“Well, dey had some talkin’ arfter dat.  I didn’t git rightly what it wuz; but it ’peared like Cun’l Chahmb’lin he warn’t satisfied, an’ wanted to have anurr shot.  De seconds dey wuz talkin’, an’ pres’n’y dey put de pistils up, an’ Marse Chan an’ Mr. Gordon shook han’s wid Mr. Hennin an’ Dr. Call, an’ come an’ got on dey hosses.  An’ Cun’l Chahmb’lin he got on his hoss an’ rode away wid de urr gent’mens, lookin’ like he did de day befo’ when all de people laughed at ’im.

“I b’lieve ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin wan’ to shoot Marse Chan, anyway!

“We come on home to breakfast, I totin’ de box wid de pistils befo’ me on de roan.  Would you b’lieve me, seh, Marse Chan he nuver said a wud ’bout it to ole marster or nobody.  Ole missis didn’ fin’ out ‘bout it for mo’n a month, an’ den, Lawd! how she did cry and kiss Marse Chan; an’ ole marster, aldo’ he never say much, he wuz jes’ ez please’ ez ole missis.  He call me in de room an’ made me tole ’im all ‘bout it, an’ when I got th’oo he gi’ me five dollars an’ a pyar of breeches.

“But ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin he nuver did furgive Marse Chan, an’ Miss Anne she got mad too.  Wimmens is mons’us onreasonable nohow.  Dey’s jes’ like a catfish:  you can n’ tek hole on ’em like udder folks, an’ when you gits ‘im yo’ can n’ always hole ’em.

“What meks me think so?  Heaps o’ things—­dis:  Marse Chan he done gi’ Miss Anne her pa jes’ ez good ez I gi’ Marse Chan’s dawg sweet ‘taters, an’ she git mad wid ’im ez if he hed kill ’im ‘stid o’ sen’in’ ‘im back to her dat mawnin’ whole an’ soun’.  B’lieve me! she wouldn’ even speak to him arfter dat!

“Don’ I ‘member dat mawnin’!

“We wuz gwine fox-huntin’, ’bout six weeks or sich a matter arfter de dull, an’ we met Miss Anne ridin’ ‘long wid anurr lady an’ two gent’mens whar wuz stayin’ at her house.  Dyar wuz always some one or nurr dyar co’ting her.  Well, dat mawnin’ we meet ’em right in de road.  ’Twuz de fust time Marse Chan had see her sence de duil, an’ he raises he hat ez he pahss, an’ she looks right at ’im wid her head up in de yair like she nuver see ‘im befo’ in her born days; an’ when she comes by me, she sez, ‘Good-mawnin’, Sam!’ Gord!  I nuver see nuthin’ like de look dat come on Marse Chan’s face when she pahss ‘im like dat.  He gi’ de sorrel a pull dat fotch ‘im back settin’ down in de san’ on he hanches.  He ve’y lips wuz white.  I tried to keep up wid ’im, but ‘twarn’ no use.  He sont me back home pres’n’y, an’ he rid on.  I sez to myself, ’Cun’l Chahmb’lin, don’ yo’ meet Marse Chan dis mawnin’.  He ain’ bin lookin’ ‘roun’ de ole schoolhouse, whar he an’ Miss Anne use’ to go to school to ole Mr. Hall together, fur nuffin’.  He won’ stan’ no prodjickin’ to-day.’

“He nuver come home dat night tell ‘way late, an’ ef he’d been fox-huntin’ it mus’ ha’ been de ole red whar lives down in de greenscum mashes he’d been chasin’.  De way de sorrel wuz gormed up wid sweat an’ mire sut’n’y did hu’t me.  He walked up to de stable wid he head down all de way, an’ I’se seen ’im go eighty miles of a winter day, an’ prance into de stable at night ez fresh ez if he hed jes’ cantered over to ole Cun’l Chahmb’lin’s to supper.  I nuver seen a hoss beat so sence I knowed de fetlock from de fo’lock, an’ bad ez he wuz he wan’ ez bad ez Marse Chan.