Nicholas shook his head without speaking.  There was a shade of consolation in the thought that the awful “Ole Miss” was below the earth and beyond the possibility of pointing out his place.

The brazier in the west snapped asunder suddenly, and a single forked flame shot above the jagged pines and went out in the dove-coloured clouds.  In a huge oak beyond the rail fence there was a harsh rustling of wings where a flock of buzzards settled to roost.

“Yes, Lord, she wuz dead en buried,” repeated Uncle Ish slowly.  “En dar ain’ none like her lef’ roun’ yer now.  Dis yer little Euginny is des’ de spit er her ma, en it ’ud mek Ole Miss tu’n in her grave ter hear tell ‘bout her gwines on.  De quality en de po’ folks is all de same ter her.  She ain’ no mo’ un inspecter er pussons den de Lord is—­ef Ole Miss wuz ’live, I reckon she’d lam ’er twel she wuz black en blue—­”

“Is she so very bad?” asked Nicholas in an awed voice.

Uncle Ish turned upon him reprovingly.

“Bad!” he repeated.  “Who gwine call Ole Miss’ gran’chile bad?  I don’t reckon it’s dese yer new come folks es hev des’ sprouted outer de dut es is gwine ter—­”

At this instant the sound of a vehicle reached them, gaining upon them from the direction of Kingsborough, and they fell to one side of the road, leaving room for the horses to pass.  It was the Battle carriage, rolling heavily on its aged wheels and creaking beneath the general’s weight.

“Howdy, Marse Tom!” called Uncle Ishmael.  The general responded good-naturedly, and the carriage passed on, but, before turning into the branch road a few yards ahead, it came to a standstill, and the bright, decisive voice of the little girl floated back.

“Uncle Ish—­I say, Uncle Ish, don’t you want to ride?”

“Dar, now!” cried Uncle Ishmael exultantly.  “Ain’t I tell you she wuz plum crazy?  What she doin’ a-peckin’ up en ole nigger like I is?”

He hastened his steps and scrambled into the seat beside the driver, settling his bag between his knees; and, with a flick of the peeled hickory whip, the carriage rolled into the branch road and disappeared, scattering a whirl of mud drops as it splashed through the shallow puddles which lingered in the dryest season beneath the heavy shade of the wood.

Nicholas turned into the branch road also, for the poor lands of his father adjoined the slightly richer ones of the Battles.  He felt tired and a little lonely, and he wished suddenly that a friendly cart would come along in which he might ride the remainder of the way.  Between the densely wooded thicket on either side, the road looked dark and solemn.  It was spread with a rotting carpet of last year’s leaves, soft and damp under foot, and polished into shining tracks in the ruts left by passing wheels.  Through the dusk the ghostly bodies of beech trees stood out distinctly from the surrounding wood, as if marked by a silver light falling from the topmost branches.  The hoarse, grating notes of jar-flies intensified the stillness.