The native's farm was located on the stream which watered my friend's plantation, and was about ten miles distant. Taking a by-road which led to it through the woods, we rode rapidly on in advance of the wagon.
"Sort o' likely gal, thet, warn't she?" remarked the turpentine-maker, after a while.
"Yes, she was," replied the Colonel, in a half-abstracted manner; "very likely."
"Kill harself 'case har man war shot by thet han'som overseer uv your'n?"
"Not altogether for that, I reckon," replied my host; "I fear the main reason was her being put at field-work, and abused by the driver."
"Thet comes uv not lookin' arter things yerself, Cunnel. I tend ter my niggers parsonally, and they keer a durned sight more fur this world then fur kingdom-cum. Ye cudn't hire 'em ter kill 'emselves fur no price."
"Well," replied the Colonel, in a low tone, "I did look after her. I put her at full field-work, myself!"
"By——!" cried the native, reining his horse to a dead stop, and speaking in an excited manner: "I doant b'lieve it—'taint 't all like ye—yer a d——d seceshener; thet comes uv yer bringin'-up—but ye've a soul bigger'n a meetin'-house, and ye cudn't hev put thet slim, weakly gal inter th' woods, no how!"
The Colonel and I instinctively halted our horses, as the "corn-cracker" stopped his, and were then standing abreast of him in the road.
"It's true, Barnes," said my host, in a voice that showed deep dejection; "I did do it!"