Early at morning, Bob and I were summoned by Old Master to go squirrel hunting, to walk round the trees, and turn the squirrel into range of his long rifle and the deadly squint of his sharp old eye. It was spring-time and the squirrels were nipping the hickory buds; it was sunrise and the bold cock-partridge, his feathers ruffled, strutted up and down the top rail of the fence. We had not proceeded far before we came upon a neighbor, 'Squire Boyle, sitting upon a log, picking at the lock of his gun. He hailed Old Master and bade him wait a moment. And both men, seated upon the log, fell into an argument that lasted till the sun was high. We heard the blowing of the breakfast horn, we saw the smoke rise in the fields, where the women were burning the old corn-stalks; we saw the men breaking up the tobacco land, but Old Master and the squire sat there and talked, and sometimes I was afraid that they were going to fight, so fierce were their gestures and so loud did they lift their voices. Bob and I were impatient, and occasionally Bob would say, "Come on, pa." But the old man heeded him not, until finally he turned about with anger in his eyes, and cried out as if in pain: "If you don't quit nagging at me, I will box your jaws. Go on to the house, both of you. 'Zounds, I can't budge but these boys are dogging my foot-steps. Go on to the house and if I catch you following me again, I'll whip you both."

We fell back a short distance and hid behind a clump of briars and sat there watching, fearful that the two men were going to fight. But their guns were thrown aside and they were walking up and down the length of the log. "I tell you," Old Master cried, "that this step will kill him. The people of this State will not put up with it. It is well enough to talk about justice and human sympathy, but if Henry Clay openly advocates the freeing of the slaves it will kill him. I don't understand how he can be so untrue to the principles of his community, but, 'Squire—" Here he halted in his walk and shook his fist fiercely—"but, 'Squire, I can understand you, sir. You are not a Southern man and you have never owned a slave. Ah, but you are an American. Yes, I grant you that, but the real defender of this country is the Southern man, sir. What's that you say? Would I break up the Union rather than lose the slaves? No, sir, I would not; and there will never be such an issue." Here he looked about and caught sight of us lurking behind the briars.& "Boys!" he cried, taking up his gun and pulling out the hickory ram-rod, "if you don't march off home, this minute, I'll wear you both out." And as we had tasted that hickory and knew its flavor, we scampered away.

"Do you know what they were talking about?" Bob asked, when we had reached a safe distance.

"Something about making the black people free," I answered.

"They are free enough already," he replied, looking sharply at me as we walked along the path.

"I'm not free," I rejoined. "I belong to you."

Then he looked at me proudly. "Yes," he said, "and we will have lots of fun. When we get big, we'll get some great long guns and go out and kill Indians, and if anybody tries to shoot you, I'll shoot him. Won't I?"

"Yes, and I'll shoot anybody that tries to shoot you."

We had crossed the bars where the cows stood at evening waiting to nourish their calves, and were going toward the stone spring-house, when we met Old Miss.

"Robert," she said, "run and find your father, quick! Your sister Lou is sick."

Bob turned to go back, and so did I, but she called me. "Dan, you are not going. Go over to Aunt Mag's cabin and stay there until you are sent for."

I sat in the cabin door and watched the old woman spin. She gave me a bowl of bread and milk, and she told me that whenever I was mistreated to slip into her house and hide under her bed. "I'm treated all right," I remember to have replied. And I recollect also to have declared that I fought when they did not treat me well. "You'se er monstus brave little man," she said, pausing at the door to pat me on the head. "Fo' gracious, whut's de matter up at de house? Look at de folks all runnin' er roun'? Go up dar an' see."

I was afraid to go in, believing, and not without cause, that Old Miss would tap me on the head with her big store-room key, and I hung about the door that opened out upon the long veranda. Everything was quiet save the mocking-bird in his cage hung in the hall. But a moment later I heard the well-known feet of Old Master, pacing up and down. I peeped in and saw Dr. Bates walking toward the door, and I ran away and went back to Aunt Mag's cabin. Old Silvy, the cook, took down the long horn, with a snake and a deer's head carved upon it, and blew a blast for dinner, and then the men and the plow horses came through the big gate, with trace-chains jangling. I wondered what could have become of Bob. It was rare, indeed, that we were so long separated. Aunt Mag gave me another bowl of bread and milk, and I sat there on the doorstep, watching the sun-mark slowly moving round the house. The men went back to work. I dozed off to sleep and was aroused with a shake. I looked up and saw a girl hastening up the path toward the house. Old Aunt Mag was standing over me. "Dan'l," she said, looking down upon me, "po' Miss Lou is gone—she died jest now."

The goodness and the sweetness of that fair young woman rushed upon me, and I could not see for the tears that gushed to my eyes. In a moment I recounted her kindness and her winsome smile—she had never spoken a cross word to me. I had lost a protecting friend. Under a tree I lay with my face buried in the grass, sobbing. An arm stole about my neck. I looked up. Bob lay beside me.

This was my first grief. And oh, the awful sadness of the funeral. Everywhere the negro's mellow song was hushed, and the trace-chains no longer jangled. The sun was bright, the rose was fresh, the stiff-neck tulip was proud, but the creek which yesterday went laughing through the pasture was mourning now. The horses stood looking over the fence, the frisky colts were surprised, and turning from their play, stretched themselves out upon the clover. Old Aunt Mag dressed me, with the tears shining on her black face. "Her speret is praisin' de Lawd dis mornin'," she said. "You kin go ter de house now. All de black folks is gwine ter look at her."

I stood at the parlor door, with my knees trembling. Old Master came out to walk up and down the veranda. He saw me looking wistfully at him, and he halted to speak to me, but his chin shook and he walked on. Miss May came to me and told me to come with her. I stepped into the room and my heart leaped into my throat at the sight—Miss Lou lying on a bed of roses. Slowly our people came in, as silent as the pillow of white roses holding that beautiful head, and stood there, awe-struck. From a distant room came the broken lamentations of Old Miss. An old black man, a giant who preached for the negroes, stood at the head of the rose-shroud. He gazed with the tears in his eyes, and turning away he said: "De Lawd neber called home er mo' beautiful speret." Old Master came in, and the two men put their hands upon each other and wept.

There was no hearse, no carriages. Through the garden gate they bore their beautiful burden, and slowly the throng of neighbors followed, the negroes chanting mournfully. A white man spoke of the resurrection and the light, and the old negro giant prayed, with his knees in the clay. Old Master led Old Miss home to the dead hush of the great house; and at midnight I heard the old man's feet pacing up and down the hall. It seemed a crime to let him walk out there alone. Once I thought I heard him stop at my door, and I got up and went to him. "Marster," I said, "won't you please let me walk with you?"

He said nothing, but he sobbed, and then I knew that he would not drive me away. And so I walked with him until daylight was come. "Run along now," he said. "Be a good boy and you will go—go where she has gone."