University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The morning which succeeded the events narrated in the
last chapter, was clear and bright. Nature beautiful as
ever, looked as if laughing defiance at the fearful storm,
which so lately had swept over the earth. Beautifully over
hill and valley, fell the sun's red rays, but when they penetrated
the dwelling of Mr. Middleton, they shone on the
anxious, careworn faces of those who had been sleepless during
the dark hours of that dreadful night. Even the merry-hearted
Florence seemed sad and spiritless as she hurried
from room to room, urging Ashton to accelerate their departure.
By eight o'clock, the last guest was gone. Around
the old stone house a gloomy silence settled, broken only by
the heavy tramp of Uncle Joshua, whose cowhides came
down with a vengeance, as up and down the yard he strode,
talking to Dr. Lacey, who walked by his side.

“Now,” said he, “if this isn't a leetle the allfiredest muss
a feller ever got into, Josh ain't no judge. Of course the
papers have nothing to do but to flout it all over the country.
For myself I don't care a copper, but 'twill be mighty mortifyin'
to you, though I think you desarve some mortifyin',
for how in thunder a chap of your sense ever come to be
made such a precious fool of, is more'n I can tell.”

“If you knew all the arts she employed, you would not

wonder quite so much,” said Dr. Lacey; and Mr. Middleton
answered, “Know all her arts! Don't I know 'em? Don't
I know that she rummaged heaven and arth for ways and
means?”

“I hardly think she went to the former place for assistance,”
said Dr. Lacey; and Mr. Middleton continued, “You
are right, but I'll be bound Satan hadn't any tricks but what
he told her of. 'Pears like she's been possessed ever since
she first opened her big black eyes in the very room where
the row was last night. Oh, how happy I was,” he continued,
“when I took her in my arms a little soft, tender baby,
and knew she was mine and Nancy's, and thought what a
comfort she'd be to me; but, George, I tell you what,” said
he, as he placed one hand on Dr. Lacey's arm and passed
the other through the grizzly locks which lay around his
brow, “I tell you what, these gray hairs come a heap too
soon, and all for her, for her! Oh, Julia, Julia, what trouble
have you not caused me!” and in his hands Uncle Joshua
buried his face, while through his large red fingers the tears
trickled slowly, and fell upon the ground. For a moment he
wept, and then wiping his eyes, said, “But wasn't it lucky
that long-legged, salmon-colored Joe got here as he did!
Another minute and you'd have been clinched, but now the
tempest has blowed over, and for the rest of your life, you'll
have nothin' but sunshine.”

The overseer now approached to ask orders concerning a
piece of work in which the negroes were employed. Mr.
Middleton accompanied him to the field, while Dr. Lacey returned
to the house in quest of Fanny. He was told that
she was with Julia, and with an involuntary shudder, he approached
the chamber which contained one who had well-nigh
been his wife! His wife! the very idea filled him with
loathing when associated with her, and still he pitied the
suffering girl, who, divested of her bridal attire, now lay

moaning in her pain. With coming day, had come a burning
fever, which increased so rapidly that Dr. Gordon shook
his head when questioned as to the result.

The change of affairs had also wrought a change in Fanny,
who seemed and really was better than she had been for
many days. Gladly would she have stayed with Dr. Lacey,
but she felt that duty called her to Julia's bedside. With
unwearying devotion she hung over the pillow of her sister,
who seemed more quiet when she knew Fanny was near.
Once she looked wistfully in her face, and appeared as if anxious
to speak, but Fanny gently laid her hand on her lips,
saying, “No, no, Julia, you must not.”

She did, however, and the word “forgive” met Fanny's
ear. Had Fanny been less of a Christian, forgiveness might
have been hard, but now she answered sincerely, truthfully,
“As I hope for pardon in heaven, so do I forgive you for the
great wrong you have done me.”

At the mention of the word “heaven,” Julia shuddered,
and after a time repeated, “Heaven! You will find it, but
I,—never,—never!”

Earnestly then did Fanny speak of a Saviour's love,
which receives all, pardons all, who come to him. Julia shook
her head despairingly, and as the conversation seemed to
annoy her, Fanny ceased talking, while a voice behind her
said, “Teach me, too, the way of life, for I fear I have never
walked in it.”

It was Dr. Lacey, who, unobserved by either of the girls,
had entered and been a listener to what Fanny said. As
Julia heard the sound of his voice, she turned towards him
a look so imploring, so full of contrition and entreaty, that
he was moved, and approaching the bedside, took the vacant
seat near Fanny. But he did not, like her, breathe words
of forgiveness, for his heart was full of bitterness towards

her. As he sat there, gazing coldly, sternly at her, she again
spoke, “If you can, if you only will forgive me.”

Dr. Lacey's brow grew dark and his manner excited, as
he replied, “Forgive you! In time I may learn to do so,
but to forget, will take me my lifetime, and yet I blame
myself not less than I do you for having been so duped.”

A low sob was Julia's only answer as Dr. Lacey arose to
leave, announcing to Fanny his intention of visiting Joseph
Dunn, who was said to be dying. As he entered the house
where Joseph lay, tossing in feverish agony, the sick man's
eyes glared wildly upon him, as he shrieked, “Why have
you come to taunt me with my crime? Is it not enough
that the room is full of little demons who creep over my pillow,
and shout in my ear as they hold to view the letters I
withheld! I did not do it alone. She bribed me with gold
and that infernal smile which lured you too, sir, to the verge
of destruction!” For a time he was silent and then he continued,
“Yes, she bribed me with gold, and now when I am
dead, who will take care of my mother? She will be cold
when the winter winds blow, and hungry when the summer
corn ripens.”

Dr. Lacey drew nearer to him and stooping down, whispered,
“Is your mother very poor and you all her dependence?”

“Yes, yes,” answered Joseph, whose almost only virtue
was the love he bore his mother.

“Fear not, then,” said Dr. Lacey, “I will care for her;
for though you did me a great wrong, you saved me from
being to-day the most wretched of men.”

That night as the October sun went down there was
heard beneath that lonely roof the piteous cry of a widowed
mother, for Joseph, her first-born, her only child was dead.
Next day they buried him, as is frequently the custom in
Kentucky, beneath a large shade-tree in the garden. Many

words of sympathy were spoken to the bereaved mother, but
none fell so soothingly on her ear as did those of Dr. Lacey,
who was present at the funeral, and led the weeping mother
to the grave.

After the burial was over, he whispered to her, “I will
surely remember you, for, erring though your son may have
been, I owe him a debt of gratitude.” So saying he walked
hastily away towards Mr. Middleton's, where he was met by
alarmed faces, soft footsteps, and subdued whispers. In reply
to his inquiries, he was told by Aunt Judy, that “somehow
or 'nother, Miss Julia had got wind of Mr. Dunn's death,
and it had gone to her head, makin' her ravin' mad, and the
Doctor said she wouldn't get well.”

Aunt Judy was right; Julia had accidentally heard of Mr.
Dunn's death, and it added greatly to the nervous excitement
which she was already suffering, and when Dr. Gordon
came, he was surprised to find the dangerous symptoms
of his patient increased to an alarming extent. The fever
had settled upon her brain, and for many days she lay at
the very gates of death.

Incessantly she talked of Dr. Lacey, Fanny, and Mr.
Wilmot, the latter of whom, in her disordered imagination,
was constantly pursuing her. “Go back,—go back to your
grave,” she would say; “there are tears enough shed for
you, but none will fall for me when I am dead. He will
laugh and be glad, and the first moon that shines on my
grave, will light the marriage train to the altar.” Then, as
if the phantom still were near her, she would cry out, “Take
him away, I tell you! What have I to do with coffins, and
white faces, and broken hearts? I killed him I know, and
he loved me, too, as no one else ever has, but I madly loved
another, and now he hates me, spurns me!” Then turning
to Fanny she would say, “I broke your heart too, and still
pressed on when I saw it was killing you, but you forgave

me, and now you must plead with him, who loves the air
you breathe, to think compassionately of me. I do not ask
him to love me, for that I know is impossible; but he can, at
least, forgive and forget the past.”

Sometimes she would speak of her father, saying, “He
will be glad when the tempest is still and ceases to trouble
him, for he never loved me, never spoke to me as he did to
Fanny. I know I did not deserve his love, but I should
have been better if he had given me a little, yes, just a little.”

“God knows she speaks the truth,” said Uncle Joshua,
wiping away the tears he was not ashamed to weep. “I have
been mighty hard on her, but I never s'posed she cared.”

Such were the scenes which daily occurred in Julia's sick
room, until at last, from utter exhaustion, she became still,
and for many days she lay in a dreamy kind of sleep.

“Will she live?” asked Mr. Middleton of Dr. Gordon, as
he one day left the sick room.

“With proper care, I think she may,” was the answer;
and then Dr. Lacey again urged the request he had once before
made of Mr. Middleton.

But Uncle Joshua answered, “No, George, wait a little
longer. Nothin' 'ill come betwixt you again, I reckon, and
I wouldn't have you marry her while t'other one is so low.”

So Dr. Lacey was obliged to wait, but though he would
much rather have remained near Fanny he deemed it expedient
to change his abode and remove to Mrs. Crane's.
He was partly induced to do this on Rondeau's account, who,
being Ike's sworn enemy, was the cause of no little annoyance
to Mr. Middleton, who, with his negroes, was much nettled
by the air of superiority which that young gentleman
thought proper to assume?

Greatly was Rondeau delighted to exchange the crazy
old stone house, with its corn-bread and fried bacon, for Mrs.
Crane's elegant place, with its oyster soups and ice creams,

a part of which the head cook always reserved for the “colored
gentleman from New Orleans,” who assured her, that
though when at home, he didn't exactly eat at the same
table with his master, he still lived on the top shelf! Not
long, however, did Rondeau enjoy his new quarters, for
about that time Mr. William Middleton returned to New
Orleaus, and Dr. Lacey sent with him his servant Rondeau,
nothing loath to return home, for Leffie's face of late had
haunted him not a little.

Dr. Lacey's return to Mrs. Crane's gave great satisfaction
to Mrs. Carrington, who, though she had no hopes of winning
him, still, to use her own words, “took great delight in
reminding him of the snare into which he had fallen, notwithstanding
his profound wisdom and boasted foresight.
It required all the good-breeding he was master of to answer
politely, when after returning from a visit to Mr. Middleton's,
she would jeeringly ask him concerning “his bride's
health!”

But Mrs. Carrington's levity was brought to an end by
an unforeseen circumstance. It was now six weeks since the
evening of the denouement, and Julia's health was so much
improved that Dr. Lacey began to speak confidently of the
day when Fanny would be his own. Uncle Joshua had
given his consent, and preparations for the marriage had actually
commenced, when Julia, in whose room Mrs. Middleton
had been in the habit of sleeping, insisted upon being
left alone. “I am well now,” she said, “and do not need
you.”

Mrs. Middleton was finally persuaded, but charged her
daughter to be sure and call her if she wished for her during
the night.

Over Julia's face a meaning smile flitted as she answered,
“I hope to trouble no one much longer,” but it was unnoticed
by Mrs. Middleton, and Julia was left alone. Early next

morning Luce went as usual to make a fire for her young
mistress, after which she softly drew back the bed curtains
to see if Julia slept. How was she surprised to find no
Julia there, neither were there signs of her having been
there during the night. With a loud cry Luce summoned
to the room both Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, the former of
whom on seeing how matters stood exclaimed, “So ho! up
to her tricks again. I thought she couldn't hold good
long.

“Don't, husband,” said Mrs. Middleton; “perhaps she
will never come back alive, and then you will be sorry.”

Uncle Joshua readily guessed his wife's meaning, and
turning to Luce, said, “Rout out the whole gang, and set 'em
to huntin'.”

In less than two hours scores of men on horseback were
seen hunting in all directions, looking, as Bob expressed it,
“for all the world like they was huntin' a runaway.” Ere
long the news reached Frankfort, causing Mrs. Carrington to
sneeringly advise Dr. Lacey “by all means to join in the
hunt.” He deigned her no reply, but mounting his horse
took the road to Mr. Middleton's, where he was welcomed
with tears by Mrs. Middleton and Fanny, whose fears he
strove to allay.

Meanwhile the search went on, headed by Uncle Joshua,
who, late in the afternoon, unconsciously led a part of the
company to the banks of the river, not far from a point
called Woodford Landing. Dismounting, he strolled along
the shore for several rods, when suddenly a loud cry turned
towards him the attention of the party. Near the water's
edge he had discovered a shawl, which he knew belonged to
Julia, and near by lay a pair of slippers, on the inside of

which her name was marked. Instantly the conviction
flashed upon all,—Julia was drowned!

Upon a large flat rock Uncle Joshua sat down, while his
long gray locks were tossed by the November wind which
swept mournfully by, bearing on its wing the bitter tones,
with which the stricken father bewailed his loss. “Every
thing goes agin me,” said he, “every thing—she's dead,
and worse than all, died by her own hand.” Then, as if
void of reason, he arose, and over the craggy hillside, and
down the dark rolling river echoed the loud, shrill cry, of
“Julia, Julia, oh, my child! come back, come back! why was
you left to break your old father's heart?” and to that wail
of sorrow only the moaning wind replied, and faster the
waters of the Kentucky rolled on.

They took the old man home, and long weary days went
by, during which the river near the landing was dragged
again and again, and still no trace of the missing girl was
found. Then, as hope began to whisper that possibly she
was not dead, the papers far and near contained advertisements
for her, and by the side of that advertisement appeared
another for a lunatic girl, who had escaped from the Asylum
at Lexington.

Four weeks went by, and the waters of the Kentucky
frowned angrily “in the gray December light,” making Uncle
Joshua shudder whenever he chanced to pass by, and thought
perhaps his daughter lay sleeping in their cold embrace. A
gloomy, drizzly day was settling into a dark rainy night,
when two young men, who, either for business or pleasure,
had rowed across the river some miles from Woodford Landing,
started to return home. They had stepped into their
boat and were about pushing off, when among some drift wood
which lay not far from the shore, they thought they descried
a female's garment floating on the water. The spot was
soon reached, and to their horror they discovered the body of

a young girl, which from its appearance must have been in
the water some time. They had heard the story of Julia,
and readily concluded that the bloated, disfigured form before
them must have been she. Taking her to the nearest
dwelling, they dispatched a messenger for Mr. Middleton,
who, now that his worst fears were confirmed, seemed paralyzed
with the shock.

“Oh, I cannot go!” said he, “I cannot. Is there no one
to do it for me?”

Dr. Lacey, who chanced to be present, said, “For your
sake, sir, and for Fanny's, I will go.”

“God bless you, George!” answered Mr. Middleton. “She
don't desarve it from you, but if you only will!” and in a
few moments Dr. Lacey departed.

With a thrill of horror he looked upon the swollen, discolored
face, round which the long black hair clung, matted
and slimy from being so long saturated with water, and
thought that this was once the beautiful Julia, though now
so fearfully changed that no one could possibly have recognized
her. Owing to the state which the body was in, Dr.
Lacey thought proper to procure a coffin before removing
her home; consequently it was nearly ten o'clock the following
morning ere the little procession slowly entered the yard,
from which, with wonderful forethought, Mr. Middleton had
ordered to be removed some half dozen carts, corn cribs, &c.
Fanny was pressing forward to look at her unfortunate sister,
when Dr. Lacey, gently but firmly led her away, saying,
“No, Fanny, you must not see her. The sight would haunt
you for months and years.” Then as her tears fell fast, he
strove in various ways to divert her mind from Julia's untimely
end.

About noon a middle-aged man came to the house, and
asked permission to see the body. His request was granted,
but he almost immediately turned away from the coffin, saying,

by way of explanation, “I am the father of the maniac
girl, who, some time since, escaped from Lexington, and I
thought perhaps this might be my daughter; but it is not,
and even if it were I could not recognize her.”

On Mr. Middleton's farm and not far from the house, was
a small yard which had been inclosed as a burial-place for
the family. On this spot Fanny had expended much time
and labor. Roses and honeysuckles there bloomed in their
season, while the dark evergreen and weeping willow waved
their branches, and beckoned the passer-by to rest beneath
their shadow. In one corner was a tall forest maple, where
Julia and Fanny often had played, and where Fanny once,
when dangerously ill in childhood, had asked to be laid. As
yet no mound had rendered that spot dearer for the sake of
the lost one who slept there, but now in the scarcely frozen
ground, the ringing of the spade was heard; shovelfull after
shovelfull of earth was thrown up, and into that cold, damp
grave, at the sun setting, they lowered the remains of Julia,
who once little thought that she first of all would break the
turf of the family graveyard.

That night was fast merging into the hours of morning,
ere the sound of Uncle Joshua's footsteps ceased, as again
and again he traversed the length and breadth of his sleeping
room, occasionally stopping before the window, and peering
out in the darkness towards the spot where he knew lay that
newly-made grave. Memory was busily at work, and in the
events which marked Julia's short life, oh, how much he
saw for which to blame himself. Remorse mingled in the
old man's cup of affliction, and while the hot tears rolled
down his cheeks, he exclaimed, “If she could only come
back, and I could do it over, I'd love her more, and maybe
she'd be better. But I treated her mean. I gin her only
harsh words and cross looks.” Then as his wife's tears mingled
with his, he took her hand, saying, “Don't take on so,

Nancy, you've nothin' to cry for. You's always good to her,
and kind o' took up for her when I got sot agin her.”

Mrs. Middleton could only answer by her tears, to this
touching attempt at sympathy, but she finally succeeded in
quieting her husband, and before daybreak he had forgotten
in sleep the injustice done to Julia. All thoughts of
Fanny's marriage for the present were of course given up,
although Mr. Middleton promised that when the autumn
came round again, he would surely give his treasure to the
care of another.

Two weeks after Julia's burial, all of which time was
passed at Mr. Middleton's, Dr. Lacey went back to New Orleans,
having first placed in Mr. Middleton's care a sum of
money for the benefit of Mrs. Dunn, promising Fanny that
with the spring he would come again. He bade her adien,
praying that nothing might come between them again.
Heavily now dragged the days at Mr. Middleton's, until Uncle
Joshua hit upon a plan which would not only give pleasure
to Fanny, but would also relieve the tedium of his own life.
It was nothing more nor less than the erection of a new
house on a grassy lawn, which Fanny had frequently pointed
out as being a good location. Long he revolved in his
own mind the for and against, but the remembrance of Julia's
wish to have the “old shell fixed up,” finally decided
him. “If 'twasn't good enough for her to be married in, it
surely wasn't good enough for Sunshine.”

At the breakfast table he first announced his intention,
causing Fanny in her surprise and joy not only to drop her
knife, but also to upset her coffee. “All right,” said he,
“I'll do it, if it breaks me. We'll have a buster,” said he,
“marble mantletrys, windows that come to the floor, Brussels
carpets, and if you're a mind to, you may have them
four-legged split things; though lord knows, I'll never eat
with them.”

In a short time the necessary arrangements were completed.
A large number of men were hired, and matters
progressed so rapidly that there was every probability of the
house being completed early in June, should the winter season
prove favorable.

Here we may as well relate a little circumstance which
occurred to Fanny during the winter. Bill Jeffrey, who, it
will be remembered, had always felt a predilection for her,
emboldened by the kindness of her manner, now determined
to make his wishes known. Accordingly, he sent her numerous
little cakes of maple sugar, besides giving her many
knowing winks, his usual method of showing his preference.

As she was one day strolling in the woods, she suddenly
encountered Bill, who thought this was as favorable an opportunity
as he would probably have. He was rather awkward
and unaccustomed to love-making, but he resolved to
do his best. Planting his foot upon a log, he with one hand
drew from his head his old wool cap and thrust it under his
arm, while with the other he twirled a huge, brass watch-key,
which hung suspended from his pocket. (He had the
day before traded off an old jack-knife, two puppies, and a
cracked fiddle, for a brass watch which would only go by
shaking.)

Tiger, who had accompanied Fanny, eyed Bill's movements
uneasily. He was, however, unnoticed by the young
man, who had got his mouth open, and at last found courage
to say, “I always liked you, Fanny, 'cause you never
laughed at me, nor called me a fool, and now if you'll have
me, you may carry my watch, and I'll work for your father
two seasons in the hemp field.” This last was wonderful,
for Bill was notoriously lazy.

Involuntarily Fanny laughed, but Bill construed it into
approval, and was about to sit down by her, when Tiger,
with an angry growl, sprang forward and precipitated the

wooing swam over the log into the dirt. Fanny called off
the dog, and Bill gathered himself up, carefully brushing the
dirt from his Sunday suit. Fearing he would repeat his offer,
Fanny said, “I appreciate your kindness, Billy, but you
see Tiger doesn't seem to approve your proposal, and as I
have great confidence in his judgment, I think I, too, must
follow his example, and though I shan't knock you down, I
shall have to tell you, `No.”'

She might as well have knocked him down, for he instantly
sat down, and covering his face with his hands, burst
into such a fit of crying, that Fanny, half laughing at, and
half pitying him, said, “Poor Billy, I am sorry for you, and
though I cannot marry you, I will like you just as well as
you fancy I always have.”

This failed to quiet Bill, who kept on crying, until Tiger
made so many threatening demonstrations of anger, that Bill
thought it wise to leave before he got another tumble.

He had hardly disappeared when a loud voice called out,
“Bravo, Tiger! You know how to fix 'em.” Looking
round, Fanny saw her father, who had been a silent spectator
of the scene, and now came forward laughing heartily at his
would-be son-in-law. “Pretty well done, Sunshine,” said he.
“Let's see, how many offers does this make? Thar's Joe's
one; the Doctor's two; Yankee Carmeron's three; and lubberin'
Bill Jeffrey's four, and you not quite eighteen. That'll
do; that'll do!” Afterwards, when Mr. Middleton wished
to entertain his visitors with any thing “extra,” he would
rehearse to them, with some exaggerations, Bill Jeffrey's
proposal to Fanny.

Glancing backward a few pages, we find we have omitted
to repeat what occurred among Dr. Lacey's blacks, during
the days when they were anxiously but vainly watching for
the coming of their young master and his bride. For a
whole week Aunt Dilsey was unusually crusty, and all her

attempts at cookery invariably failed, plainly showing her
mind to be in a disturbed state.

“I don't keer,” she would say, “if the cakes is all dough
and the 'sarves all froth. They's good enough for her, any
day.” Then she would call out, “Get along you Jack, pokin'
your fingers into the 'lasses cup; make yourself scarce
in this kitchen, or I'll crack your head mighty nigh as hard
as the new Miss will.” Then she would scold Leffie, who,
she said, “was of no more account than a burnt stick, now
she was spectin' Rondeau. Pity but the boat he come on
wouldn't blow up and let 'em all into perdition together.”

Leffie knew her mother didn't mean more than half what
she said, but she chose to keep silent, hoping each morning
that the close of the day would bring the long absent Rondeau.
Thus between scolding and fretting, cooking and
sweating, Aunt Dilsey passed the time until the day arrived
on which, as she said, “they'd come if they ever did.”

Mrs. Lacey, whose husband had not yet received his son's
letter announcing the catastrophe, came out to superintend
affairs and receive her new daughter. In the large, handsome
dining-room, the supper table was neatly spread, while
Aunt Dilsey bustled about with the air of one who felt her
time was short, but was determined to contest every inch of
ground, ere yielding it to another. She had condescended
to put on her new calico gown (the one she proposed taking
with her in a “handkercher”), and had even washed the
grease and molasses from Jack's and the baby's face, telling
the former that “he needn't mind about making up faces at
the lady that night.”

Claib had gone to the landing, and now Mrs. Lacey and
the servants were gathered upon the upper piazza, waiting his
return. Suddenly Dilsey, whose eyesight seemed wonderfully
sharpened, exclaimed, “Thar, that's Claib. I could tell
my old man, if I should meet him at a camp-meeting!”

Mrs. Lacey looked in the direction of the city and saw
the carriage, which Dilsey had pointed out. It proved to be
Claib; and Leffie, who was rather near-sighted, strained her
eyes to see if Rondeau too was on the box.

“Thar's nobody in that ar,” said Dilsey. “Reckon the
boat has run into the ground, or bust her riggin; so, Leffie,
you've put on your pink gown for nothin'.”

The elder Mr. Lacey, was, however, in the carriage, and
alighting, he advanced towards his wife and gave her the
letter he had just received from his son. Mrs. Lacey read
it, while the blacks crowded around Claib, asking him scores
of foolish questions, such as, “Was Marster George in the
boat? and why wasn't he thar? and when would he be
thar?”

When Mrs. Lacey finished reading the letter she said to
Leffie, who was still standing near, “Rondeau is well, and
will be at home in a few days.”

“When's the new Miss a comin'?” asked Aunt Dilsey.

“Not at all,” was Mrs. Lacey's reply.

“Glad on't,” said Dilsey, “for now Jack can spit as fur
and as big spits as he wants to.”

Nothing more was known by the blacks until many days
after, when Rondeau returned home, and related the whole
story with many embellishments. He omitted to tell of the
whipping which Ike had given him, but spoke with unqualified
contempt of the old house and every thing belonging
to it, except Miss Fanny, who, he said, “Looked just like
an angel, only a heap better.”

“You ought to have seen her,” said he, “that night
when every thing was t'other side up; folks a yellin' like
they was crazy, and one man was stark mad. Miss Julia
lay on the floor, the blood pourin' out of her eyes and mouth
by pails full; Miss Florence, she fainted, and they had to
throw her out of the window, glass and all, because there

was so many low, ill-mannered niggers crowded in the
hall.”

“I s'pose you's one of the niggers?” said Aunt Dilsey.

“Why, yes,” returned Rondeau; “but then I was helpin',
and was tryin' to push them all back so I could get to marster,
who was feelin' so bad that they sent for me, because
nobody else could comfort him.”

Here Rondeau began to fumble in his pocket, as if in
search of something. Having found it, he continued, “Marster
got hold of her hand and grabbed off the wedding ring
so quick that it broke her finger. Then he threw it from
him and I picked it up. Here 'tis,” said he, holding up a
plain gold ring.[1]

“That's a likely story,” interrupted Aunt Dilsey. “If they
wasn't married, how came the ring on her finger?”

Rondeau saw he had stretched a trifle too much, but he
answered, “Well, any how he throwed it away, and I'm goin'
to keep it till,—till, you know when, Dilsey.”

“Keep it till you're gray,” said Aunt Dilsey. “Leffie
aint goin' to be married with no such flummery.”

Here Leffie, anxious to change the conversation, asked,
“What of Miss Fanny?”

“Why, yes,” answered Rondeau, “that's what I'm
going to tell. Right in the middle of the fuss, I heard something
moving softly down the stairs, and I saw a thing all as
white as snow. Her hair, which was about the color of Leffie's
neck,—real handsome,—was hanging in long curls
down her back. I thought it 'twas an angel, and kinder
touched her as she passed, to see if she had wings. But the
niggers said, `It's Miss Fanny,' and next I heard, 'twas all
as still in the room, and marster was huggin' and kissin' her
and cryin' over her. Then, when I tried to get nearer and

see more, they crowded me into such a little spot that I
didn't breathe again for a week.”

“Why didn't you get out of the crowd then?” asked
Dilsey.

“How could I?” answered Rondeau. “Lord, Dilsey, I'd
like to have seen you there; but then there wouldn't have
been room for any body else, for the hall wouldn't more
than hold you.”

Here the conversation ended, but for a long time Rondeau
carried on his arm the marks of Aunt Dilsey's finger
and thumb.