arn' nuttin' but a fiel' han', young miss, en I 'uz Marse Bolling's body
sarvent, so w'en dey sot me loose, dey des sol' Sarindy up de river. Lawd,
Lawd, she warn' nuttin' but a fiel' han', but she 'uz pow'ful likely."

He went chuckling up the path, and Betty, with a glance at the fading
sunset, started briskly homeward. As she walked she was asking herself, in
a wonder greater than her own love or grief, if Uncle Levi really thought
it funny that they sold Sarindy up the river.

V

THE MAJOR LOSES HIS TEMPER

When Betty reached home the dark had fallen, and as she entered the house
she heard the crackling of fresh logs from the library, and saw her mother
sitting alone in the firelight, which flickered softly on her pearl-gray
silk and ruffles of delicate lace.

She was humming in a low voice one of the old Scotch ballads the Governor
loved, and as she rocked gently in her rosewood chair, her shadow flitted
to and fro upon the floor. One loose bell sleeve hung over the carved arm
of the rocker, and the fingers of her long white hand, so fragile that it
was like a flower, played silently upon the polished wood.

As the girl entered she looked up quickly. "You haven't been wandering off
by yourself again?" she asked reproachfully.

"Oh, it is quite safe, mamma," replied Betty, impatiently. "I didn't meet a
soul except free Levi."

"Your father wouldn't like it, my dear," returned Mrs. Ambler, in the tone
in which she might have said, "it is forbidden in the Scriptures," and she
added after a moment, "but where is Petunia? You might, at least, take
Petunia with you."

"Petunia is such a chatterbox," said Betty, tossing her wraps upon a chair,
"and if she sees a cricket in the road she shrieks, 'Gawd er live, Miss
Betty,' and jumps on the other side of me. No, I can't stand Petunia."

She sat down upon an ottoman at her mother's feet, and rested her chin in
her clasped hands.

"But did you never go walking in your life, mamma?" she questioned.

Mrs. Ambler looked a little startled. "Never alone, my dear," she replied
with dignity. "Why, I shouldn't have thought of such a thing. There was a
path to a little arbour in the glen at my old home, I remember,--I think it
was at least a quarter of a mile away,--and I sometimes strolled there with
your father; but there were a good many briers about, so I usually
preferred to stay on the lawn."

Her voice was clear and sweet, but it had none of the humour whi