‘The brute!’ exclaimed the Colonel, rising from his chair, and pacing rapidly up and down the room.

‘But p’raps he warn’t so much ter blame, massa,’ continued the old negro, in a deprecatory tone; ’may be he s’pose she war shirking de work.  Wal, den she say, she know’d nuffin’ more, till byme-by, when she come to, and fine big Sam dar, and he struck har agin, and make her gwo to de work; and she did gwo, but she feel like as ef she’d die.  I toled her de good ma’am wudn’t leff big Sam ’buse har no more ’fore you cum hum, and dat you’d hab ’passion on har, and not leff har out in de woods, but put har ’mong de nusses, like as she war afore.

’Den she say it ’twarn’t de work dat trubble har—­dat she orter work, and orter be ’bused, ’case she’d been bad, bery bad.  All she axed was dat Sam would forgib har, and cum to har in de oder worle, and tell har so.  Den she cried, and took on awful; but de good Lord, massa, dat am so bery kine to de bery wuss sinners, he put de words inter my mouf, and I tink dey gabe har comfut, fur she say it sort o’ ’peared to har den dat Sam would forgib har, and take har inter his house up dar, and she warn’t afeard ter die no more.

’Den she takes up de chile and gwoes ’way, ‘pearin’ sort o’ happy, and more cheerful like dan I’d a seed har eber sense pore Sam war shot.’

My host was sensibly affected by the old man’s simple tale, but continued pacing up and down the room, and said nothing.

‘It’s plain to me, Colonel,’ I remarked, as Pompey concluded, ’she has drowned herself and the child—­the dog lost the scent at the creek.’

‘Oh! no,’ he replied, ’I think not.  I never heard of a negro committing suicide—­they’ve not the courage to do it.’

‘I fear she has, David,’ said the lady.  ’The thought of going to Sam has led her to it; yet we dragged the run, and found nothing.  What do you think about it, Pompey?’

’I dunno, ma’am; but I’se afeard ob dat.  And now dat I tinks on it, I’se afeard dat what I tole har put har up to it,’ replied the old preacher, bursting into tears.  ’She ’peared so happy like, when I say she’d be ’long wid Sam in de oder worle, dat I’se afeard she’s a gone and done it wid har own hands.  I tole har, too, dat de good Lord oberlooked many tings dat pore sinners does when dey can’t help ’emseffs, and it make har do it, oh! it make har do it!’ and the old black buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

‘Don’t feel so, Pomp,’ said his master very kindly.  ’You did the best you could; no one blames you.’

’I knows you doan’t, massa—­I knows you doan’t, and you’s bery good notter; but oh!’ and his body swayed to and fro with the great grief; ’I fears de Lord do, massa, for I’se sent har to him wid har own blood and de blood of dat pore, innercent chile on har hands.  Oh!  I fears de Lord neber’ll forgib me—­neber’ll forgib me fur dat.’