"But who does your work? You certainly can't do it?"
"Oh, de ma'am looks arter dat, sar; she'm bery good to de ole aunty."
Shaking hands with both the negroes, I left the cabin, fully convinced that all the happiness in this world is not found within plastered apartments.
The door of the mansion was bolted and barred; but, rapping for admission, I soon heard the Colonel's voice asking, "Who is there?" Giving a satisfactory answer, I was admitted. Explaining that he supposed I had retired to my room, he led the way to the library.
That apartment was much more elegantly furnished than the drawing-rooms. Three of its sides were lined with books, and on the centre-table, papers, pamphlets, and manuscripts were scattered in promiscuous confusion. In an arm-chair near the fire, Madame P—— was seated, reading. The Colonel's manner was as composed as if nothing had disturbed the usual routine of the plantation; no trace of the recent terrible excitement was visible; in fact, had I not been a witness to the late tragedy, I should have thought it incredible that he, within two hours, had been an actor in a scene which had cost a human being his life.
"Where in creation have you been, my dear fellow?" he asked, as we took our seats.
"At old Lucy's cabin, with Scip," I replied.
"Indeed. I supposed the darky had gone."
"No, he doesn't go till the morning."
"I told you he wouldn't, David," said Madame P——; "now, send for him—make friends with him before he goes."