“I vum, but that ’s too bad!” exclaimed the landlord, and, for want of words of comfort, he hesitatingly held out his hand, but recollecting himself, he was drawing it back, when Mr. Meredith, forgetful of rank, caught and squeezed it.

“She never really rallied,” went on the squire, with tears in his eyes, “and though she lived on through the winter, she did n’t have the strength to mend.  She died three weeks ago, and we have come back here to bury her.”

“Naow yer an’ Miss Janice come right intew my place, an I’ll fix yer both ez comfortable ez I kin,” invited the publican, warmly, once again forgetting himself so far as to pat Mr. Meredith on the back.  Then as he helped Janice down, he shouted, “Abram, mix a noggin o’ sling, from the bestest, an’ tell Sukey that she’s wanted right off, no matter what she’s doin’.”

The last direction was needless, for the slave, in some way informed of the arrival, had Janice in her arms ere the landlord well completed his speech, and was carrying more than leading her into the hotel and up the stairs to the room reserved for people of quality only, where she lifted her on to the bed and with her arms still clasped about the girl wept over her, half in misery, and half in an almost savage joy, while repeating again and again, “Oh, my missy, my Missy Janice, my young missy, my pooty young missy, come back to ole Sukey.”

“Oh, Sukey,” sobbed Janice, “but mommy is dead.”

“Doan young missy pine,” begged the slave.  “De Lord he know best, an’ he bring my chile, dat I dun take care ob from de day he dun gib her, back to ole black Sukey.”

Meantime, the squire, after a question as to where the coffin could be temporarily placed, and a direction to the driver of the wagon, asked the publican:  “We had word in Virginia that Greenwood was sold by the state; is ’t so?”

“Yes, squire, it wuz auctioned last August an’ wuz bought by ole squire Hennion, an’ jes naow his Excellency ‘s usin’ it fer headquarters, till the army moves north’ard.”

A sadder look came on Mr. Meredith’s face.  “That ’s worse news yet,” he grieved, with a shake of his head; “but perhaps he’ll not carry his hatred into this.”  He walked over to where the all-attentive loungers were sitting, and going up to Hennion, said humbly:  “We were once friends, Hennion, and I trust that such ill feeling as ye bear for me will not lead ye to refuse a request I have to make.”

“An’ what ’ere is thet?” inquired Hennion, suspiciously.

“’T was Matilda’s—­’t was my wife’s dying prayer that we should bring her back here, and lay her beside her four babies, and to let her die happy I gave her my word it should be done.  Ye’ll not refuse me leave, I’m sure, man, to bury her in the private plot at Greenwood.”

“Yer need n’t expect ter fool me by no sich a story.  I ain’t goin’ ter let yer weaken my title by no sich a trick!”

“For shame!” cried Joseph, and a number of others echoed his words.