Three or four deer-hounds were stretched about under the broad benches of the piazza or snapped at the flies under the shade of the rose-bushes, already heavy with bloom, paying no attention to the tame doe which jingled her little bell over their very heads as she stretched up to browse the young shoots of “rose-candy” above them.  Two mocking-birds, one perched on the chimney-stack of the house, and the other on a straggling spray of the wild-orange hedge, vied with each other in imitating the medley of bird-language which made the air vocal on every side, pouring a rich flood of melody through the open windows and into the appreciative ears of the ladies who sat within.

“What a lovely day!” exclaimed the elder of the two as she dropped her piece of embroidery and rose to look out upon the scene.

“Oh, how I wish we could take a long ride!  Here have I been staying at Oaklands three whole weeks, and I have not been in the saddle once!  I declare, Jane, this horrid war will never be over;” and Rebecca Stead drew a long sigh and leaned her pretty head thoughtfully against the sash.

“Well, suppose we ride over to The Willows?” answered Jane Elliott with a ringing laugh.  “If you’ll take the old broken-winded mare, I’ll take one of the plough-mules, and Billy can go with us on the other.  Wouldn’t it be fun?”

In response to the bell, Billy soon made his appearance—­an elderly negro of most respectable appearance, dressed in a blue cloth coat with large brass buttons, a red plush waistcoat with flaps nearly reaching his knees, and a pair of yellow breeches with plated knee-buckles and coarse blue worsted stockings.  A single glance at his face and bearing was enough to show his sense of importance and his keen appreciation of the responsibility of his position.  He listened with a look of utter amazement to the orders of his young mistress, and then replied in a tone of stern authority, such as none but an old family negro servant could assume:  “Miss Jane, dat mule nebber had no saddle ’pon he back sence he been born.”

“Well, Billy, it’s high time he should know how it feels.”

“He wi’ kick you’ brains out ‘fore you git on um, an’ broke you’ neck ’fore you kin git from here to de gate.”

“Oh nonsense, Billy!  Have the saddle put on him at once, and get the old mare for Miss Rebecca.”

“Miss ’Becca can’t ride de ole mare tid-day, ’cause she ’way down in de pasture, an’ anybody can’t ketch um in tree hour time; an’ you can’t ride de mule, Miss Jane, ’cause you ma done tell me I must tek good care o’ you an’ de house w’ile she gone, an’ I ain’t gwine let you broke you’ neck or you’ arm—­not tid-day.”  And Billy quietly walked out and closed the door, leaving the young ladies half vexed and half amused at his summary disposal of their scheme.

“After Tarleton’s troop and that horrid Tory Ball took my saddle-pony out of the pasture,” said Miss Elliott, “mamma sent all the blooded horses to General Lincoln, and we hear that they were turned over to the Virginia Light Horse.”