at de las' fetch us all home ter hev'm, whar dey's res' fer de
w'ary. Amen."

Never in her life before had Kitty felt so thrilling a sense of
nearness to her Creator as when Uncle Manuel was offering up his simple
prayer; and she went out of the humble cabin weeping gently.

III.

THE four-mile run to the Denham Plantation was fun for Blue Dave. He
was wet and cold, and the exercise acted as a lively invigorant. Once,
as he sped along, he was challenged by the patrol; but he disappeared
like a shadow, and came into the road again a mile away, singing to
himself--

Run, nigger, run! patter-roller ketch you;
Run, nigger, run! hit's almos' day!

He was well acquainted with the surroundings at the Denham Plantation,
having been fed many a time by the well-cared-for negroes; and he had
no hesitation in approaching the premises. The clouds had whirled
themselves away, and the stars told him it was ten o'clock. There was a
light in the sitting-room, and Blue Dave judged it best to go to the
back door. He rapped gently, and then a little louder. Ordinarily the
door would have been opened by the trim black housemaid; but to-night
it was opened by George Denham's mother, a prim old lady of whom
everybody stood greatly in awe without precisely knowing why. She
looked out, and saw the gigantic negro looming up on the doorsteps.

"Do you bring news of my son?" she asked. The voice was low, but
penetrating; and the calm, even tones told the story of a will too
strong to tolerate opposition, or even contradiction.

Blue Dave hesitated out of sheer embarrassment at finding such cool
serenity where he had probably expected to find grief or some such
excitement.

"Did you hear me speak?" the prim old lady asked, before the negro had
time to gather his wits. "Do you bring me news of my son?"

"Yessum," said Blue Dave, scratching his head; "dat w'at I come fer.
Mars. George gwine ter stay at de Kendrick Place ter-night. I speck he
in bed by dis time," he added, reassuringly.

"His horse has come home without buggy or harness. Is my son hurt?
Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. What has happened to him?"

How could the poor negro--how could anybody--know what a whirlwind of
yearning affection, dread, and anxiety was raging behind these cool,
level tones?

"Mistiss, I tell you de trufe: Mars. George is sorter hurted, but he
ain't hurted much. I met 'im in de road, en I tuck 'n' tole 'im dey wuz
a freshet in Murder Creek; b