“She am waiting, Massa David.  I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some bread and meat, and dis, Massa Davie, if you’ll ’blige ole Plato.”  Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his lifetime.

“How much is there, Plato?”

“Four hundred dollars, sar.  Sorry it am so little.”

“It was for your freedom, Plato.”

“I done gib dat up, Massa Davie.  I’se too ole now to git de rest.  Ef you git free, dat is all I want.”

They went quietly out together.  It was not long after midnight.  The brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food.  The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him, and then rode away into the darkness.  He went softly at first, but when he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror and his mental suffering.

Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins.  They had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household; they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other.  Both were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience.

Early in the morning Plato was called by his master.  There was little trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed.  He was one of those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain.

“Tell Master David to come here.”

“Massa David, sar!  Massa David done gone sar!” The old man’s lips were trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over.  He looked his master calmly in the face.

“Did I not tell you to stop him?”

“Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He’ll send the messenger—­Plato could not do it!”

“How did he go?”

“On de little brown mare—­his own horse done broke all up.”

“How much money did you give him?”

“Money, sar?”

“How much?  Tell the truth.”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“That will do.  Tell Cassie I want my breakfast.”

At breakfast he glanced at Lulu’s empty chair, but said nothing.  In the house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold and left a stain upon its hearthstone.  The churning and cleaning was going on as usual.  Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and pretty for grief to enter.  The unhappy father sat still all day, pondering many things that he had not before thought of.  Every footfall made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further bad news.