od as well as mud upon
it--the sight produces a climax--a shock apparently fatal.

She swoons upon the spot, and is carried inside the house by a female
slave--the last left to her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A MOONLIGHT MOVING.

While the widowed mother, now doubly bereft--stricken down by the blow--
is still in a state of syncope, the faithful negress doing what she can
to restore her, there are sounds outside unheard by either. A dull
rumble of wheels, as of some heavy vehicle coming along the main road,
with the occasional crack of a whip, and the sonorous "wo-ha" of a
teamster.

Presently, a large "Conestoga" wagon passes the cottage-gate, full
freighted with what looks like house furniture, screened under canvas.
The vehicle is drawn by a team of four strong mules, driven by a negro;
while at the wagon's tail, three or four other darkeys follow afoot.

The cortege, of purely southern character, has scarce passed out of
sight, and not yet beyond hearing, when another vehicle comes rolling
along the road. This, of lighter build, and proceeding at a more rapid
rate, is a barouche, drawn by a pair of large Kentucky horses. As the
night is warm, and there is no need to spring up the leathern hood--its
occupants can all be seen, and their individuality made out. On the
box-seat is a black coachman; and by his side a young girl whose tawny
complexion, visible in the whiter moonbeams, tells her to be a mulatto.
Her face has been seen before, under a certain forest tree--a magnolia--
its owner depositing a letter in the cavity of the trunk. She who sits
alongside the driver is "Jule."

In the barouche, behind, is a second face that has been seen under the
same tree, but with an expression upon it sadder and more disturbed.
For of the three who occupy the inside seats one is Helen Armstrong; the
others her father, and sister. They are _en route_ for the city of
Natchez, the port of departure for their journey south-westward into
Texas; just starting away from their old long-loved dwelling, whose
gates they have left ajar, its walls desolate behind thorn.

The wagon, before, carries the remnant of the planter's property,--all
his inexorable creditor allows him to take along. No wonder he sits in
the barouche, with bowed head, and chin between his knees, not caring to
look back. For the first time in his life he feels truly, terribly
humiliated.

This, and no flight from creditors, no writ, nor pursuing sheriff