aven heart he feels also cowed,
subdued, crestfallen. So much, he dares not follow her, but remains
under the magnolia; from whose hollow trunk seems to reverberate
the echo of her last word, in its treble repetition:
"_never_--_never_--_never_!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE COON-HUNTER AT HOME.

Over the fields of Ephraim Darke's plantation a lingering ray of
daylight still flickers, as Blue Bill, returning from his abandoned
coon-hunt, gets back to the negro quarter. He enters it, with stealthy
tread, and looking cautiously around.

For he knows that some of his fellow-slaves are aware of his having gone
out "a-cooning," and will wonder at his soon return--too soon to pass
without observation. If seen by them he may be asked for an
explanation, which he is not prepared to give.

To avoid being called upon for it, he skulks in among the cabins; still
carrying the dog under his arm, lest the latter may take a fancy to go
smelling among the utensils of some other darkey's kitchen, and betray
his presence in the "quarter."

Fortunately for the coon-hunter, the little "shanty" that claims him as
its tenant stands at the outward extremity of the row of cabins--nearest
the path leading to the plantation woodland. He is therefore enabled to
reach, and re-enter it, without any great danger of attracting
observation.

And as it chances, he is not observed; but gets back into the bosom of
his family, no one being a bit the wiser.

Blue Bill's domestic circle consists of his wife, Phoebe, and several
half-naked little "niggers," who, at his return, tackle on to his legs,
and, soon as he sits down, clamber confusedly over his knees. So
circumstanced, one would think he should now feel safe, and relieved
from further anxiety. Far from it: he has yet a gauntlet to run.

His re-appearance so early, unexpected; his empty gamebag; the coon-dog
carried under his arm; all have their effect upon Phoebe. She cannot
help feeling surprise, accompanied by a keen curiosity.

She is not the woman to submit to it in silence.

Confronting her dark-skinned lord and master, with arms set akimbo, she
says,--

"Bress de Lor', Bill! Wha' for you so soon home? Neider coon nor
possum! An' de dog toated arter dat trange fashun! You ain't been gone
more'n a hour! Who'd speck see you come back dat a way, empty-handed;
nuffin, 'cep your own ole dog! 'Splain it, sah?"

Thus confronted, the coon-hunter lets fall his canine compani