“No mystery,” replied uncle John.  “Your aunt made a very low marriage, and father cut her off from the family entirely.  It happened when I was very young; she was the eldest of us all; there were four of us, as you know—­your father, Bernard, I, and this sister of whom we are speaking.  She has been dead for some years; she married a carpenter whom father employed on the place—­a poor white man from New York.  I have heard it said, that he was handsome, but drunken and vicious.  They left one child—­a boy; I believe he is alive in the North somewhere, or was, a few years since.”

“And did she never make any overtures for a reconciliation?”

“She did, some years before father’s death, but he was inexorable; he returned her letter, and died without seeing or forgiving her,” replied uncle John.

“Poor thing; I suppose they were very poor?”

“I suppose they were.  I have no sympathy for her.  She deserved her fate, for marrying a greasy mechanic, in opposition to her father’s commands, when she might have connected herself with any of the highest families in the State.”

The gentlemen remained a long while that night, sipping their wine, smoking cigars, and discussing the probable result of the contemplated change.  Uncle John seemed to have the worst forebodings as to the ultimate consequences, and gave it as his decided opinion, that they would all return to the old place in less than a year.

“You’ll soon get tired of it,” said he; “everything is so different there.  Here you can get on well in your present relations; but mark me, you’ll find nothing but disappointment and trouble where you are going.”

The next morning he departed for his home; he kissed the children affectionately, and shook hands warmly with their mother.  After getting into the carriage, he held out his hand again to his nephew, saying:—­

“I am afraid you are going to be disappointed; but I hope you may not.  Good bye, good bye—­God bless you!” and his blue eyes looked very watery, as he was driven from the door.

That day, a letter arrived from Savannah, informing them that the ship in which they had engaged passage would be ready to sail in a few days; and they, therefore, determined that the first instalment of boxes and trunks should be sent to the city forthwith; and to Eph was assigned the melancholy duty of superintending their removal.

“Let me go with him, pa,” begged little Clarence, who heard his father giving Eph his instructions.

“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Garie; “the cart will be full of goods, there will be no room for you.”

“But, pa, I can ride my pony; and, besides, you might let me go, for I shan’t have many more chances to ride him—­do let me go.”

“Oh, yes, massa, let him go.  Why dat ar chile can take care of his pony all by hissef.  You should just seed dem two de oder day.  You see de pony felt kinder big dat day, an’ tuck a heap o’ airs on hissef, an’ tried to trow him—­twarn’t no go—­Massa Clary conquered him ’pletely.  Mighty smart boy, dat,” continued Eph, looking at little Clarence, admiringly, “mighty smart.  I let him shoot off my pistol toder day, and he pat de ball smack through de bull’s eye—­dat boy is gwine to be a perfect Ramrod.”