“Who is the Colonel?” asked the stranger with a quick glance of recognition at the old negro.
“Cunnel Bob Carsey. My old marster. He's dead now, an' Mrs. Sequin she's done borrowed me fer a while.”
“When did he die?”
“A year ago las' May.”
The man in the foreign cap pulled it further over his eyes and resumed his scrutiny of the road.
“Al dis heah hill used to b'long to us,” Uncle Jimpson continued; “long before de Sequinses ever wuz born. I spec' you've heard tell of Thornwood?”
“Yes. Who lives there now?”
“Nobody. When de Cunnel died, my young Miss didn't hab nobody to take keer ob her, nor no money to run de place, no nothin' 'ceptin' jus' me an' Carline. Dey wasn't nothin' left fer her to do but git married.”
A long pause followed during which the traveler watched the distorted shadow of the trotting horse as it shambled along the road.
“'Course,” the old darkey broke out presently, “Doctor Queerington is a powerful smart gemman, an' he teks keer ob her jes' lak she wuz one ob his own chillun. An' she's gittin' broke into de shafts, but hit's gwine hard wid her. 'Tain't natchul to hitch a young filly up to a old kerriage horse an' spec' her to keep step. She sorter holdin' back all de time, kinder 'fraid to let loose an' carry on same as she use to.”