‘Aunty,’ I said, ‘this wine is as fine as I ever tasted.’

‘Oh yas, massa, it am de raal stuff.  I growed de grapes myseff.’

‘You grew them?’

‘Yas, sar, an’ Massa Davy make de wine.  He do it ebery yar for de ole nuss.’

‘The Colonel is very good.  Do you raise anything else?’

‘Yas, I hab collards and taters, a little corn, and most ebery ting.’

‘But who does your work? You certainly can’t do it?’

‘Oh, de ma’am looks arter dat, sar; she’m bery good to de ole aunty.’

Shaking hands with both the negroes, I left the cabin, fully convinced that all the happiness in this world is not found within plastered apartments.

The door of the mansion was bolted and barred; but, rapping for admission, I soon heard the Colonel’s voice asking, ‘Who is there?’ Giving a satisfactory answer, I was admitted.  Explaining that he supposed I had retired to my room, he led the way to the library.

That apartment was much more elegantly furnished than the drawing-rooms.  Three of its sides were lined with books, and on the centre-table, papers, pamphlets, and manuscripts were scattered in promiscuous confusion.  In an armchair near the fire, Madam P——­ was seated, reading.  The Colonel’s manner was as composed as if nothing had disturbed the usual routine of the plantation; no trace of the recent terrible excitement was visible; in fact, had I not been a witness to the late tragedy, I should have thought it incredible that he, within two hours, had been an actor in a scene which had cost a human being his life.

‘Where in creation have you been, my dear fellow?’ he asked, as we took our seats.

‘At old Lucy’s cabin, with Scip,’ I replied.

‘Indeed.  I supposed the darky had gone.’

‘No, he doesn’t go till the morning.’

‘I told you he wouldn’t, David,’ said Madam P——­; ’now, send for him,—­do make friends with him before he goes.’

’No, Alice, it won’t do.  I bear him no ill-will, but it won’t do.  It would be all over the plantation in an hour.’

‘No matter for that; our people would like you the better for it.’

‘No, no.  I can’t do it.  I mean him no harm, but I can’t do that.’

‘He told me why he interfered between you and Moye,’ I remarked.

‘Why did he?’

’He says old Lucy, years ago, was a mother to him; that she is greatly attached to you, and it would kill her if any harm happened to you; and that your neighbors bear you no good-will, and would have enforced the law had you killed Moye.’

‘It is true, David; you would have had to answer for it.’

’Nonsense! what influence could this North County scum have against me?’

’Perhaps none.  But that makes no difference; Scipio did right, and you should tell him you forgive him.’

The Colonel then rang a small bell, and a negro woman soon appeared.  ‘Sue,’ he said, ’go to Aunt Lucy’s and ask Scip to come here.  Bring him in at the front door, and, mind, let no one know he comes.’