a-blowin' an' ef he _do_ come _a-singin_', den
look out! I allus did notice dat ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing 'ligious
hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap. He hain't right
easy ter git 'long wif when he's a-singin'. But if you'll 'scuse me,
suh, I got ter take care o' Hec. Jest make yourself to home,
suh,--anyways you like."

The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until at
length he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreen trees,
and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, and his eyes
staring out across the wide field. He sat thus for some time, and the
sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenly he was
aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting-horn. That the
listener distinguished it at such a distance might have argued that he
himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily caught the
note of the short hunting-horn universally used by the Southern hunters,
and recognized the assembly call for the hunting-pack. As it came near,
all the dogs in the kennel yards heard it and raged to escape from their
confinement. Old Bill came hobbling around the corner. Steps were heard
on the gallery. The visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he
caught a glance of a certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter
of a soft gown and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he
gazed as directly as he might under these circumstances, but the girl
was gone before he had opportunity even to rise and remove his hat.

"That's her. That's Miss Lady," said Bill to his new friend, in a low
voice. "Han'somest gal in the hull Delta. They'll all be right glad ter
see the Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah shore, fer he's comin' a-blowin'."

Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came in
view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in advance,
certain colored stragglers coming behind, and the party-colored pack
trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the summoning horn
suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, the
leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose and careless in
the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle across the saddle
front. He rode thus until presently those at the Big House heard, softly
rising on the morning air, the chant of an old church hymn: "On Jordan's
strand I'll take my stand, An-n-n--"

"Oh, Lawd," exclaimed