"Oh, Herbert!" cried his wife in anguish.
"S-s-sh!" he whispered. "Go along, Sally Ann. If you see anyone at all report to me at once. Understand? Off with you!"
Uncle Billy now came forward in an effort to make his master's clothes more presentable.
"Heh, Mars' Cary, lemme brush you off, seh. You's fyar kivered."
"Look out, you old rascal," Cary laughed, as his wife backed away coughing before the cloud of fine white dust that rose under Uncle Billy's vigorous hands. "You're choking your mistress to death. Never mind the dust. I'll get it back in ten minutes."
Mrs. Cary clasped her hands together at her breast with a look of entreaty.
"Herbert! Must you go so soon?"
Her husband looked back at her with eyes dark with regret.
"Yes," he said briefly. "I'm on my way to Richmond. How many horses are there in the stable?"
"Two—only two," was the broken response, as his wife sank down disconsolate on a bench. "Belle and Lightfoot—we sold the others—I had to do it."