Emma Jane, while the wrathful Polly goes to the back of the
house. Stripping the twigs from a switch, she mutters: "I knows what
you's arter; you tuck yoursef to dat watermillion patch, dat whar you
gone; but ne' mine, boy, you jest le' me git hold o' you." Then, after
a time given to unsuccessful search, calls of "Da-a-vie--oh, oh,
Dave!" fall upon the stillness, to be answered only by weird echo from
the lonely swamp. Returning from her search, she finds Wat seated upon
the doorstep.

"Dave done took hissel off to de quarter," he says; "but no mind, I
gwine fill him full o' licks in de mornin'."

But, when morning comes and brings no little Dave, wrath gives place
to fear. The plantation is aroused; finally the mill-pond is dragged,
and, although the body is not found, the conclusion is that the boy
has been drowned.

After a time Polly's smile beams as broadly as ever, but her heart
still yearns for her boy, and amid the sleepy drone of her
spinning-wheel, she pauses to listen; or, standing in her door, she
looks ever wistfully along the crooked path. Across the way, the
little mill clatters on as merrily as of yore; Wat heaves the great
sacks upon his brawny shoulder, metes out the grist, and faithfully
feeds the hopper; but, when a chance shadow falls athwart the sunny
doorway, he looks up with a gleam of hope upon his stupid, honest
face, then brushes his hand across his eyes, and goes on in stolid
patience with his work. So the summer and the autumn pass, without
change, save that Emma Jane substitutes sweet potatoes for corn bread,
and the fat baby has learned to balance himself upon his bowlegs.

Upon a winter evening Wat enters the cabin at the usual hour. Polly
has laid a bit of clean homespun upon the table; his bowl of coffee,
his fried meat, and his hoe-cake stand ready; but, instead of falling
to, as his custom is, he sits silent and despondent, with his face
buried in his hands, until Polly asks:--

"What de matter; is you po'ly?"

"I dunno as I 'se, to say, po'ly," Wat replies, "but dat boy's been
a-pesterin' me dis livelong day, a-callin' 'Daddy, Daddy!' jes' like I
talkin' now, till seem like I 'se most beat out along o' him."

"Dat mighty curous," Polly answered, "'cause Ole Keep, he's been
a-howlin' dis blessed day. I 'lowed dat Ung Silas were gwine be tuck."

"'T ain't dat," the miller interrupted. "Ung Silas, he done got
better; he howlin' arter sompen nother, but 't ain't arter Ung Silas