When they had all gone away, and the sexton had come out and locked the gate behind him, Sophy crept back.  Her roses were faded now, and from some of them the petals had fallen.  She stood there irresolute, loath to leave with her heart’s desire unsatisfied, when, as her eyes sought again the teacher’s last resting-place, she saw lying beside the new-made grave what looked like a small bundle of white wool.  Sophy’s eyes lighted up with a sudden glow.

“Prince!  Here, Prince!” she called.

The little dog rose, and trotted down to the gate.  Sophy pushed the poor bouquet between the iron bars.  “Take that ter Miss Ma’y, Prince,” she said, “that ’s a good doggie.”

The dog wagged his tail intelligently, took the bouquet carefully in his mouth, carried it to his mistress’s grave, and laid it among the other flowers.  The bunch of roses was so small that from where she stood Sophy could see only a dash of yellow against the white background of the mass of flowers.

When Prince had performed his mission he turned his eyes toward Sophy inquiringly, and when she gave him a nod of approval lay down and resumed his watch by the graveside.  Sophy looked at him a moment with a feeling very much like envy, and then turned and moved slowly away.

The Web of Circumstance

I

Within a low clapboarded hut, with an open front, a forge was glowing.  In front a blacksmith was shoeing a horse, a sleek, well-kept animal with the signs of good blood and breeding.  A young mulatto stood by and handed the blacksmith such tools as he needed from time to time.  A group of negroes were sitting around, some in the shadow of the shop, one in the full glare of the sunlight.  A gentleman was seated in a buggy a few yards away, in the shade of a spreading elm.  The horse had loosened a shoe, and Colonel Thornton, who was a lover of fine horseflesh, and careful of it, had stopped at Ben Davis’s blacksmith shop, as soon as he discovered the loose shoe, to have it fastened on.

“All right, Kunnel,” the blacksmith called out.  “Tom,” he said, addressing the young man, “he’p me hitch up.”

Colonel Thornton alighted from the buggy, looked at the shoe, signified his approval of the job, and stood looking on while the blacksmith and his assistant harnessed the horse to the buggy.

“Dat ’s a mighty fine whip yer got dere, Kunnel,” said Ben, while the young man was tightening the straps of the harness on the opposite side of the horse.  “I wush I had one like it.  Where kin yer git dem whips?”

“My brother brought me this from New York,” said the Colonel.  “You can’t buy them down here.”

The whip in question was a handsome one.  The handle was wrapped with interlacing threads of variegated colors, forming an elaborate pattern, the lash being dark green.  An octagonal ornament of glass was set in the end of the handle.