I lay still quite a spell, listenin’.  Presently I heerd a low, whimperin’, pantin’ noise, comin’ nearer and nearer, and I knew it was old Lu, a yeller hound of Simon’s, that he’d set great store by, because he brought him from the Old Country.  I heerd the dog come pretty near to where I was, and then stop, and give a long howl.  I tried to call him, but I was all choked up with dust, and for a while I couldn’t make no sound.  Finally I called, “Lu!  Lu! here, Sir!” and if ever you heerd a dumb creature laugh, he barked a real laugh, and come springin’ along over towards me.  I called ag’in, and he begun to scratch and tear and pull,—­at boards, I guessed, for it sounded like that; but it wa’n’t no use, he couldn’t get at me, and he give up at length and set down right over my head and give another howl, so long and so dismal I thought I’d as lieves hear the bell a-tollin’ my age.

Pretty soon, I heerd another sound,—­the baby cryin’; and with that Lu jumped off whatever ’twas that buried me up, and run.  “At any rate,” thinks I, “baby’s alive.”  And then I bethought myself if ’twa’n’t a painter, after all; they scream jest like a baby, and there’s a lot of them, or there was then, right round in our woods; and Lu was dreadful fond to hunt ’em; and he never took no notice of baby;—­and I couldn’t stir to see!

Oh, dear! the sweat stood all over me!  And there I lay, and Simon didn’t come, nor I didn’t hear a mouse stir; the air was as still as death, and I got nigh distracted.  Seemed as if all my life riz right up there in the dark and looked at me.  Here I was, all helpless, may-be never to get out alive; for Simon didn’t come, and Russell was gone away.  I’d had a good home, and a kind husband, and all I could ask; but I hadn’t had a contented mind; I’d quarrelled with Providence, ’cause I hadn’t got everything,—­and now I hadn’t got nothing.  I see just as clear as daylight how I’d nussed up every little trouble till it growed to a big one,—­how I’d sp’ilt Russell’s life, and made him wretched,—­how I’d been cross to him a great many times when I had ought to have been a comfort; and now it was like enough I shouldn’t never see him again,—­nor baby, nor mother, nor Major.  And how could I look the Lord in the face, if I did die?  That took all my strength out.  I lay shakin’ and chokin’ with the idee, I don’t know how long; it kind of got hold of me and ground me down; it was worse than all.  I wished to gracious I didn’t believe in hell; but then it come to mind, What should I do in heaven, ef I was there?  I didn’t love nothin’ that folks in heaven love, except the baby; I hadn’t been suited with the Lord’s will on earth, and ’twa’n’t likely I was goin’ to like it any better in heaven; and I should be ashamed to show my face where I didn’t belong, neither by right nor by want.  So I lay.  Presently I heerd in my mind this verse, that I’d learned years back in Sabbath School,—­

  “Wherefore He is able also to save them to
  the uttermost”—­