‘Did you get no trace of her in the morning?’

’Yes, but soon lost it.  When she did not appear at work, Sam went to her cabin to learn the cause, and found the door open, and her bed undisturbed.  She had not slept there.  Knowing that Sandy had returned, I sent for him, and with Jim and his dog, he commenced a search.  The hound tracked her directly from Pompey’s cabin to the run near the lower still.  There all trace of her disappeared.  We dragged the stream, but discovered nothing.  Jim and Sandy then scoured the woods for miles in all directions, but the hound could not recover the trail.  I hope otherwise, but I fear some evil has befallen her.’

‘Oh! no, there’s no fear of that,’ said the Colonel; ’she is smart—­she waded up the run far enough to baffle the dog, and then made for the swamp.  That is why you lost her tracks at the stream.  Rely upon it, I am right; but she shall not escape me.’

We shortly afterward adjourned to the library.  After being seated there a while, the Colonel, rising quickly, as if a sudden thought had struck him, sent for the old preacher.

The old negro soon appeared, hat in hand, and taking a stand near the door, made a respectful bow to each one of us.

‘Take a chair, Pompey,’ said Madam P——­ kindly.

The black meekly seated himself, when the Colonel asked:  ’Well, Pomp, what do you know about Jule’s going off?’

‘Nuffin’, massa; I ‘shures you, nuffin’.  De pore chile say nuffin’ to ole Pomp ‘bout dat.’

‘What did she say?’

’Wal, you see, massa, de night arter you gwo ’way, and arter she’d worked hard in de brush all de day, and been a strung up in de ole cabin for to be whipped, she come to me wid her baby in her arms, all a-faint and a-tired, and her pore heart clean broke, and she say dat she’m jess ready to drop down and die.  Den I tries to comfut her, massa; I takes her up from de floor, and I say to har dat de good Lord he pity her—­dat he doan’t bruise de broken reed, and woan’t put no more on har dan she kin b’ar—­dat he’d touch you’ heart, massa—­and I toled har you’s a good, kine heart at de bottom—­and I knows it, ’case I toted you ’fore you could gwo, and when you’s a bery little chile, not no great sight bigger’n her’n, you’d put your little arms round ole Pomp’s neck, and say dat when you war grow’d up, you’d be bery kine to de pore brack folks, and not leff ’em be ‘bused like dey war in dem days.’

‘Never mind what you said,’ interrupted the Colonel, a little impatiently, but showing no displeasure; ‘what did she say?’

’Wal, massa, she took on bery hard ’bout Sam, and axed me ef I raily reckoned de Lord had forgib’n him, and took’n him to heseff, and gib’n him one of dem hous’n up dar in de sky.  I toled har dat I know’d it; but she say it didn’t ’pear so to har, ’case Sam had a been wid har out dar in de woods, all fru de day; dat she’d a seed him, massa, and dough he hadn’t a said nuffin’, he’d looked at har wid sech a sorry, grebed look, dat it went clean fru har heart, till she’d no strength leff, and fell down on de ground a’most dead.  Den she say big Sam come ’long and fine har dar, and struck har great, heaby blows wid de big whip!’