“Let’s go down-stairs,” I suggested, “and wait for that old darky, if he is a real darky and ever means to return.”  I did not fancy those big forlorn rooms, with their great beds that didn’t seem made for people to sleep and dream in, but to stay awake and worry over their sins—­and then die in.

The down-stairs halls had grown darker, and the rain came down in a gray sheet, so that the open window seemed a hole cut into it.  The tray we had left on the window-ledge was gone.  In its place was nothing more romantic than a freshly filled and trimmed kerosene lamp, two candles, and a box of matches.

When our Jehu finally returned he rummaged out some firewood from the sooty kitchen and built us a fire in the hall.  He was a pleasant old negro, garrulous and kindly, by name Adam King, or, as he informed us, “Unc’ Adam” to all Hyndsville folks.

“Uncle Adam,” Alicia asked, while he was drying himself before the blazing logs, “Uncle Adam, who’s the violinist around here?”

Uncle Adam looked at the Yankee lady a bit doubtfully.  The old fellow was slightly deaf, but he would have died rather than admit it.

“Wellum,” he told us, “since ol’ Mis’ Scarlett’s gone, folks does say de doctor is.  Dat’s ‘cause ob de Hynds’ blood in ’im.  All dem Hyndses was natchelly de violentest kind o’ pussons, an’ Doctor, he ain’t behin’ de do’.”  He rubbed his hands and chuckled.  “Lawd, yes!  I know de Doctor, man an’ boy, an’ he suttinly rips an’ ta’hs when he’s riled!  You ought ter seen ‘im de day ol’ Mis’ Scarlett let fly wid ‘er shot-gun an’ blowed de tails spang off’n two of ‘is hens an’ de haid off’n ‘is prize rooster!  De fowls come thoo’ de haidge, an’ ol’ Mis’ grab ‘er gun an’ blaze away.  De Doctor hear de squallation, an’ come flyin’ outer de office an’ right ovah de haidge.  I ’uz totin’ fiahwood fo’ ol’ Mis’ dat day, an’ I drap een de bushes; it ain’t no place fo’ sensible niggahs when white folks grab shot-guns.  Doctor see me an’ holler:  ‘Adam! git outer dem bushes, you ol’ fool!  You my witness what dis hellion’s done to my fowls!’

“Ol’ Mis’ Scarlett she s’anter ter de winder wid ‘er gun sort o’ hangin’ loose, an’ holler:  ’Adam!  Come outer dem bushes ‘fo’ I pickle yo’ hide!  You my witness ob dis ruffian trispassin’ on my prop’ty an’ cussin’ an’ seducin’ a ol’ woman widout ‘er consent,’ she says.  ‘Has I retched my age,’ says ol’ Mis’ Scarlett, ’to have his fowls ruinin’ my gyardin’, an’ him whut’s a dunghill rooster himself flyin’ ovah my fences unbeknownst?’

“‘If there evah was a leather-hided ol’ hen ripe foh roastin’ on Beelzebub’s own griddle, it’s you, you gallows ol’ witch!’ says Doctor, shakin’ ’is fist up at her.

“‘Aha!  I got a plain case!’ says ol’ Mis’, grim-like.  ’I’ll have a warrant out foh you dis day, Geddes, you owdacious villyum!’

“And she done it.  Yas’m.  An’ dey done sont de shariff atter me for witness, all two bofe o’ dem.”