“And you did not have a single falling out while you were together?” asked Lord Fairfax, with a faint smile. At which both boys answered at the same time: “No, sir!”—William with a laugh and George with a deep blush.
All that day, and until twelve o’clock that night, George and Lord Fairfax worked on the surveys, and at midnight Lord Fairfax understood everything as well as if a week had been spent in explaining it to him.
When daylight came next morning George was up and dressed, his horse and Billy’s saddled and before the door, with Lord Fairfax, Lance, and William Fairfax to bid him good-bye.
“Good-bye, my lord,” said George. “I hope we shall soon meet at Mount Vernon, and that the little girl may get well, after all. Good-bye, William and Lance. You have been the best of messmates; and if my work should be satisfactory, it will be due as much to you as to me.”
Three days’ hard travel brought him to Mount Vernon on a warm September day. As he neared the house his heart sank at the desolate air of the place. The doors and windows were all open, and the negroes with solemn faces stood about and talked in subdued tones. George rode rapidly up to the house, and, dismounting, walked in. Uncle Manuel, the venerable old butler, met him at the door, and answered the anxious inquiry in George’s eyes.
“De little missis, she k’yarn lars’ long. She on de way to de bosom o’ de Lamb, w’har tecks keer o’ little chillen,” he said, solemnly.
George understood only too well. He went up-stairs to the nursery. The child, white and scarcely breathing, her yellow curls damp on her forehead, lay in her black mammy’s arms. The father and mother, clasped in each other’s arms, watched with agonized eyes as the little life ebbed away. The old mammy was singing softly a negro hymn as she gently rocked the dying child
“‘De little lambs in Jesus’ breas’
He hol’ ’em d’yar and giv’ ’em res’;
He teck ’em by de little hands,