He heard a rustling in the bushes at one side of the garden, and the sound of a breaking twig, and, seizing a hoe which stood by the door, he sprang toward the point from which the sound came.

“No, no,” said the woman hurriedly, “it wuz over here,” and she directed her husband’s attention to the other side of the garden.

The blacksmith, with the uplifted hoe, its sharp blade gleaming in the sunlight, peered cautiously among the collards and tomato plants, listening all the while for the ominous rattle, but found nothing.

“I reckon he ’s got away,” he said, as he set the hoe up again by the door.  “Whar ‘s de chillen?” he asked with some anxiety.  “Is dey playin’ in de woods?”

“No,” answered his wife, “dey ’ve gone ter de spring.”

The spring was on the opposite side of the garden from that on which the snake was said to have been seen, so the blacksmith sat down and fanned himself with a palm-leaf fan until the dinner was served.

“Yer ain’t quite on time ter-day, Nancy,” he said, glancing up at the clock on the mantel, after the edge of his appetite had been taken off.  “Got ter make time ef yer wanter make money.  Did n’t Tom tell yer I ’d be heah in twenty minutes?”

“No,” she said; “I seen him goin’ pas’; he did n’ say nothin’.”

“I dunno w’at ’s de matter wid dat boy,” mused the blacksmith over his apple dumpling.  “He ‘s gittin’ mighty keerless heah lately; mus’ hab sump’n’ on ’is min’,—­some gal, I reckon.”

The children had come in while he was speaking,—­a slender, shapely boy, yellow like his mother, a girl several years younger, dark like her father:  both bright-looking children and neatly dressed.

“I seen cousin Tom down by de spring,” said the little girl, as she lifted off the pail of water that had been balanced on her head.  “He come out er de woods jest ez we wuz fillin’ our buckets.”

“Yas,” insisted the blacksmith, “he ’s got some gal on his min’.”

II

The case of the State of North Carolina vs.  Ben Davis was called.  The accused was led into court, and took his seat in the prisoner’s dock.

“Prisoner at the bar, stand up.”

The prisoner, pale and anxious, stood up.  The clerk read the indictment, in which it was charged that the defendant by force and arms had entered the barn of one G.W.  Thornton, and feloniously taken therefrom one whip, of the value of fifteen dollars.

“Are you guilty or not guilty?” asked the judge.

“Not guilty, yo’ Honah; not guilty, Jedge.  I never tuck de whip.”

The State’s attorney opened the case.  He was young and zealous.  Recently elected to the office, this was his first batch of cases, and he was anxious to make as good a record as possible.  He had no doubt of the prisoner’s guilt.  There had been a great deal of petty thieving in the county, and several gentlemen had suggested to him the necessity for greater severity in punishing it.  The jury were all white men.  The prosecuting attorney stated the case.