“Well, Miss Alice, dis is Sunday, you know, and dem tings mus not be telled on Sunday, and den you and Miss Ann don’t want ole nigger to talk.  You go ride and talk wid de young gemman, and maybe to-morrow, or some week-day, young massa can come down from de great house wid de gun to shoot de squirrels along de way, and when he tired, den he can come and rest, and I can tell him all.  Yes, young massa, I been live long time here.  Me is mity old.  All dem what was here when I comed wid ole massa is dead long time.  Yes, dare aint one on em livin now, and dare chillin is old.”

“I shall be sure to come,” said the young man, “and suppose I bring with me these ladies?”

“Neber you do dat, massa.  I knows young folks ways too well for dat.  Toney may talk, but dey neber will listen.  Dey will talk wid one anoder, and Miss Alice been hear all de ole nigger’s talk many a time, and she don’t want to hear it ober and ober all de time; and beside dat, young massa, sometimes when I tells bout de ole folks, she trimbles and cries.  She’s got a mity soft heart bout some tings, and she tells me I mus tell you eberyting.”

“There now, Toney, you have said enough about me to make the gentleman think I am a very silly little girl.”

“God bress my young missus!” he said as he tenderly patted her head.  “I wouldn’t hurt your feelins for noffin.  You is too good, Miss Alice.  Toney lubed your mamma—­Toney lubs you, and de day you is married and goes away, I want to go away too.  I want to go yonder, Miss Alice, on de top ob dat mound, and lie down wid ole massa and missus.  He told your pa to put me dar; but your pa’s gone.  O Miss Alice! dey’s all gone but you and me and your brodder, and he don’t care for Toney, and maybe he will trow him out in de woods like a dog when he die.”  Tears stole down the black face of the venerable man, and the eyes of Alice filled—­and then she laughed the shrill, fearful laugh, and rode rapidly away.

She was singing and walking hurriedly the gallery, when the stranger and her cousin came leisurely into the yard.

“Your cousin, Miss Ann, has a strange laugh.”

“Indeed she has, sir; but we who know her understand it.  She never laughs that unearthly laugh when her heart is at ease.  I doubt if you have ever met such a person.  I think the world has but one Alice.  She is very young, very impressible, and some think very eccentric, very passionate and romantic to frenzy.  There is something which impels me to tell you—­but no, I have no right to do so.  But this I must tell you; for you cannot have been in the house here so long without observing it.  There is no congeniality between herself and brother; indeed, very little between her and any of her family.  She is alone.  She is one by herself; yes, one by herself in the midst of many; for the family is a large one.  But remember, there is none like Alice.  Be gentle to her and pity her; and pity her most when you hear that strange laugh.”