"How do we get there, Aunty?" he asked, with something like a tremor in his voice.
"Follow the brook," she replied. "It flows right under his window, and you cannot miss the place. I'd go with you, only I can't sing, and wouldn't be of any use." She smiled brightly at them as they went down among the shadows, then to the tiny brook that seemed like a musical stream of silver in the moonlight.
The party was strangely silent for one bound for a "lark," and by much crossing of the little stream that wound its tortuous way through the grounds, they came to Uncle Joe's tiny cabin in an unseen nook of the plantation. They grouped themselves under the window in silence.
"Now then!" whispered one of them. The mandolins and guitars played the opening strains of the sweet old melody, then their fresh young voices rose high and clear:
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home,
The old grey head turned feebly on its hard pillow, and Sally stirred restlessly.
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home.