"You were gone so long without writing that I became uneasy," said his wife, drawing her chair close to his side.
"I had a great deal to do," he answered, shaking his head sadly, "and it was terrible work, I assure you. The memory of the past three weeks, I fear, will never leave my mind."
"Was it as terrible as the message said?" asked Mrs. Tompkins, with a shudder.
"Yes, the horrible story was all true. The whole family was murdered."
"By whom?"
"That remains a mystery, but it is supposed to have been done by one of the slaves, as two or three ran away about that time."
"How did it happen? Tell me all."
The little boys were sent away, for this story was not for children to hear, and Mr. Tompkins proceeded.
"We could hardly believe the news the dispatch brought us, my dear, but it did not tell us the worst. The roads between here and North Carolina are not the best, and I was four or five days making it, even with the aid of a few hours occasionally by rail. I found my brother's next neighbor, Mr. Clayborne, at the village waiting for me. On the way he told all that he or any one seemed to know of the affair. My brother had a slave who was half negro and part Indian, with some white blood in his veins. This slave had a quadroon wife, whom he loved with all his wild, passionate heart. She was very beautiful, and a belle among the negroes. But Henry, for some disobedience on the part of the husband, whose Indian and white blood revolted against slavery, sold the wife to a Louisiana sugar planter. The half breed swore he would be revenged, and my brother, unfortunately possessing a hasty temper, had him tied up and severely whipped—"
"Served the black rascal quite right," interrupted the wife, who, being Southern born, could not endure the least self-assertion on the part of a slave.