e es a sheet, with his han's
a-trem'lin', en de bag er gol' gone. I look at 'im fur a minute, en den I
let right out, 'Ole Marster, whar de gol'?' en he stan' still en ketch his
breff befo' he say, 'Hit's all gone, Abel, en de car'ige en de hosses dey's
gone, too." En w'en I bust out cryin' en ax 'im, 'My hosses gone, Ole
Marster?' he kinder sob en beckon me fer ter git down f'om my box, en den
we put out ter walk all de way home.

"W'en we git yer 'bout'n dinner time, dar wuz Ole Miss at de do' wid de sun
in her eyes, en soon es she ketch sight er Ole Marster, she put up her han'
en holler out, 'Marse Lightfoot, whar de car'ige?' But Ole Marster, he des
hang down his haid, same es a dawg dat's done been whupped fur rabbit
runnin', en he sob, 'Hit's gone, Molly en de bag er gol' en de hosses,
dey's gone, too, I done loss 'em all cep'n Abel--en I'm a bad man, Molly.'
Dat's w'at Ole Marster say, 'I'm a bad man, Molly,' en I stiddy 'bout my
hosses en Ole Miss' car'ige en shet my mouf right tight,"

"And Grandma? Did she cry?" asked the boy, breathlessly.

"Who cry? Ole Miss? Huh! She des th'ow up her haid en low, 'Well, Marse
Lightfoot, I'm glad you kep' Abel--en we'll use de ole coach agin',' sez
she--en den she tu'n en strut right in ter dinner."

"Was that all she ever said about it, Big Abel?"

"Dat's all I ever hyern, honey, en I b'lieve hit's all Ole Marster ever
hyern eeder, case w'en I tuck his gun out er de rack de nex' day, he was
settin' up des es prim in de parlour a-sippin' a julep wid Marse Peyton
Ambler, en I hyern 'im kinder whisper, 'Molly, she's en angel, Peyton--'
en he ain' never call Ole Miss en angel twel he loss 'er car'ige."

IV

A HOUSE WITH AN OPEN DOOR

The master of Uplands was standing upon his portico behind the Doric
columns, looking complacently over the fat lands upon which his fathers had
sown and harvested for generations. Beyond the lane of lilacs and the two
silver poplars at the gate, his eyes wandered leisurely across the blue
green strip of grass-land to the tawny wheat field, where the slaves were
singing as they swung their cradles. The day was fine, and the outlying
meadows seemed to reflect his gaze with a smile as beneficent as his own.
He had cast his bread upon the soil, and it had returned to him threefold.

As he stood there, a small, yet imposing figure, in his white duck suit,
holding his broad slouch hat in his hand, he presented something of the
genial a