“Yes, suh, daid as a do’ nail.  Dat’s de cur’us part on it.  He’s daid an’ was buried las’ Sunday ebenin’—­buried deep.  I know, ’ca’se I wus dar m’se’f.  But dat night when I had gone to bed an’ wus gittin’ off to meh fus’ nap, I was woke up on a sudden by de noise uv a gre’t stompin’ an’ trompin’ an snortin’ in de road.  I jump up an’ look out de winder, an’ I ‘clar’ ‘fo’ Gracious if dar warn’t Mose, natchel as life, horses an’ hack an’ all, tearin’ by at a break-neck speed.  I’se seed many a ghos’ an’ a ha’nt in meh time, uv humans, but dat wus de fus’ time I uver heard tell uv a horse or a hack risin’ f’um de daid.  ’Twus skeery, sho’!”

Before Edgar had time for comment upon this remarkable apparition, Mammy set before him the “snack” she had prepared of smoking ash-cake and fresh butter, on her best china plate—­the one with the gilt band—­and placed at his right hand a goblet and a stone pitcher of cool butter-milk.  A luncheon, indeed, fit to be set before royalty, though it is not likely that any of them ever had such an one offered them—­poor things!

Edgar did full justice to the feast and was warm in his praises of it.  Then, before taking his leave, he placed in Mammy’s hands a parcel containing gifts from the other side of the water for her and Uncle Billy.  There is nothing so dear to the heart of an old-time negro as a present, and as the aged couple opened the package and drew out its treasures, their black faces fairly shone with delight.  Mammy could not forbear giving her “chile” a hug of gratitude and freshly springing love, while Uncle Billy heartily declared,

“De Lord will sho’ly bless you, li’l’ Marster, fur de Good Book do p’intedly say dat He do love one chufful giver.”

* * * * *

To young Edgar’s home-keeping playmates, he seemed to be the luckiest boy in the world, and indeed, his brief existence had been up to this time, as fortunate as it appeared to them.  Even the beautiful sorrow of his mother’s death had filled his life with poetry and brought him sympathy and affection in abundant measure.

But bitterness was soon enough to enter his soul.  His thoughts from the moment of his return to Richmond, had frequently turned to the white church and churchyard on the hill—­and to the grave beside the wall.  Thither he was determined to go as soon as he possibly could, but it was too sacred a pilgrimage to be mentioned to anyone—­it must be as secret as he could make it; and so he must await an opportunity to slip off when he would be least apt to be missed.  He chose a sultry afternoon when Mr. and Mrs. Allan were taking a long drive into the country.  He waited until sunset—­thinking there would be less probability of meeting anyone in the churchyard after that hour than earlier—­and set out, taking with him a cluster of white roses from the summer-house in the garden.