's will, it may help him now."

With these thoughts, Mammy quickly replaced the things in her chest,

put the coin into her pocket, and, taking up the man's hat, which upon

week days she always wore, she strode off towards the mill.

As she passed by the piazza, she paused one moment irresolute, but

murmuring to herself, "'T ain't no use upsettin' Mistis, po' cretur,

and I can do it better by myself anyhow," she walked briskly forward,

revolving in her mind her plan.

The mill house consisted of two rooms, and in the one in which Jim had

reported Sedley to be confined there was a small trap-door. It had

been used for regulating the working of the machinery, and led from

beneath the house directly to the creek, which ran close to the walls

of the house. This trap Mammy had once happened to see opened, and in

that way knew of its existence, otherwise she would never have

suspected it, as, from its infrequent use, it was usually covered with

dust and dirt and could not be distinguished from the rest of the

floor. Her plan was to endeavor to get speech with Sedley, tell him of

the trap-door, and leave the rest to him. Her great fear had been that

she might be refused admittance to him, and hence it was that she had

thought of her gold piece, as she hoped by its potent influence to be

given a few minutes alone with the prisoner.

There would be no great difficulty for Sedley to lift the trap without

noise and, when it was lifted, to swing himself through to the ground,

to creep until he came to the thick tangle upon the creek banks, then

to swim across and escape into the shelter of the woods beyond. That

would be simple enough, and Mammy, full of hopeful thoughts, was

walking briskly forward, when suddenly a turn in the path brought

into view a small body of Federals, all mounted, and evidently coming

from the direction of the mill. They seemed in haste, and she could

hear the rattle of their sabres as they cantered by.

Standing amid the broom-sedge, Mammy watched them, casting eager,

anxious looks upon them, fearing, dreading to see her boy in their

midst, a poor, defenseless captive. Finally, as the last horseman

disappeared, she heaved a sigh of infinite relief. "Bless de good

Lord, dey ain't took de po' chile wid 'em," and so went on her way.

At length the gray gables of the little mill house came into view, and

Mammy, feeling in her pocket to assure herself that the gold piece was

safe at hand, went boldly forward, telling herself that, if she spoke

politely, the Yankee guard would not shoot her. So she went on until

the little mill came into full view, but with no guard or any other

object to inspire fear. All seemed quiet, and the place quite

deserted. There were footprints about the door, and broken bushes

showed the trampling of both men and horses, but now all was very

quiet. The old mill house looked very peaceful, with the yellow

autumnal sun shining upon its moss-grown roof, with no sound to break

the deep silence, save the low, continuous warbling of a solitary

mockingbird which, perched upon an overhanging bough, seemed to review

its past joys in low, sweet notes of retrospection.

Upon seeing that the place was quite deserted, Mammy paused, and,

after looking around to satisfy herself that this was really the case,

ascended the steps and, lifting the latch of the door, looked into the

outer room.

"Thank God!" she murmured, upon finding it empty. "Thank God! dey's

all took deyselves off to town an' lef' him here, locked up by

hisself. It raly is 'stonishin' to think how foolish dem creturs is;

dey mout ha' knowed as someon' would ha' come an' let him loose."

While thus thinking, she had crossed the room, and was now endeavoring

to open the door, which gave admittance to the inner and larger

apartment. Finding, as she had anticipated, that this door was

fastened, she first called to the prisoner within, and, when no answer

was returned, she shook the door until at length the crazy old lock

gave way and the door creaked slowly back upon its rusty hinges.

"Honey, whar'bouts is you?" Mammy questioned, as, pausing upon the

threshold, she peered into the obscurity beyond. The windowless room

was dark, and Mammy, after again calling, groped her way in, straining

her eyes into the gloom, but unable to discern any object. Then,

suddenly, the deep silence and the gloom smote upon her senses, and a

great horror came over her. She turned to rush from the room, when her

eyes, grown more accustomed to the darkness, fell upon an object which

froze the lifeblood in her veins. It lay almost at her feet. She

stooped and bent over it, with thick, laboring breath. Very still it

lay, with set white face and wide-open, unseeing eyes.