ped quietly away out into the unknown.

There were wife, daughter, son, and faithful slaves about his bed, and
they wept for him sincere tears, for he had been a good husband and
father and a kind master. But he smiled, and, conscious to the last,
whispered to them a cheery good-bye. Then, turning to Gideon, who
stood there bowed with grief, he raised one weak finger, and his lips
made the word, "Remember!"

They laid him where they had laid one generation after another of the
Stones and it seemed as if a pall of sorrow had fallen upon the whole
place. Then, still grieving, they turned their long-distracted
attention to the things that had been going on around, and lo! the
ominous mutterings were loud, and the cloud of war was black above
them.

It was on an April morning when the storm broke, and the plantation,
master and man, stood dumb with consternation, for they had hoped,
they had believed, it would pass. And now there was the buzz of men
who talked in secret corners. There were hurried saddlings and
feverish rides to town. Somewhere in the quarters was whispered the
forbidden word "freedom," and it was taken up and dropped breathlessly
from the ends of a hundred tongues. Some of the older ones scouted it,
but from some who held young children to their breasts there were
deep-souled prayers in the dead of night. Over the meetings in the
woods or in the log church a strange reserve brooded, and even the
prayers took on a guarded tone. Even from the fulness of their hearts,
which longed for liberty, no open word that could offend the mistress
or the young master went up to the Almighty. He might know their
hearts, but no tongue in meeting gave vent to what was in them, and
even Gideon sang no more of the gospel army. He was sad because of
this new trouble coming hard upon the heels of the old, and Martha
was grieved because he was.

Finally the trips into town budded into something, and on a memorable
evening when the sun looked peacefully through the pines, young Dudley
Stone rode into the yard dressed in a suit of gray, and on his
shoulders were the straps of office. The servants gathered around him
with a sort of awe and followed him until he alighted at the porch.
Only Mam' Henry, who had been nurse to both him and his sister, dared
follow him in. It was a sad scene within, but such a one as any
Southern home where there were sons might have shown that awful year.
The mother tried to be brave, but her old